Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

“ L izzy, you came!” Peggy embraced her sister warmly, though the trembling in her hands betrayed her nerves.

Elizabeth returned the embrace with equal fervor. “We arrived but a moment ago. Oh, thank heavens we made it in time.”

Peggy pulled back slightly, searching her sister’s face with concern. “You must be dreadfully tired after such a journey.”

“Nonsense!” Elizabeth declared, waving away the notion as she stepped back. “It is my dearest sister’s wedding day. I would not miss such an occasion for all the world.”

Peggy chuckled softly, though the tightness in her chest made her smile falter. “I am hardly a baby anymore, Lizzy.”

“Perhaps not,” Elizabeth conceded, her eyes glistening as she reached out to clasp Peggy’s hand. “But you will always be my younger sister, and today, I could not be prouder.”

Peggy murmured her thanks, her voice faltering as she blinked back tears. Their uncle’s voice from the doorway saved her from becoming wholly undone. “Come along, girls,” he called warmly, beckoning them. “We are waiting in the drawing room.”

The ceremony passed in what felt like the blink of an eye. It was an intimate affair, attended only by her immediate family, Elizabeth’s husband—Alexander Hunton, the Duke of Sterlin, who happened to be an old acquaintance of Giltford’s—the ever-amiable Marquess of Broughton, and Giltford’s solicitor.

Before Peggy had fully gathered her bearings, she was Margaret Down, Duchess of Giltford. The title rang hollow in her ears, foreign and unfamiliar. She offered the requisite smiles, her every movement controlled, but the enormity of what had just transpired left her feeling unsteady.

“Oh, I have not seen you for years, and the first time that I do, it happens to be on your wedding day,” said Alexander, extending his hand to Giltford after the ceremony.

“And it appears we are now brothers,” Giltford replied, his tone cool and devoid of enthusiasm.

Peggy watched them converse, her attention drawn not to their words but to the strange weight of the word husband as it echoed in her thoughts. Her husband. How foreign it sounded, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.

As the gentlemen exchanged pleasantries, Peggy turned to bid farewell to her family. Each goodbye tightened the knot in her chest. She was leaving not just her home, but the people who had been her world.

Her uncle approached first, his voice thick with emotion as he kissed her forehead and cheeks in turn. “Be a good girl, Margaret,” he said, his smile wavering. “I shall miss you more than I can say.”

“I shall miss you too, Uncle,” Peggy replied, her voice barely above a whisper as she clung to his hand.

Anna embraced her next, her grip firm and protective. “I am but a missive away,” she said, her voice quiet yet resolute. “If ever you find yourself in need of anything— anything at all, Peggy.”

Peggy nodded, feeling the unspoken concern in Anna’s gaze. Her cousin’s skepticism of Giltford had never been a secret, and Peggy did not fault her for it. She herself still felt a lingering unease. But the time for doubts had passed; she had made her choice.

Finally, Petunia stepped forward, her expression inscrutable as she pressed a small pouch into Peggy’s hand. “Take this,” her aunt whispered. “In case you find yourself in need of it.”

Peggy blinked, confused. “What is it, Auntie?” She moved to open the pouch, but Petunia stopped her with a raised hand.

“It is salt,” Petunia whispered conspiratorially. “They say it wards off spirits .”

“Salt?” Peggy repeated, her brows shooting up in disbelief.

“Not so loud, dear,” Petunia hissed, glancing about as though they were discussing the most dire of secrets.

Anna, who had lingered nearby, burst into laughter. “You cannot truly believe such nonsense, Auntie.”

Petunia’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Of course not, but it costs me nothing to indulge in a bit of precaution.”

Peggy managed a laugh, shaking her head at her aunt’s peculiarities. Under different circumstances, she might have found the exchange wholly amusing. As it was, the weight of the day pressed heavily upon her. Yet, despite everything, her aunt’s absurd gesture brought a flicker of warmth to her heart. It was an odd expression of care, but one she would carry with her.

“What is the salt for?” Elizabeth whispered, her tone a mixture of amusement and bafflement as she arched a questioning brow.

“I will explain later,” Anna replied, her chuckle barely suppressed as she glanced toward their aunt.

Petunia, however, remained steadfast in her peculiarities. “Well, one can never be too careful,” she said with a shrug before turning her full attention to Peggy. She cupped Peggy’s flushed cheeks with warm, steady hands. “Be safe, my child. I love you,” she said softly, her voice trembling with emotion.

The tenderness of her words undid Margaret completely. A knot of emotion lodged itself in her throat, and before she could stop herself, tears slipped down her cheeks. She pulled Petunia into a long, fervent embrace, holding tightly to the woman who had been both guardian and mother in so many ways.

As they stood there, Margaret felt something nudge against her foot. She glanced down, startled, to see Titan, his small grey body squatting sedately at her feet. It was so unlike his usual antics that she blinked, half expecting him to spring into one of his customary frenzies.

“Oh, look at you,” she murmured, crouching to scoop him up. “I am going to miss fighting you over my sausages every morning.” She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and Titan responded with an enthusiastic lick to her cheek.

“That tickles,” Peggy chuckled, her tears mingling with laughter as she cradled the pug against her chest.

Plato, the ever-gentle Newfoundland, padded forward and let out a low, mournful howl. Margaret reached out to scratch him beneath his bushy ears, her fingers sinking into his thick fur. “I’ll miss you too, Plato,” she said softly, melancholy in her voice.

Before she could linger further in the bittersweet moment, Giltford’s imposing figure appeared in the doorway. “It is time to leave,” he announced, his tone calm but leaving no room for delay.

Margaret straightened, her movements measured as she gently set Titan down. The weight of reality settled firmly on her shoulders. She turned to her family one last time, her gaze sweeping over their tearful faces and earnest smiles.

With a deep breath, she walked toward the door, her arm slipping into Giltford’s as propriety demanded. Each step felt heavier than the last as she left behind the only home she had ever known. The sound of her family calling out final goodbyes echoed behind her, interspersed with the unmistakable sniffles of those trying to maintain their composure.

As the waiting carriage came into view, Margaret fought the urge to look back again. This was her future now, no matter how foreign it felt.

“Do you intend to remain silent for the entire journey, Duke?” Peggy asked, her tone light but edged with curiosity. She turned her gaze from the window to the man seated across from her, his posture impossibly stiff, his expression unreadable.

Giltford’s eyes flicked toward her, his face betraying nothing. “I have nothing to say,” he replied flatly.

Peggy arched a brow, undeterred. “Nothing at all? Not a single comment about the weather? The state of the roads? Or perhaps some thrilling detail about the estate we are bound for?”

“The weather is dreary, the roads are adequate, and the estate is exactly as it should be,” he answered curtly, his gaze returning to the far wall of the carriage.

She let out a soft laugh, though it was one of exasperation. “How riveting,” she quipped, shaking her head. “I suppose I shall have to entertain myself then.”

Giltford inclined his head slightly. “If you find that preferable to silence, do carry on.”

Peggy leaned back against the seat, crossing her arms as she studied him. “You are remarkably good at saying nothing while still managing to be disagreeable.”

His lips twitched—was that nearly a smile?—but his tone remained even. “It is a skill, I suppose.”

“Hardly one to be proud of,” Peggy retorted, though the corner of her mouth lifted despite herself. “You might try being pleasant. You may find it less taxing.”

“I find honesty far less taxing than pretense,” he replied, his gaze meeting hers for the briefest moment before returning to the window.

“Honesty is well and good,” Peggy said, narrowing her eyes. “But must it always be so joyless?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and for a moment she thought he might simply ignore her. But then he said, “I was unaware my demeanor would serve as a source of your entertainment.”

Peggy laughed softly again, though this time there was a genuine warmth to it. “Oh, Duke, you might be surprised by what I find entertaining.”

For a fleeting second, she thought she saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly she might have imagined it. He said nothing more, settling back into his usual silence, and Peggy resigned herself to the scenery once again.

Still, her earlier levity soon waned, and the rhythmic motion of the carriage lulled her into a comfortable drowsiness. The world outside the window blurred, and her eyelids grew heavy. The last thing she remembered was the sight of her husband sitting across from her, still and inscrutable, before her world faded to black.

She stirred when a gentle touch brushed against her cheek, her eyes fluttering open to find his face much closer than before. “We’ve arrived, Duchess,” Giltford said, his gruff voice pulling her fully awake.

Margaret blinked, disoriented, and realized with no small amount of surprise that her head had been resting on his shoulder. More startling still, his hand lingered near her face, as if he had only just pulled it away. Warmth flooded her cheeks as she straightened quickly, smoothing her skirts. “When did you move to my cushion?” she asked, her voice soft but curious. “And why?”

He regarded her briefly, his expression as unreadable as ever. “Do you want the servants’ first impression of their new Duchess to be of you nursing an aching neck? ” His tone was as flat as his words were dismissive.

The warmth she had felt moments before dissipated, leaving her oddly deflated. Of course, it had been a practical gesture, nothing more. She nodded, turning toward the window once more as the carriage slowed to a stop.

When she caught sight of the towering castle before them, her breath hitched. It was a vision straight from a medieval romance, its high turrets and weathered stone walls rising majestically against the dull grey sky. But as the carriage drew closer, the grandeur gave way to a chilling reality. The windows were dark, the grounds overgrown, and the very air seemed to weigh heavily, as though the castle itself mourned something long lost.

Margaret pressed her hands together in her lap, her heart sinking as she took in her new home. It was magnificent, yes, but utterly lifeless. Cold and dead, like a forgotten relic of another time.