Page 26 of A Duchess for my Ward
The word choice was deliberate, and both women understood its implications. Mrs. Hale’s jaw tightened, while Lillian watched the exchange with wide eyes.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Isadora continued, “I believe I’ve seen quite enough for today. The tour has been most... educational.”
She moved quickly to the hallway where Mrs. Pemberton stood, her eyes downcast. “Thank you, Mrs. Pemberton,” she said quietly, her tone betraying none of the turmoil she’d felt after her altercation with Mrs. Hale. “I think I have seen enough.”
“I trust you found the tour informative, Your Grace,” Mrs. Pemberton said simply.
“Indeed. It was quite informative.” Isadora moved to the window, gazing out at gardens that lay dormant beneath their blanket of snow. “Tell me, Mrs. Pemberton—honestly—are you happy in your position here?”
The housekeeper went very still. “Your Grace?”
“It’s a simple question. Are you content in your work?”
“His Grace provides fair wages and steady employment, Your Grace. The household runs according to his expectations, and I take pride in meeting those expectations.”
More carefully chosen words that said everything and nothing. Isadora turned from the window to study the older woman’sface, noting the lines of tension around her eyes, the rigid set of her shoulders.
“But are you happy here?”
Mrs. Pemberton’s hands twisted in her apron—that gesture again, the unconscious betrayal of inner turmoil. “Your Grace, I... that is, my feelings on the matter are hardly relevant. I have my duties, and I perform them to the best of my ability.”
“Your feelings are relevant to me.” The words came out more gently than Isadora had intended. “I am to be mistress of this household now. Surely that means I have some interest in the welfare of those under my authority?”
For a moment, Mrs. Pemberton’s careful composure cracked. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, then sighed. “Your Grace is very kind. But kindness and authority don’t always... that is, His Grace has particular ways of managing his household. Ways that have served well for many years.”
“And if those ways were to change? If kindness were to become part of the household’s management philosophy?”
Mrs. Pemberton stared at her as though she had suggested turning the Abbey upside down and shaking it for loose change. “Change, Your Grace?”
“Small changes. Reasonable changes. The sort that might make everyone’s lives a bit more pleasant.”
“His Grace doesn’t approve of change, Your Grace.” The words came out as barely more than a whisper. “And begging your pardon, but those who have tried to introduce changes in the past have... well, they’ve found it best to seek employment elsewhere.”
The warning was clear, though diplomatically phrased. Edmund tolerated no interference with his system of control, no matter how well-intentioned. Those who challenged his authority found themselves looking for new situations, regardless of their previous standing in the household.
“I see,” Isadora said, though what she saw was far more complex than Mrs. Pemberton’s careful explanation had intended to convey. “Thank you for your honesty. And for your concern.”
After the housekeeper left, Isadora remained at the window, watching snow continue to fall over the Abbey’s grounds. The village lights twinkled in the distance—warm squares of yellow that spoke of families gathering around their hearths, of comfortable conversations and shared laughter. Here, in her magnificent prison, silence reigned supreme.
She had married to escape one cage, only to find herself in another—grander, certainly, but no less confining. The difference was that this cage held others as well: servants too frightened to speak their minds, a girl too intelligent for her own safety, and somewhere in this maze of marble and misery, a man so damaged by grief and guilt that he had transformed his home into a mausoleum of the living.
The question that haunted her was whether any of them could be saved—or whether she would simply become another ghost haunting the halls of Rothwell Abbey, another voice silenced by the suffocating weight of enforced perfection.
As evening approached, Isadora found herself drawn to the drawing room she had glimpsed during her tour. Unlike the state apartments with their museum-like perfection, this chamber showed signs of actual use—books left open on side tables, a slight indent in the cushion of what was clearly a favored chair, newspapers folded but not yet cleared away.
In the corner stood a pianoforte, and she approached it almost reverently, her fingers trailing across keys that showed the slight wear that came from regular use. When had music last filled this room? When had anyone sat here and played for simple pleasure rather than duty?
Without conscious thought, she settled onto the bench and began to play. Soon, she lost herself in the gentle melody, her entire spirit moving with her fingers as sounds danced from the instrument.
A movement in the doorway caught her peripheral vision, but she didn’t turn. She could feel his presence—Edmund’s careful attention, his silent assessment of this breach in his ordered routine. How long had he been standing there? Had he come seeking her out?
For long minutes after the music stopped, husband and wife stared at each other silently.
“It grows late, Lady Isadora,” he said at last, his voice curt.
“Forgive me,” she muttered as she stood. “I... could not help myself.”
“The instrument hasn’t been played in some time.” His words were neutral, but she caught the slight hoarseness in his voice that suggested the sound had affected him more than he cared to admit.
