Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

P eggy found herself with too much time on her hands and far too little occupation to fill it. The long, empty hallways of her new home echoed faintly with her footsteps as she wandered, hoping to familiarize herself with its gloomy grandeur. It was during one such stroll that she happened upon a wide hall leading to what seemed to be a portrait gallery. The sound of activity—brushes sweeping, the faint rustle of fabric—drew her attention. It was being cleaned.

Her curiosity piqued, Peggy quickened her steps, the prospect of glimpsing the ancestral faces of this castle’s storied past filling her with anticipation. But just as she reached the entrance, Mrs. Hallewell materialized before her as if summoned by an unspoken alarm.

“Did you need something, Your Grace?” the housekeeper asked, her tone even, her expression unreadable. She bore the same lifeless calm that Peggy was coming to associate with the woman—a calm that both unnerved and frustrated her.

If I’d needed something, I would have summoned you, Peggy thought irritably. Yet, aloud, she said, “Oh, I was just hoping to familiarize myself with the castle.” She flashed her most disarming smile, the one that had won over many a reluctant party. Peggy then stepped lightly to the side, intending to slip past Mrs. Hallewell’s imposing figure, but the housekeeper mirrored her movement with an efficiency that was almost military.

“That is all for today, girls,” Mrs. Hallewell called over her shoulder to the chambermaids within the gallery. Her sharp gaze never left Peggy’s, as though daring her to push further. “We shall clean the music room next.” The maids scurried out quickly, their arms laden with cloths and buckets, darting glances at Peggy as they passed.

Mrs. Hallewell then turned back and, without ceremony, bolted the grand oak doors behind them with an air of finality that left no room for argument. Peggy’s brow furrowed at the blatant message. She was not wanted here. Yet, she couldn’t resist asking, “Isn’t that the portrait gallery?”

Mrs. Hallewell’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Do you know about the charity in the village, Your Grace?” she asked, her voice calm yet deliberate, as though the gallery and all its mysteries were now a thing of no importance.

Peggy blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “Charity?” she echoed, her curiosity effectively redirected.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hallewell replied smoothly, already stepping away from the bolted doors. Peggy, drawn in by this new thread of conversation, found herself trailing after the woman.

As they walked, Mrs. Hallewell began to explain. The women of the village held a charity club, she said, one that extended its work across the estate and even to neighboring villages. They raised funds, distributed aid, and provided support where it was needed most.

“My, that is quite some noble work,” Peggy said, her initial wariness melting into genuine admiration. The idea of meaningful activity, of purpose, appealed to her in ways she hadn’t realized she craved until now.

“As a matter of fact,” Mrs. Hallewell continued smoothly, “they hold meetings every Monday and Friday. Perhaps Your Grace would care to attend tomorrow’s meeting? It would give you a chance to see the work firsthand before next Monday.”

“Oh, I would love that,” Peggy replied, her spirits lifting at the prospect. She could already imagine herself immersed in the kind of society she’d envisioned—one with purpose, connection, and perhaps a chance to make a difference.

Peggy stepped down from the carriage, her pale green day frock swishing lightly as she adjusted the folds. The parish building stood quaint and unassuming before her, ivy climbing one side and narrow windows reflecting the morning sun. She straightened her bonnet and, with quickened steps, made her way toward the entrance, eager to meet the women and learn more about their charitable work.

Inside, she found a modest room filled with simple chairs and a tea service on a well-worn table. The quiet conversation halted as all eyes turned toward her. The small group of women—country matrons and one elegantly dressed lady—regarded her with surprise.

“I beg all your pardons,” Peggy began with a smile, inclining her head in apology. “I should have sent word of my interest and planned visit beforehand.”

The well-dressed woman was the first to recover. She rose gracefully, gesturing to an empty chair with a gracious nod. “Think nothing of it, Your Grace. Please, do sit. I am Lady Aleshire, the baronet’s wife.”

Peggy accepted the seat with a soft murmur of thanks, her hands smoothing her skirts as she settled herself. Despite their outward courtesy, she sensed a ripple of apprehension among the women—a shared unease cloaked in polite smiles. Their curiosity, however, was far less subtle.

Lady Aleshire reclaimed her place at the head of the group, her bearing calm and confident. It was clear to Peggy that this woman had long presided over their gatherings. She admired her poise and decided at once that she would not undermine Lady Aleshire’s authority, despite her own higher station. No, I will learn from her instead, Peggy resolved.

As tea was poured and the women began to explain their work, Peggy found herself thoroughly impressed. They spoke of their committee’s efforts to raise funds for various causes, recounting their successes with pride.

“Last year, we held a confectioners’ festival and competition,” Lady Aleshire said, her voice steady and sure. “All the proceeds went toward constructing a new ward for the foundling home hospital.”

Peggy’s expression brightened. “How remarkable,” she said warmly. “What you’ve accomplished is truly inspiring.”

The tension in the room eased with time, the women growing more comfortable in Peggy’s presence. Invitations to future meetings followed, and Peggy beamed as she accepted. “I will be delighted to join you all again.”

The conversation turned to lighter topics, and soon they were chatting over tea about life in the countryside. Peggy listened with interest, feeling herself growing more at ease among them. But then a Mrs. Pattons broke the delicate balance with an unexpected remark.

“I must say, we received quite the shock when we heard there was a new Duchess of Giltford,” Mrs. Pattons declared, her voice carrying an unfiltered enthusiasm. “And we certainly weren’t expecting you to take aninterest in the village or its affairs.”

“Whyever would I not?” Peggy asked pleasantly, though she couldn’t help but note the peculiar phrasing.

“Why, after the Giltford tragedy and how reclusive the Duke became , naturally, we would have no expectations,” Mrs. Pattons replied matter-of-factly.

Peggy’s smile faltered as confusion flickered across her face. “Tragedy?” she echoed, glancing between the women for answers.

Lady Aleshire’s expression tightened, and she reached over to pinch Mrs. Pattons discreetly. The latter cleared her throat, suddenly sheepish. “My apologies, Your Grace. I should not have brought up such an unpleasant subject at a moment like this. It is not my place...”

The room fell into an awkward silence as the subject was abruptly dropped. Peggy forced a smile as the conversation moved on, but her mind remained consumed with the cryptic mention of tragedy. Questions swarmed her thoughts, each one more pressing than the last.

She sipped her tea, nodding at appropriate moments, but her focus remained elsewhere. What tragedy? What happened that left Giltford so... haunted?

As the afternoon wound to a close, the ladies began to gather their belongings, their chatter easing into a lull. Lady Aleshire turned to Peggy with a gracious smile.

“Your Grace, it has been a pleasure to have you with us today,” she said warmly. “I do hope you might consider joining us again for our next meeting.”

Mrs. Pattons chimed in, her earlier awkwardness replaced by an eager smile. “Indeed, Your Grace. We meet every Monday and Friday without fail. Your presence would be most welcome.”

Peggy’s face lit up with genuine delight. “I should be honored to join you all again,” she said, her voice bright. “Your work is admirable, and I would be delighted to contribute in any way I can.”

Lady Aleshire nodded approvingly. “Then it is settled. We shall look forward to seeing you next Friday.”

Peggy beamed, a pleasant warmth spreading through her. The invitation was a small victory, a foothold in this unfamiliar world she now called home. She curtsied slightly to the group as she rose, her heart light as she added, “Thank you, ladies. I very much look forward to it.”

Peggy glanced up in surprise as Morgan entered the dining room with the deliberate stride of a man intent on following through with an obligation rather than a desire.

She hadn’t expected him to join her, not after their strained parting last time. Her fork hovered above her plate as her lips parted slightly, her composure momentarily faltering.

“You’re here,” she blurted, then inwardly winced at her lack of poise. “I mean, it is good to see you, Your Grace.”

Morgan paused briefly, his gaze cool but faintly amused. “I do live here, Margaret,” he replied, his voice carrying dry humor as he took his seat at the opposite end of the long dining table. “It would hardly do to avoid my own dining room.”

She couldn’t help but smirk at his retort. “And yet, you’ve managed it with remarkable success until now.”

His brow lifted faintly at her boldness, but he said nothing as the footman poured his wine. Peggy bit her lip to stifle a grin, her spirits buoyed by his presence despite the formal tone of their exchange.

Dinner began in a silence that was not wholly uncomfortable. Peggy kept her focus on her plate, determined not to disturb the fragile truce that seemed to hover between them. But to her surprise, it was Morgan who broke the quiet.

“I heard you attended the charity club earlier,” he remarked, his tone conversational, though his gaze remained fixed on his food.

Peggy’s head shot up, her expression a mixture of astonishment and delight. “You heard?” she asked, unable to suppress a teasing smile. “Spying on me now, are you?”

Morgan met her gaze, unflinching. “Naturally. As my Duchess, I must keep an eye on you. Or two.”

My Duchess. The words settled warmly in her chest, unbidden and unexpectedly pleasant. Her cheeks heated slightly, though she kept her expression light. “Well, I hope my activities met with your approval.”

“How did it go?” he asked, deflecting her teasing with practiced ease.

Peggy brightened at the question, eager to share her success. “Oh, it was a grand success,” she declared, leaning forward slightly. “I charmed the ladies so thoroughly that they extended multiple invitations for future meetings. They were all most welcoming by the end.”

To her astonishment, Morgan chuckled softly, a sound so rare she blinked in disbelief. “That sounds entirely plausible,” he said, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Peggy’s heart swelled at the unexpected warmth between them. Could this day get any better? Hope flickered to life within her, fragile but bright. Perhaps she could succeed in drawing him out after all.

Buoyed by his unexpectedly good humor, Peggy decided to broach the topic that had lingered in her thoughts since her visit to the parish. She set her fork down and folded her hands on the table. “I did hear something peculiar while I was there,” she began carefully. “One of the women mentioned the Giltford tragedy. What did she mean by that?”

Morgan’s demeanor shifted immediately. His gaze hardened, and his posture stiffened as if a door had slammed shut between them. The warmth of moments before vanished like a flame snuffed out by the wind.

“Where did you hear such absurdities?” he demanded, his voice low and tight with control.

Peggy hesitated, startled by the sudden change. “From one of the women,” she said cautiously. “They were utterly courteous, I assure you.”

“Courtesy does not ensure truth,” he replied sharply, setting his knife down with deliberate care. “Not all they tell you can be trusted.”

Her frown deepened, her own defiance stirring at his dismissal. “I found them to be quite genuine. Why would they speak falsehoods?”

Morgan’s jaw tightened as his gaze locked onto hers. “You would do well to tread carefully with them, Margaret,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “There are some matters better left undisturbed.”

“What is the truth then, Morgan?” Margaret asked, her voice steady though her heart raced. She studied him, searching his impassive face for some sign of a response.

For a moment, he did nothing, his expression carved from stone. Then, in a flash of movement, he shot to his feet, the scrape of his chair against the floor sharp and jarring. His anger was palpable—not a thunderous rage, but a cold, cutting storm that stole the air from the room.

Margaret froze, her breath catching as the sheer force of his reaction bore down on her. Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the tablecloth, the only sign of her discomposure as she willed herself not to flinch under his dark gaze.

Without a word, Morgan turned on his heel and strode from the room, his steps swift and unrelenting. The dining room door swung shut behind him with a muted thud, leaving Margaret staring at his untouched plate, her gaze drifting to the empty chair he’d left behind.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Margaret exhaled shakily, her composure unraveling the moment she was alone. A surge of frustration coursed through her, sharp and unyielding, but it wasn’t directed at Morgan. No, she was angry at herself.

Foolish, foolish girl, she thought, pressing a trembling hand to her forehead. She had overstepped, broached a subject too soon, and the fragile connection she’d begun to build with him now lay in ruins. Whatever steps she thought she’d taken toward bridging the chasm between them, she now feared she had undone with a single question.

Her gaze lingered on the door he had vanished through, an ache settling in her chest. She wanted to call him back, to apologize, to explain , but she knew it would be futile. The walls he had erected tonight were higher and thicker than ever.

Margaret’s hands balled into fists, resting on the table. She had come so close— so close . And now? Now she was left staring into the chasm again, unsure if she’d ever cross it.