He did not respond.
“Well then, I shall see you at luncheon,” she said, her tone as bright as she could muster, though her patience was wearing thin.
“I do not indulge in that either ,” he returned curtly, without even looking up from the ledger in his hand.
“Afternoon tea then?” Peggy tried again, tilting her head to study his impassive profile. “ Surely you doeat,do you not?”
“For God’s sake, woman, I shall see you at dinner,” he snapped, his tone brimming with irritation.
Peggy blinked at him for a moment before she felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He might have been frustrated, but she’d managed to wrest a meal and his company from him. That was nothing short of a triumph.
“Wonderful,” she replied with infuriating cheer, clasping her hands in front of her. “Dinner it is, Your Grace.”
He exhaled sharply, muttered something indecipherable, and turned back to his ledger. But Peggy wasn’t deterred; the promise of dinner left a small, victorious hum of satisfaction in her chest.
Satisfied, and with something to look forward to, Peggy retreated to the breakfast room, where she dined in solitude, her thoughts dancing with possibilities for the evening. Later, she ascended to her chambers, her mind already occupied with what to wear. The dress had to be just right—not too ostentatious, but certainly something to suggest effort.
She was in the midst of an enthusiastic rummage through her wardrobe when a familiar voice broke her focus.
“Do you need help with something, Your Grace?”
Peggy turned, startled, to find Mrs. Hallewell standing in the doorway, her hands clasped neatly before her. Thehousekeeper’s expression was as inscrutable as ever, her voice carrying a formality that once more seemed slightly colder than necessary.
“I was just trying to decide on what to wear for dinner later,” Peggy replied, gesturing toward the array of dresses spread across the bed. She bit her lip as she caught the way Mrs. Hallewell’s sharp gaze swept over the disarray.
The housekeeper stepped into the room without waiting for an invitation, picking up a midnight blue velvet dress with an appraising eye. “How about this one?”
Peggy frowned, her nose wrinkling as she shook her head. “Too somber.”
She wanted something lively, something to lift her spirits in this house that felt perpetually cloaked in shadows.
Mrs. Hallewell’s lips twitched slightly—perhaps the faintest hint of disapproval?—as she reached for another dress, but Peggy’s attention wavered. That familiar tension settled over the room like an unwelcome guest, heavy and oppressive. There was something about the housekeeper that made Peggy’s skin prickle, a sense of unease she couldn’t quite shake.
Something about the woman unsettled Peggy—perhaps it was the way Mrs. Hallewell’s gaze lingered a moment too long, as if she were measuring Peggy against some invisible standard and finding her wanting. Or perhaps it was the way her movementswere so precise, so controlled, as though the housekeeper carried a weight of knowledge she refused to share.
Whatever it was, it left Peggy feeling as though she were an intruder in her own chambers, a mere visitor in a house that was meant to be hers.
In an attempt to break the suffocating silence between them, Peggy asked. “Where is the library? You never did get the opportunity to tell me last night.”
Mrs. Hallewell paused, her gaze flickering to the window as though seeking inspiration from the garden beyond. When she spoke, her words were deliberate, her tone neutral. “The family has never shown a particular need for a library, Your Grace.”
Peggy blinked. “Oh.”No library? What manner of household could lack such a necessity?
Her gaze dropped to her hands, her thoughts spinning. What was she to do with her days, bereft of books to occupy her? The very notion of life without their comforting presence seemed unbearable.
Mrs. Hallewell inclined her head in a gesture of polite dismissal and turned to adjust a vase of flowers on a side table. Peggy forced a tight smile. “Thank you,” she said, though her thoughts were already elsewhere, grappling with the hollow prospect of her evenings ahead.
“An excellent squash soup,” Peggy remarked, aiming for brightness as she took another delicate sip of the creamy broth. She glanced across the table, watching Morgan eat with all the enthusiasm of a man tasked with a chore.
He did not so much as glance up, his focus fixed on his plate. The silence stretched unbearably, as oppressive as the still air of the dining room.
Peggy’s fingers tapped lightly against the handle of her spoon. She could not endure it—another wordless meal, as frigid as the expressions of the staff who haunted the corners of the house. “It pairs delightfully with the sourdough, does it not?” she ventured, her tone as cheerful as she could manage.
Morgan’s gaze lifted at last, his dark eyes cool as they met hers. “Are you in the habit of engaging in such chatter during meals?” he inquired, his voice so dry it might have scorched the broth in his bowl.
Peggy straightened, her chin tilting upward a fraction. “I should think it the most natural time for conversation,” she replied, her voice steady, though her fingers tightened imperceptibly on her spoon.
“I prefer not to risk choking on my food,” he said, his words clipped and utterly unruffled.
