Page 11 of Duke of Storme (Braving the Elements #4)

“ Y e’re an early riser, Your Grace.”

Diana paused in the corridor with her hand trailing along the cold stone wall as she turned toward the unfamiliar voice.

Despite the strange bed and the persistent Highland chill that seemed to seep through the ancient stone and straight into the bone, sleep had not eluded her entirely.

But, with no lady’s maid in sight this morning, she had dressed herself in a simple morning gown and ventured into the labyrinthine passages of Storme Castle.

“Mrs. Glenwright, I presume?” Diana said, approaching the woman who stood like a sentinel in the corridor, a ring of keys at her waist and a face that suggested she’d seen everything worth seeing in her fifty-odd years.

“Aye, that I am.” The housekeeper’s sharp eyes assessed Diana with the efficiency of a quartermaster cataloging supplies. “Been runnin’ this castle for nearly thirty years now. Longer than most of the staff have been breathin’.”

Diana studied the woman before her – tall and sturdy as Highland granite, with iron-gray hair pulled back so severely it seemed to stretch her features into permanent alertness.

Mrs. Glenwright’s hands – work-worn, but steady – spoke of decades spent managing an estate that would challenge even the most accomplished and competent administrator.

“I was hoping you might show me around,” Diana said. “I should like to understand my new home.”

Mrs. Glenwright’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “Yer home, is it? Most folk take longer than one night to claim Storme Castle as their own.”

“Should I not consider it so?”

“Depends,” the housekeeper said, setting off down the corridor with a pace that forced Diana to hurry to keep up. “Ye’re a soft-spoken one, I’ll give ye that. But don’t go turnin’ into one of the ghosts – we’ve got enough of those already.”

The words sent an unexpected chill down Diana’s spine. “Ghosts?”

“Figure of speech, Your Grace,” Mrs. Glenwright replied, though something in her tone suggested otherwise. “This castle’s got more history than most folk can handle. Some choose to fade into the shadows rather than claim their place in the light.”

They walked in relative silence through corridors that seemed designed to dwarf anyone foolish enough to traverse them alone.

Diana found herself taking mental notes on the way the morning light filtered in through narrow slits of windows, and the persistent draft that made every doorway feel like a portal to somewhere even colder.

She eyed the portraits of long-dead Stormes watching her with expressions ranging from stern disapproval to outright hostility.

“This wing’s yers to do with as ye see fit, Your Grace,” Mrs. Glenwright announced, stopping before a set of heavy oak doors. “His Grace was particular about that. Said ye were to have yer own domain.”

“How thoughtful,” Diana murmured, though the word ‘domain” seemed strange to her ears. She was a twenty-year-old woman who’d never managed anything more complicated than her own correspondence but was now suddenly given dominion over an entire castle wing.

Mrs. Glenwright produced a key from her ring and opened the door to reveal a morning room that might have been beautiful under different circumstances.

Tall windows faced east, where Highland moors stretched toward mountains she couldn’t name yet.

The furniture was elegant, but partly covered in dust sheets, as though waiting for someone who might never come.

“Been closed off these past years,” Mrs. Glenwright explained, moving to pull dust sheets from chairs and tables with practiced efficiency. used to take her morning tea here. After she passed, well…” She shrugged.

Diana moved to the windows and pressed her palm against the glass. “What was she like? The Duke’s mother?”

For the first time since their meeting, Mrs. Glenwright’s expression softened, though something like pain flickered in her eyes.

“Och, Her Grace was gentle, like ye. Sweet-natured, quiet like. But she had a laugh that could warm even these old, cold stones. She was so excited about the bairn comin’…

” The housekeeper’s voice caught slightly.

“But childbirth was too much for her. We lost her, and the wee little lad she brought into the world? Well, we lost him too, in a manner of speakin’. ”

Diana blinked, the unspoken question swimming in her eyes.

“His father never forgave him for it.”

Diana’s breath caught audibly. “He blamed the Duke? For his own mother’s death?”

“Aye. Cruel thing, blamin’ a wee bairn for circumstances beyond anyone’s control.

His Grace was sent away to live with Highland relatives before he could even walk properly.

The old Duke couldn’t bear the sight of him – said the lad was a reminder of what he’d lost.” Mrs. Glenwright’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Some wounds run deeper than others, and some fathers… well, some should never have sired offspring at all.”

Diana absorbed this information, filing it away with growing understanding of the man who’d left her behind on their wedding day. “I should like to see the rest of the castle, if you don’t mind. I want to understand what I’m meant to be managing.”

Mrs. Glenwright’s eyes sharpened with what might have been approval. “Aye, that’s the spirit. Though, I’ll warn ye now – some doors stay locked for good reason.”

The pair spent the morning traversing Storme Castle, the housekeeper serving as guide, leading Diana through her new domain.

Diana discovered an impressive library that rivaled any she’d seen in London.

Its shelves reached toward vaulted ceilings and were filled with volumes in languages she couldn’t identify.

She found a music room complete with a piano forte that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years; its keys had yellowed with age and neglect.

But for every room Mrs. Glenwright opened, three others remained sealed. Locked doors marked the corridor like punctuation marks, their heavy wood and iron fixtures suggesting secrets Diana wasn’t yet trusted to uncover.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why are so many rooms kept closed?” Diana asked as they paused before yet another sealed door.

“His Grace’s orders,” Mrs. Glenwright replied curtly. “And if ye don’t mind me sayin’ so – some things are better left undisturbed.”

“But surely as his wife, I should have access–”

“Bein’ a wife doesn’t grant automatic access to a man’s private sorrows, Your Grace.” The housekeeper’s tone carried decades worth of hard-won wisdom. “Trust is earned in this castle, not assumed.”

As they continued their exploration, Diana became increasingly aware of the staff’s reaction to her presence.

Maids curtsied and disappeared into alcoves like startled rabbits.

Footmen bowed with precise correctness but avoided meeting her eyes.

Even the cook, when they briefly visited the kitchens, offered polite responses to her questions while radiating the kind of wariness reserved for a powder keg that might ignite at any moment.

“They’re afraid of me,” Diana observed as they climbed a narrow staircase toward what Mrs. Glenwright had called the tower rooms.

“They’re afraid of change ,” the housekeeper corrected.

“This castle’s been run the same way for five years now.

A change that was not easy, but now things are quiet, efficient, and there are no complications.

Ye are a sassenach representin’ the unknown, and Highland folk don’t trust what they can’t predict. ”

“And what can they predict about His Grace?”

Mrs. Glenwright paused with her hand on the stair rail.

“They can predict he’ll be fair, but distant.

Demanding, but never cruel. That he’ll keep the estate runnin’ and the tenant families fed but won’t expect warmth or personal connection in return for such provisions.

” She looked directly at Diana. “The question is, what can they predict about their new Duchess?”

The challenge in those words followed Diana throughout the rest of their tour.

By midday, she had seen enough of Storme Castle to understand the magnitude of what she’d inherited – and the magnitude of what she didn’t understand yet.

This was simply an overly large house requiring domestic management.

It was a complex organism with its own rhythms, customs and carefully maintained equilibrium.

When Mrs. Glenwright finally returned her to the entrance hall, Diana felt as though she’d been given a map of a foreign country where she didn’t yet speak the native tongue.

“Dinner is served at seven sharp in the great hall, Your Grace,” Mrs. Glenwright announced. “His Grace expects proper dress and prompt attendance.”

“Will he be joining me tonight?”

“Couldn’t say, Your Grace. His Grace’s dining habits are as unpredictable as Scottish weather.”

Diana frowned. “Then why the insistence on proper dress and prompt attendance for a meal he may not even attend?”

Mrs. Glenwright’s expression tightened. “Castle tradition is to maintain proper standards, regardless of circumstances, Your Grace.”

Diana spent the afternoon in her chambers, writing letters to her sisters that she didn’t plan to send – pouring her loneliness and confusion onto paper as a way to organize her thoughts without burdening them with her struggles, and sketching architectural details from memory.

She cleaned herself up, dressed appropriately – carefully choosing a deep blue silk gown from one of the more formal pieces her mother had insisted upon.

When seven o’clock approached, she made her way toward the great hall.

The massive space felt even more overwhelming than it had the previous evening. Diana took her place at one end, folded her hands in her lap and waited for whatever was to come.

She didn’t have to wait long.