Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

Emma

T he soft light of dawn filtered through the heavy damask curtains of Emma’s chamber, bathing the room in a muted glow. She stirred reluctantly, the unfamiliar grandeur of her surroundings reminding her that this was no longer her simple life. She was now the Duchess of Wells, mistress of the great house, with all the expectations that title entailed.

Brigitte entered soon after, curtsying lightly before crossing to the wardrobe. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said with a touch of cheerfulness that Emma did not quite feel herself.

“Good morning, Brigitte,” Emma replied, sitting up and allowing her maid to help her into a morning gown of soft dove-grey muslin.

“Shall I fix your hair, Your Grace?” Brigitte asked as she deftly tied the ribbons at the back of the dress.

“Yes, thank you. Though I confess, Brigitte, I feel quite at a loss. What is expected of me now?” Emma’s voice was light, but her brows furrowed as she glanced toward the window.

Brigitte hesitated, smoothing the gown. “Well, Your Grace, I daresay His Grace would have some thoughts on the matter. Perhaps you might speak to him over breakfast?”

Emma gave a faint smile and nodded, though a knot of uncertainty tightened in her chest. As Brigitte pinned her hair, Emma changed the subject. “Have you heard any news of Ophelia?”

Brigitte’s face softened. “Jean mentioned that her parents are moving forward with finding a new husband for her.”

Emma’s hands stilled on her lap. “Poor Ophelia. I wish there were something I could do for her.”

Brigitte, ever perceptive, offered a small smile but said nothing further. When Emma was ready, she made her way to the breakfast room.

The long dining table was set with a sumptuous array of morning fare: freshly baked bread, pots of preserves, eggs, cold meats, and a silver urn of steaming coffee. The Duke was already seated, a newspaper in hand. He rose upon her entrance and moved to pull out her chair.

“Good morning, Emma,” he said, his tone polite but distant.

“Good morning,” she replied, taking her seat. He returned to his paper as she surveyed the table, her appetite nearly forgotten amidst her nerves. She poured herself a cup of tea and nibbled at a piece of bread, stealing glances at him.

After several moments of silence, Emma cleared her throat. He looked up, raising a brow in inquiry.

“Your Grace,” she began hesitantly, “I was wondering... what your expectations are for me as Duchess.”

He set the paper down, his expression puzzled. “Expectations? I have already spoken with Mrs. Havisham. She will meet with you after breakfast to discuss the estate’s operations. She will guide you in managing the household.”

“And... as for other matters? As husband and wife?” she ventured.

“Other matters?” He seemed briefly perplexed before shaking his head. “There is nothing pressing, I assure you.” With that, he returned to his paper.

Emma felt a flicker of frustration at his dismissal. Gathering her courage, she asked, “Might you accompany me to meet the tenants, then? It would be helpful to have your guidance.”

He folded the paper, setting it aside. “I have business in town today and every day this week. Mrs. Havisham can arrange for you to meet the tenants if you wish.”

Her chest tightened with irritation. “Perhaps another day?”

“I shan’t be back until late, even then,” he replied. Rising from his seat, he adjusted his coat. “By the by, do you intend to return to the orphanage of Benevolence?”

Emma blinked, startled. “I... I had thought to visit, yes. I received a letter inviting me to return.”

“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 hair neatly 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 returned to 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?