Page 16 of Duke of Storme
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, ifyou 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 ofchange,” 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 andconfusion 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.
The Duke entered precisely at seven, his tall frame filling the doorway before moving forward with measured steps toward the table. He wore a simple dark coat, and Diana noticed his dark hair was damp, as though he’d recently come in from the Highland mist that seemed to perpetually shroud the castle grounds.
“Your Grace,” he said, pulling out her chair with precise courtesy.
“Your Grace,” Diana replied, noting how strange it felt to address each other with such formal distance. They were, after all, husband and wife, yet they conversed like diplomatic representatives from neighboring countries.
The first course was served in complete silence – a delicate consommé that Diana barely tasted because her attention wasfocused on the man across from her. He ate with the efficient precision of someone accustomed to a military routine. Each of his movements were economical and purposeful.
“I met Mrs. Glenwright today,” Diana said when she could no longer bear the silence. “She was kind enough to give me a tour of the castle.”
“Good.” He didn’t look up from his soup. “She’ll acquaint ye with the household expectations.”
“She mentioned that some rooms remain locked. I was wondering if you might–”
