Page 26

CHAPTER 26

“ O h, your father and I have missed you dearly,” Prudence declared as she folded Fiona into a lavender-scented embrace.

Fiona closed her eyes for the briefest moment, allowing herself the comfort of her mother’s arms

Oh, Mama, you could not have said anything more untrue. Father would impale himself before he misses me.

She stepped back, her expression composed, though something inside her pulled tight.

They sat for tea in the drawing room, the clink of porcelain delicate beneath the ticking of the mantel clock.

Prudence’s gaze wandered over the newly upholstered settee and the soft gray curtains. “Are you renovating?”

Fiona poured with care. “The house needed a bit of work.”

Her mother’s eyes lit. “Oh, look at you, child. A duchess with a household of her own. I could not be more proud.”

Fiona smiled faintly, raising her cup. Proud of the duchess, not the daughter.

Still, it warmed something within her to see her mother happy.

“We hosted the Earl of Bamford the other day,” Prudence said, reaching for a biscuit. “And your father—well, he could not stop speaking of his dear son-in-law, the Duke of Craton.”

Fiona paused, the rim of her teacup brushing her lip but not quite making it there.

“He may not have shown it,” her mother continued, with a hopeful smile, “but he is terribly proud of your union, Fiona.”

The knot returned.

Proud? That man does not know the meaning of the word. Not when it comes to me.

Her hands settled the cup back in its saucer. “Aren’t you tired, Mama?”

“Of what?”

Her mother looked truly perplexed, her brows raised as though Fiona had just asked her why the sky was blue.

“Of attaching such importance to your image and stature in society. Of wanting to climb higher still.”

Prudence’s lips parted, but Fiona did not wait.

“You stood by while Father tore into me, shamed me, controlled every corner of my life—and all because of my relationship with Craton. You know what he said to me, how he made me feel. And now—” she gave a small, bitter laugh “—now you sit there speaking of his pride?”

She stood, too restless to sit still, and crossed to the window. The glass was cold beneath her fingers as she touched the pane. Her voice was lower now. “Have you two no shame, Mama?”

The air seemed to still.

“I know I am no longer under this roof, but I am still your daughter. And I am still being used as a mark of distinction.” She turned back. “I have become something to boast about. A duchess to be paraded, proof of your place in society. Nothing more.”

Prudence drew back slightly, her teacup poised in midair, her shoulders taut.

“But Fiona, dear, we are simply proud parents. Of course your welfare comes first. We care about you—you know that.”

“No, Mother,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “My welfare has never come first. Not to him. And not truly to you, either.”

She stepped closer now, something pressing and desperate behind her gaze.

“To Father, I’ve always been a bargaining chip. And that is what I still am, it seems.” Her voice faltered, lips parting as though the next words would come easily.

But they didn’t.

“And to you…” She swallowed hard. “To you, I don’t know what I am.”

The silence that followed was not empty. It was full—of pain, of love, of the unbearable uncertainty between mother and daughter.

“Fiona, dear…” Prudence trailed off. Her hands, usually so precise, trembled slightly as she set down her cup.

She had no rebuttal. Because there was none.

Fiona adjusted her gloves as she stepped out of the carriage onto Bond Street. The past few days had blurred together, thick with plaster dust, the scent of paint, and the tap of hammers echoing through the halls. The renovations had done their part to keep her distracted, for which she was quietly grateful.

But today, there was a restlessness beneath her skin.

I wish he were here.

She hated the thought, hated how much space Isaac now seemed to occupy in her mind. But it was true. She missed the sound of his voice, the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t watching.

Perhaps a walk would clear her head. She dismissed the footman and wandered into a ribbon shop first, then a small porcelain shop. She bought a set of teacups, then a vase shaped like a swan. Pretty things. Easy choices.

It was the bookshop, however, that drew her in and held her.

The scent of parchment and ink met her like an old friend. She moved through the aisles slowly, fingers brushing spines, until she found herself drawn toward the section on natural history.

A book on birds. That might suit. Parrots, perhaps. Or hawks.

She turned to her maid. “Miss Jameson, would you be so good as to search that row over there? I shall look here.”

They split off. Fiona wandered deeper into the stacks.

The bell above the door chimed faintly. She heard it, noted it—but did not turn.

Until a prickling sensation danced across the back of her neck.

She turned sharply.

No one.

Frowning, she pressed forward. Her slippers barely whispered against the polished floor as she moved.

A soft scrape. Footsteps.

She spun again—nothing. Just rows of books and the faint rustle of pages somewhere nearby.

The dread was small at first, more a ripple than a wave. But it grew quickly.

Something is not right.

She began walking more briskly now, turning a corner with purpose. Her eyes scanned the shop. No sign of Miss Jameson.

Then—movement. A flash of boots disappearing behind a shelf.

Fiona stopped cold.

She turned. Empty aisle.

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs, her breath catching in her throat. She backed away, gaze flicking left, then right.

“Your Grace!”

Fiona jumped.

Miss Jameson stood a few feet away, holding up a thick volume with enthusiasm.

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you,” she said, stepping closer. “But I found a book on parrots and exotic birds.”

Fiona exhaled slowly, her pulse still thrumming like a frightened bird against a cage.

“Excellent, Miss Jameson. We shall take it.”

As they approached the counter, Miss Jameson glanced at her.

“Are you quite well, Your Grace? You look a touch pale.”

Fiona managed a small smile. “I’m perfectly well. It must be the lack of air in this place.”

She did not glance behind her, but even as the carriage turned toward home, the unease from the bookshop clung to her like damp linen.

Was someone truly there? Or am I simply overwrought?

Still, the image of those boots lingered. The shape of them, the shadow they left in her memory. She could hear the echo of those phantom footsteps, sharp and deliberate.

The moment she stepped through the front door of the manor, the sound of a man shouting shattered her thoughts.

“Don’t let him get away, you idiot. Catch him!”

A footman shot past her in a blur, Mrs. Burton storming after him with her skirts hitched in both hands.

Fiona blinked. “What on earth is happening?”

The butler, already stepping forward to relieve her of her hat and coat, inclined his head. “A mishap, Your Grace. I’m afraid the door was left open and the bird has refused to return to confinement.”

Before she could reply, a streak of bright green darted across the foyer. Her parrot flapped with surprising strength, his braced wing tucked close as his good wing caught the air just enough to lift him a few inches off the ground. He collided with Fiona’s skirts, then clung to the hem as though demanding refuge.

“My, aren’t you getting rather bold,” she murmured, crouching to gather him into her arms.

He settled against her chest, feathers ruffled but triumphant.

Mrs. Burton came to a halt, her cheeks flushed. “He let you carry him. Unbelievable.”

Behind her, the footman muttered, “I’ve been chasing him for the better part of a quarter hour.”

Mrs. Burton’s head turned sharply.

The young man stiffened and bowed. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

Fiona laughed lightly, stroking the bird’s small head. “No apology necessary. It appears he has chosen a favorite.”

The parrot let out a contented caw as she pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“Shall we have a look at that wing, darling?” she asked. “Perhaps it’s time we freed the other one.”

Mrs. Burton, still catching her breath, looked wary. “You’re freeing his other wing, Your Grace?”

Fiona began walking toward the drawing room, the parrot still nestled in her arms.

“He seems greatly improved. I think he deserves the freedom, don’t you?”

Mrs. Burton followed close behind. “You wouldn’t want to be too quick to take off the brace, Your Grace.”

Fiona shook her head, smiling as she settled the parrot on a cushion beside her. “He has mended splendidly, Mrs. Burton. I believe he’s ready.”

The housekeeper looked unconvinced, but said nothing as Fiona reached down and gently unfastened the brace. The bird tilted his head, feathers ruffling slightly.

“Steady now,” Fiona whispered, easing the band away. “There we are.”

They watched in breathless silence as the parrot stretched the newly freed wing with careful, deliberate movements, as if testing his strength.

Then, without warning, he shot into the air.

He flew in ecstatic, frenzied loops around the drawing room, squawking jubilantly as he soared.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Burton cried, lifting her hands defensively. “I knew he’d be worse with both wings.”

Fiona burst into laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. Her eyes sparkled with delight as she turned in place, watching his wild display.

“He’s perfect,” she declared.

The parrot screeched again, swooping low before landing neatly atop the pianoforte.

Fiona crossed the room, her slippers whispering over the rug. She lifted a hand toward him.

“Mozart,” she said, her smile widening. “I shall call you Mozart. Since you’ve taken to the pianoforte like a true composer.”

The bird leaned forward and nibbled at her fingertip.

“Do you like your name?” She scratched gently beneath his neck. “I think it suits you.”

“Caaaaw... Perfect!”

Fiona gasped. “He talks!” she exclaimed, glancing over her shoulder just as Mrs. Burton echoed her shock.

Mozart flapped once and called out again, “Perfect!”

Fiona gave a delighted laugh and scooped him into her arms. She twirled once, skirts flaring, as the bird continued his chant.

“Oh, we shall have a grand time teaching you words,” she said. “Won’t we, my clever fellow?”

“Perfect!” he replied.

Mrs. Burton groaned softly, shaking her head. “Lord help me. I’ll be minding two of them now.”

Fiona only laughed harder.

She was just finishing her supper in the dining room when Mr. Everett entered with a small silver tray.

“The express post has arrived, Your Grace. There is a missive from Scotland.”

Fiona dropped her fork, and the clatter of silver against porcelain rang out as she pushed back from the table and reached for the letter upon Mr. Everett’s tray.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke the seal.

Isaac.

Her breath caught at the sight of his handwriting. That steady, bold script she had come to recognize far too quickly.

She unfolded the letter, scanning the lines hungrily.

Returning soon.

The words leapt from the page and struck her squarely in the chest.

Heat rushed to her cheeks, her pulse quickening with a thrill she hadn’t expected.

“Mr. Everett,” she said, still half-reading, “would you fetch?—”

She stopped.

“No... never mind.”

She stood abruptly, folding the letter as she moved. The chair scraped gently behind her.

“I shall find Mrs. Burton myself.”

The butler gave a brief nod, but she was already crossing the room.

There was no reason for the fluttering in her chest, nor the way her mind began sorting through arrangements. Linen to be changed, his favorite brandy decanted, a warm fire lit in his study...

She paused at the threshold, glancing down at the letter again.

Why am I so ? —

But the thought trailed off as a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She couldn’t help it.

Isaac was coming home.