Page 23 of A Wallflower's Convenient Duke
Chapter 11
The following day brought an unexpected visitor to Brooksdale Manor — none other than Blanche's mother, Lady Wicksford.
Blanche had not been expecting her, and the moment Mother stepped through the grand entrance, an uneasy weight settled in her chest. There was always a tension with her mother, a constant undercurrent of expectation that left Blanche feeling as if she were forever on display, forever falling short.
The drawing room, bathed in soft morning light, had been prepared for tea. Evelyn, ever the gracious hostess, welcomed the visit with effortless charm, though Blanche could not shake the suspicion that her mother had not come simply to exchange pleasantries.
Seated in one of the high-backed chairs, Mother barely took a sip of her tea before launching into an animated discourse on the Ipswich lineage. Her voice, laced with practiced pride, carried the same air of superiority that Blanche had endured since childhood.
"I have always said," Mother declared, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction, "that our family is destined for greatness. And now, dear Blanche, you are proof of it. A duchess! It suits you splendidly, does it not, Lady Brooksdale?"
Blanche stiffened, recognising the self-congratulatory tone. Her mother was behaving as though this marriage had been her careful orchestration, as if it were the result of a well-placed scheme rather than a hasty arrangement born out of scandal.
Evelyn, poised as ever, offered a polite yet measured smile. "Indeed, Lady Wicksford. The Ipswich family undoubtedly has a proud history, and Blanche has been a delightful addition to Brooksdale. I have greatly enjoyed having her here."
Her mother smiled. "It is good to know that my daughter is doing me proud. Both my children are, in fact. My younger son, and now Viscount Wicksford, Leopold, is presently enrolled at a most distinguished boarding school, receiving only the finest education. I have no doubt he shall make me very proud indeed. With diligence and ambition, he will one day establish a name for himself in London society."
Blanche, seated beside Evelyn, felt a flush of embarrassment, her stomach tightening in discomfort. It was always the same. Every conversation with her mother was a performance, an opportunity to remind others of their standing, their connections, their supposed superiority.
"I am sure you must be very proud," Evelyn responded, her tone gracious but unreadable.
Blanche was grateful for her mother-in-law’s ability to navigate conversations with ease, but she still yearned for this visit to end. The unspoken expectations in the air were suffocating, and the weight of her mother’s carefully curated image felt more stifling than ever.
After what felt like an eternity of posturing and pleasantries, Evelyn and Philip eventually excused themselves, leaving mother and daughter alone in the drawing room.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Blanche felt the shift in the air.
Isabella set down her teacup and regarded her daughter with cool interest. "Now then, Blanche, tell me—what is it that has you looking so pale? Surely, you should be basking in the grandeur of your new position."
Blanche hesitated, fingers grazing the rim of her cup. This was her chance.
Despite the unease twisting in her stomach, she straightened her spine and drew a breath. "Mother, there is something I must ask you. It is… troubling me."
Isabella arched a brow, her expression unreadable. "Speak, my dear. What could possibly trouble you in the midst of such good fortune?"
Blanche’s grip tightened on the porcelain. "When my belongings arrived, I noticed that several items were missing. Antiquities belonging to Father."** She met her mother’s gaze, searching for a reaction. "I do not understand what has happened to them."
For the briefest moment, Isabella’s carefully composed mask wavered. A flicker of something—annoyance? Guilt? —crossed her features before she recovered, waving a dismissive hand.
"Oh, Blanche, must you trouble yourself with such trifles?" she said airily. "You are now the Duchess of Brooksdale. You have an entire estate at your disposal. What are a few musty old relics in the grand scheme of things?"
Blanche, feeling a rising sense of frustration, pressed further. "But Mother, these artefacts hold sentimental value. They are a connection to Father, to our family's history. How can I simply dismiss their disappearance? You know how much they mean to me."
A flicker of impatience darkened Isabella’s expression. "Blanche, do not be so dramatic. In all likelihood, a few boxes were misplaced in the chaos of your move. These things happen."
Blanche inhaled sharply, frustration curling in her stomach. "Mother, these artefacts mean something to me. They are irreplaceable."
Isabella, now visibly irritated, replied frostily, "Very well, if it means so very much to you, I shall inquire with the servants. But I implore you, Blanche, to prioritise your responsibilities as the Duchess of Brooksdale. These artefacts are but shadows ofthe past. Your future lies in securing your place in society and maintaining the dignity of our family."
Blanche swallowed hard. "Yes, Mother, I understand my duties. But this is not easy for me. I would appreciate your asking the maids to look."
Isabella's lips twisted into a thin line before she regained herself once more.
"So, please, tell me, Blanche, how is it being a married woman? There is word that you were seen out in Town yesterday."
Blanche bit back a retort, knowing that arguing with Isabella was futile. Her mother would never understand.
Shadows of grief and resentment pressed at her, but she forced herself to breathe, to remain composed. "Thank you, Mother," she said at last, though the words felt hollow.
