Chapter 8

8

" Bonjour , Your Grace!" exclaimed a female voice with a strong French accent the next morning, and Patience jumped in her bed, tugging the edge of her blanket all the way to her chin.

She blinked through the semidarkness at the female figure who marched through her bedchamber towards the windows. Right, her French lady's maid who'd come to help her undress last night.

" Bonjour ," Patience mumbled in response, "Mademoiselle Antoinette."

She was a petite woman with delicate features, chestnut hair styled in the latest French fashion, and warm brown eyes. Mademoiselle Antoinette pulled the heavy curtains open to let the morning light in, and Patience squinted her eyes.

" Avez-vous bien dormi? " asked Mademoiselle Antoinette as she hurried energetically towards the next window. " Il ne faisait pas trop froid? Je me demande comment vous aimeriez être habillée aujourd'hui? "

Despite Patience's limited French, she managed to understand that the woman asked if she slept well, if it was not too cold, and how Patience would like to be dressed today.

Yesterday afternoon, after the wedding guests left, the housekeeper, Mrs. Knight, had introduced the servants to her, but Patience felt so overwhelmed that all of the faces and names had blurred together. And when Mademoiselle Antoinette had come to help her to undress last night, Patience had sent her away as she was ashamed that a duchess's lady's maid would see the poor state of her clothes.

"Things could be better," said Patience as she forced out a chuckle.

She was still tired, her body heavy and aching with insomnia. In Rose Cottage, she slept in the same bed as Anne and Frances. In Rath Hall, her bed felt enormous and cold.

"Oh, forgive me," said Mademoiselle Antoinette with a heavy French accent as she marched back towards the door. "Do you prefer to speak in English?"

Mademoiselle Antoinette opened the door to pick up something and a small breeze rushed inside, bringing the faintest whiff of musk, bergamot, and pepper…

Her husband. Patience's nipples hardened of their own accord. Surely due to the breeze, not because she thought of him.

"I would, yes," said Patience. "I'm afraid my French is limited."

"Oh," said Mademoiselle Antoinette as she returned to the room with a large pitcher of steaming water. She approached the washstand, which held an ornate empty basin and a mirror. "Of course. If that's what you prefer. Most ladies I've served preferred French."

While she poured the warm water into the basin, Patience licked her lips nervously. It felt strange to have someone else prepare her wash water. Typically, at home, Emily would put the cauldron on the fire, and Patience was usually the one who'd bring jugs of warm water upstairs for each of the three bedrooms and pour it in the washbasins. Now, her hands felt empty, her stomach in knots with guilt and discomfort. What was she supposed to do with herself?

"Well, I did learn it when I was little. When Mama had more time and was able to tutor my oldest sisters, Emily and Beatrice. Some of it must have stuck in my memory. After that, someone would read out loud from the single French book we had in the house in the evenings when we all sat together after supper."

Mademoiselle Antoinette nodded and smiled. " Bien sur! Whatever you'd like, Your Grace. Perhaps you'd like to wash now?"

Still in her night chemise, Patience washed up, feeling on edge from the presence of a stranger in such intimate vicinity.

After she dried her face with the softest of fabrics, she looked helplessly at Mademoiselle Antoinette.

" Voulez-vous vous asseoir ici? " she asked as she gestured towards the padded oval dressing stool standing by a vanity table with a large mirror.

"Right," said Patience. "Of course."

She sat and Mademoiselle kept chatting away, gesturing animatedly, switching into French, and interrupting herself with an apology in English. She combed Patience's hair, and Patience couldn't shake the sensation of needles pricking her skin. A stranger, a servant, was tending to her, when all her life the only touch she'd known was that of her sisters or her parents.

She mumbled something at Mademoiselle Antoinette's suggestions for a hairstyle and accessories for today and sat for what must have been one hour while Mademoiselle created the most elegant chignon at the nape of her neck with soft little curls around her face. The updo was then adorned with jeweled hairpins and a small delicate hairnet made of gold thread.

This was the most beautiful hairstyle Patience had ever had in her life. The feeling of being completely out of her element was like walking on a shaking ground. She couldn't have felt more out of place.

Then Mademoiselle Antoinette laid out three gowns to choose from.

" Celle-ci ," she said, "the pale blue muslin is light and airy, perfect for a morning walk if you please. This blue brings out your eyes, non ? This soft lavender one is elegant yet practical. The mint green linen is fresh and will bring out your youthful skin. It is très chic , very fashionable this season in Paris. All the ladies are wearing this shade."

Patience looked them over. No seams, no holes, they were pristine. Newly made. All of her previous dresses had been worn by each of her sisters before her. "Where did they come from?"

"Oh, je pense it was Madame Eleanor Buchanan who wanted to give these to you as her wedding present. These were quite cleverly designed to fit most figures since they are sewn without specific measurements, but I'll adjust them once you try them on."

Oh, Dorian's aunt… How thoughtful yet practical of her. She must have foreseen Patience wouldn't own any gowns suitable for a duchess.

" Alors , which do you prefer, Your Grace?"

"I…I think the blue, perhaps?"

Mademoiselle Antoinette nodded and placed the lavender and the green dress back in the armoire. "Ah, oui , a safe choice! Et vous savez , at the last ball at the Tuileries, everyone was ablaze in such colors. Les robes étaient absolument magnifiques! "

Patience was struggling to keep up. The extent of her French was coming to an end. "I'm sure they were lovely."

Mademoiselle Antoinette gestured for Patience to raise her arms and when she did that, she pulled her chemise up and over her head. "And the hats! Plumes that touched the sky! Vous devez voir ?a —you must try one sometime. Imagine, a feather soaring from a bonnet like a bird in flight!"

Patience could imagine nothing stranger than having a giant feather like a bird on her hat, especially when she stood naked before a woman she had met only yesterday. She wanted to cover herself while Mademoiselle, seemingly unaware of her discomfort, retrieved a fresh chemise. "The…the feathers sound…quite something," mumbled Patience.

As Mademoiselle Antoinette was about to put the new chemise over her head, Patience stopped her, one arm covering her breasts, the other stretched out for the chemise. "Please, I can do it myself."

Mademoiselle Antoinette chuckled. " S'il vous pla?t , Your Grace! I am here to do this for you. Please, stretch out your arms."

Patience didn't have the courage or energy to contradict and simply did as Mademoiselle said.

"Oh, and the gossip, mon Dieu !" she continued as though there was no other care in the world. "Did you hear about Miss Beige and Lord Smist? Scandaleux! "

At least the chemise was on now, soft and white as a cloud and smelling like lavender and soap. Mademoiselle put a corset over Patience's head and pulled it down to her waist. Patience shook her head. "No, I haven't heard…"

Mademoiselle Antoinette waved her hand dismissively. "Ah, it is just as well. Better to stay above such things, n'est-ce pas ?"

As Mademoiselle laced the corset and then pulled the gown over top of everything, chirping about gossip and events of the London ton, Patience stood tensely wondering how this could be her life.

Several times she was about to open her mouth and say she'd do it herself, but she gave in to the inevitable, knowing Mademoiselle would just say it was her task to dress her.

It was one of the most uncomfortable things she'd ever experienced, having a servant dress her like a doll!

Her mind, completely disinterested in gossip, drifted to her roses. How had the bushes survived the travel? She had dug the best ones out, tied the root system along with some soil in pieces of canvas, and transported them here with her meager sack of clothes and her botanical journals. Now they stood somewhere in the household buildings, and the duke wouldn't even allow her to use the garden. What would become of them?

" Voilà! " exclaimed Mademoiselle Antoinette as she stepped away from Patience, looking her over.

And when Patience looked into the mirror for the first time, she didn't recognize herself. Never in her life had she worn such a beautiful gown or such an elaborate hairstyle. This was how she was supposed to look yesterday for her wedding to a duke. This Patience, in a gown that made her eyes shimmer and her hair shine like spun gold, looked like she belonged to the right of the nave, with her husband's guests, the dukes and the duchesses and lords and ladies.

But inside, she couldn't feel any less like one.

Patience had never felt so alone in her entire life as she felt in Rath Hall over the next few days.

Confined to her quarters by the first of her husband's rules, she had looked through every corner of her part of the house. Her quarters consisted of her bedroom, a dressing room directly adjacent to it, two additional bedrooms for guests, a sitting room downstairs where she could receive visitors, her own dining room, and a drawing room where she could write her correspondence, draw, embroider, read, or play a pianoforte.

The combined area was at least three times larger than Rose Cottage. She had shared that tiny house with seven other people, and now she was all alone in this vast space.

Everything was immaculate. Clean. Rich. Antiques and family heirlooms decorated fireplace mantels, sideboards, and walls. She was afraid to move the wrong way and bump against something, smashing it to pieces.

Rose Cottage was full of constant chatter, laughter, and the bustling activity of her family. In contrast, the calm silence at Rath Hall was eerie, punctuated only by the ticking of a clock or the echo of her own footsteps in the vast, empty corridors and rooms.

Her family had left the day of the wedding. So had the duke's sister, Chastity, and his aunt, who had both moved to Rath's London house to give the newlyweds privacy.

They truly didn't have to. These newlyweds weren't spending any time together to need privacy.

She hadn't talked to her husband since the day of their wedding, and yet, she could sense his presence in every little thing. He was in the dark stone walls, in the exquisite ancient furniture, in the portraits of his ancestors and the priceless art. He was even in the feminine style of her own quarters, silently pointing out how little she belonged there.

Her bedroom was an opulent prison with high ceilings and heavy antique furnishings. The air was still, holding the faintest scent of lavender and wood polish. A massive four-poster bed, draped with silky sheets, stood against the wall.The fireplace loomed, tall and cold. She was sure she could ask Mrs. Knight to have one of the maids light it, but she didn't dare. How could she command anyone?

In the mornings, Patience stood at the window, her breath hitching as she watched the duke spar with his trainer. Watching his hard, shirtless body move was the highlight of her day. Even from her window, she could see the rippling muscles of his chest and back play under his glistening skin. The jabs of his bulging arms were fast and unexpected, the powerful grace of his movements obvious. Like Ares, the god of war, he didn't hold back, wasn't afraid, just kept moving, concentrating on every step and maneuver. From time to time he massaged his gloved hand; it must have still pained him.But he never removed the glove.

It wasn't just his physique that drew her in. As he moved with lethal grace, she felt a pang of longing. Not just for his touch, but for the ease with which he inhabited his world. He was the master here, powerful and direct, while she was a prisoner, trapped by an obligation to her family and overwhelmed by a life she barely understood.

The emptiness of her bed, the silence of the rooms, the constant reminder that she was alone. It was too much and not enough. Seeing him, so vibrant and alive, only intensified her yearning. She wanted to be part of his world, to share his strength, to feel as free and confident as he did.

But all she could do was watch and wish, something within acutely interested in the cold man who seemed so far out of reach.

Then he'd pull a shirt over his sweaty torso, mount a black horse that looked massive and intimidating, and with an Irish wolfhound at his heels, he'd gallop away as though the devil chased him. After a while, she saw him dive into the pond near the house, and stay under the water for a long time, emerging all wet and exhausted, before walking back into the house .

Patience was in the sitting room, staring out of the window, when the housekeeper came in. Mrs. Knight was a woman in her late fifties, with a spare figure, a long, thin face, and gray hair in an immaculate knot at the back of her head.

She began shooting out questions, and Patience stood with her mouth gaping open while Mrs. Knight waited for her answers.

Patience smiled because she had no idea what the difference was between a velouté sauce and a hollandaise sauce, or which her husband preferred.

Whether she'd likeCanard à l'Orange orTournedos Rossini for dinner. And for soups, would she preferBouillabaisse orPotage à la Reine?

And for the next week's menu, would she like to include the duke's favorite dish?

Favorite dish? Goodness, Patience didn't know a single thing he liked, just what he didn't like.

Her.

Anywhere near him or the garden.

She threw a longing glance outside.

"Whatever you think best, Mrs. Knight."

The housekeeper's response was a barely noticeable pursing of her lips. Patience had just opened her mouth to ask what the duke's favourite dish was but closed it. Perhaps that was something a wife of five days was supposed to know, and this would be yet another way to show Mrs. Knight how unfit Patience was for the role of duchess.

"Perhaps Your Grace would like some new clothes?" asked Mrs. Knight as her gaze dropped very slightly down Patience's blue dress, which she was wearing again after cycling through the other two gowns. "I took the liberty to ask Lady Buchanan's modiste from London to come and take your measurements tomorrow. Would that be fitting?"

A blush hit Patience's face. Even the housekeeper knew better than she what should be done.

She smiled, her only shield against judgment. "Um. Of course. Thank you for being so considerate, Mrs. Knight."

Mrs. Knight made a little surprised jerk with her body as though something small had hit her. Was she not used to compliments? "You're quite welcome, Your Grace."

Patience grinned. "Oh, and my bed is so soft and has been exquisitely made every morning."

The only problem was, Patience couldn't sleep in it because she felt so alone and so small in that huge bed. At home, there were always noises around the house, someone talking, or laughing, singing, cleaning, floorboards creaking under someone's feet. But in Rath Hall, it was so quiet at night, she started imagining noises. Little scratches in the dark corners, distant heavy footsteps, an uneven, soft knocking against the windowpanes. She lay tense and on edge, her skin crawling despite the soft, clean sheets that smelled like lavender and soap.

But that was certainly not Mrs. Knight's fault.

Mrs. Knight cocked her head, little nets of wrinkles crinkling around her eyes. "I'm pleased to hear that."

Feeling like Mrs. Knight and she had started to turn a corner, Patience suddenly felt brave.

"The garden," she blurted out, unable to contain her dismay. "It pains me to see it so neglected. And I have these rosebushes from home…"

All traces of pleasantness disappeared from Mrs. Knight's face. "The garden is strictly forbidden, Your Grace."

"But why?"

Mrs. Knight's mouth twitched. "It's not for me to tell. You will have to ask His Grace."

"Oh," said Patience, the mention of her husband wiping the smile off her face. "Right. Will he be dining with me tonight?"

"No, I'm afraid he wishes to dine alone."

So this was how things were going to go? This whole year? They'd be living separate lives, never seeing each other, never talking to each other. What was the point? And what about her? Her rosebushes would dry out and die like the garden outside Rath Hall, and she'd keep wandering empty rooms trying to decide between a Canard à l'Orange and a Canard Farci, or whatever those dishes were, until she'd wither and die herself.

"May I ask one more thing… Do you know why he always wears that glove?" asked Patience.

Mrs. Knight's gaze softened as she cocked her head very slightly. "I'm afraid it is not up to me to say. Shall we continue?" she pressed. "I need your decision on staff changes, guest room refurbishing, and the rearrangement of the family portraits. An artist will come next month to paint you."

The next day, just as Mrs. Knight had predicted, the modiste, Mrs. Newman, arrived with her entourage and swaths of fabric and lace. And for the first time, Patience's quarters didn't feel lonely.

"Your Grace, what do you think of this silk for a ballgown?" the modiste inquired, her eyes expectant.

"Um, it's lovely," Patience murmured, touching the fabric tentatively. "I will need it in seven days… My husband's aunt has kindly invited us for a soirée in her London home. But I—I'm not sure…"

"And this decoration here, will it please you?" another assistant chimed in, holding up a pretty drawing of a gown with an elaborate cascade of silk and taffeta flowers on one shoulder.

"Perhaps…" Patience said. All she could think of wa s how much she missed her very real flowers back at Rose Cottage. They would be blooming in abundance once the weather warmed. And she would be here, looking out the window at a dead garden.

"You must choose, Your Grace. Different occasions require different garments, after all," the modiste reminded her, her tone both instructive and impatient.

"I just wish for something simple," Patience confessed, yearning for the familiarity of the dresses that Mama had laid out for her, the warmth of her family, the security of pen and paper in her hands, and the comforting snip of her gardening shears.

"Simple, Your Grace?" The modiste looked almost scandalized. "Your wardrobe must reflect your station."

Patience nodded, resignation settling over her like the heavy fabrics they paraded before her. Her thoughts wandered to the life she had left, where complexities were fewer and happiness seemed within reach. Here, in the shadow of Rath Hall's splendor, she felt more a specter than a duchess, wandering in expensive dresses and dreaming of sunlight and roses amid the gloom.