“I assumed as much. If that is your desire, you have my leave. Do whatever pleases you. If I need you, I shall inform Mrs. Havisham or Brigitte.”
With that, he left the room, leaving Emma staring after him, deflated. She had hoped for guidance, for connection, but instead felt adrift. How was she to navigate this role without his support? His brief interest in her writing the previous day and desire to show her the libraries had given her home – misplaced hope it seemed now.
Mrs. Havisham appeared soon after, her manner brisk yet deferential. She was a tall woman with silver-threaded hairneatly pinned beneath a linen cap, her attire immaculately simple and practical.
“Your Grace,” she said with a curtsy, “His Grace mentioned you might have questions regarding the estate. Shall we speak after breakfast?”
Emma glanced at the untouched food before her. “I have finished, Mrs. Havisham. Let us proceed now.”
Mrs. Havisham cast a glance at the barely touched plate but said nothing. “Very well, Your Grace. Might we retire to the drawing room?”
Emma followed her, feeling a faint pang of unease. In the drawing room, she paused before a portrait of a striking woman with kind eyes.
“His mother,” Mrs. Havisham offered softly. “The late Duchess was much beloved. His Grace held her in the highest regard.”
“And his father?” Emma ventured.
Mrs. Havisham hesitated. “That is a matter best discussed with His Grace.”
Sensing the discomfort, Emma let the topic drop, though her thoughts churned. She turned her focus to the estate, listening as Mrs. Havisham outlined the intricacies of its management. The conversation left her slightly more assured, but as she returnedto her chambers later, she caught sight of the Duke’s carriage departing.
Watching it roll away, she felt the weight of resentment settle upon her. He had left her to navigate this role alone. And though she now knew some of her duties, the larger question remained: how was she to be a Duchess when she felt like a stranger in her own home?
CHAPTER 19
The sun hung low in the autumn sky, casting a golden hue over the rolling expanse of the Duke of Wells’s estate. The faint rustle of leaves was the only sound that accompanied Evan and his friend Jonathan as they made their way across the hunting grounds. The dogs ran ahead, noses to the ground, their movements eager and tireless.
Jonathan, adjusting his rifle, broke the quiet. “So, Evan, how fares your new Duchess? Has she settled into her new role?”
Evan’s expression remained inscrutable as he kept his gaze fixed ahead. “It would seem so. She has voiced no grievances, at any rate.”
“No grievances?” Jonathan raised a brow. “That is not quite the same as contentment. Have you discussed your plans for the season? Balls, dinners, the endless parade of society’s gaieties?”
Evan gave a slight shrug, his tone indifferent. “Once the season is in full swing, I am certain we shall make the requisite appearances. It is expected, after all.”
“And you believe she will be amenable to this?”
Evan glanced briefly at his friend before replying with a casual air. “I imagine she will. She has given me no reason to think otherwise.”
Jonathan stopped walking, turning to face him. “Evan, you have been married for a week. How much time have you truly spent in conversation with your wife?”
Evan sighed, his stride unbroken. “Precious little, I will admit. She has kept to herself, with Mrs. Havisham aiding her in the transition. I have no desire to meddle. This is precisely as I envisioned it would be.”
“As you envisioned it with Ophelia,” Jonathan remarked, his voice carrying a note of reproach. “But Emma did not plan for this. It must be exceedingly difficult for her.”
Evan’s tone grew sharper. “She has every comfort one could desire—quarters more luxurious than any she has known, a vast estate at her disposal, frequent visits to her sister, and her maid ever by her side. She is well supported.”
Jonathan sighed heavily, shaking his head. “And yet support is not always what one requires. Companionship, perhaps?”
Evan, dismissive, waved off the notion. “She lacks for nothing.”
A silence lingered between them before Jonathan, more cautiously, ventured, “Is the red-haired woman I have seen about the grounds her maid?”
“She is,” Evan confirmed, his lips curling slightly. “Brigitte, I believe. Why, Jonathan, has she caught your eye?”
Jonathan flushed, the color creeping into his cheeks. “Not in the way you think. I cannot help but notice her, mostly because she pays me no mind while your maids have a habit of starting and giggling incessantly.”
Evan barked a laugh. “Poor Jonathan. Not happy when beset by admiration and also not happy when ignored! What a plight for a man of your stature.”