Chapter 3

3

W ithout the Breaker’s presence, dinner was a pleasant—if somewhat chilly—affair, and Grace welcomed Roland to share her bed the entire night. “I will freeze otherwise,” she had insisted, with an exaggerated shiver for emphasis.

He was more than delighted to be granted such an invitation for any reason, though he could sympathise with that sentiment. It was cold. They had arrived at Alnwick only barely ahead of the first plummeting temperatures that had likely made an icy, half-frozen hard muck of the roads. Frost still rimmed the glass panes, even though the sun had been up for about two hours now. Grace had firmly planted herself in the seat nearest the large hearth at the breakfast table, cupping her hands around the delicate porcelain of her teacup for warmth, as close as she could without appearing gauche.

But she didn’t make any other complaint. She focused on looking serene and worthy of a countess, though he was sure her thoughts were anything but.

Thorne had already come and gone, and he and Grace had lingered at the table, hoping the duke would eventually make an appearance. Finally, as the clock struck a quarter to eleven, Roland’s patience snapped, and he turned to his grandfather’s butler. “Tell me, Withers, is His Grace planning to grace us with his presence today, or shall we continue our stay as if he were a ghost haunting his own halls?”

The butler’s face was heavily lined with conflict. "His Grace has been indisposed, my lord. I am not privy to his precise plans for the day, but I shall inform him of your inquiry at once."

Withers departed to handle the errand—in relief, Roland thought—and Roland tapped his fingers briefly in irritation on the table before stifling the gesture. Beside him, Grace lay a hand on his wrist and then took the morning paper from him.

That broke the tension. Roland shot her a glance, flicking his eyes towards the footman who remained in the room.

“Let them talk,” Grace murmured softly, reading the current affairs.

Roland smirked to himself, knowing that despite the fact that they had agreed to be on their best behaviour, it was too much to expect that she would be able to hide all of her more willful tendencies.

Just as Roland was prepared to assume that they had wasted their morning entirely, he heard raised voices on the upper level, growing louder as they approached the stair. Roland was amused how quickly Grace quickly returned his paper once she recognized the bass rumble of the duke.

“—not a child to be moved around by you and locked out of my things! I asked for privacy, not this constant interference. How am I supposed to manage anything when you are meddling and moving things about?”

“Your Grace,” Withers said beseechingly, and then the voices dropped too low to hear.

Roland didn’t dare look in Grace’s direction as he waited, focused on the door. What the devil was going on at Alnwick?

He had little chance to wonder anything else as the duke carelessly threw the door open in a fit of pique, and only the footman’s hasty interference kept it from crashing against the wall. Both of them rose from their seats to acknowledge his rank. Leaning heavily on the head of his cane, the Duke of Northumberland levelled a hard look at Roland and then a longer, more considered one at Grace.

Or rather, her waistline.

“I see the two of you did not die on the roads after all,” was his terse greeting. “You certainly left it long enough. Unless you were having… female troubles, in which case I suppose I must forgive it.”

Grace had heard far worse things from the crotchety old duke’s mouth, so she did not bother gasping in indignation, but her cheeks reddened. “My womanly impositions are not fit for discussion at the breakfast table—or any table, for that matter," she replied just as bluntly.

The Breaker’s left eyebrow lifted slightly at her slightly cheeky reply, but he only nodded once, jerkily. “If you lack the refinement, at least you have a spine to benefit the role you have to play. And, I hope, uncommon womanly intelligence in the bargain to learn quickly. You are mistress of the household now, and there are many social obligations to attend to that cannot be put off just because you are unready.”

Grace’s lips parted slightly in surprise, but the duke turned back towards Roland, ignoring her. “You should accept that as my heir, there are things you cannot leave too late to attend to properly, Lord Percy. Travel plans in the north would be only one of those… things.”

Roland decided then and there that discretion might be the better part of valour, else it was bound to be a very long winter. “You are correct, Your Grace. Since I spent so many years farther south, I was somewhat remiss in recalling how quickly it got dark this far north at this time of year. It slowed our progress more than planned, but I did keep you informed of our progress.”

His grandfather grunted, and then turned back to Grace, now letting his irritation show on his face. “Perhaps I was being too subtle. I need to begin instructing my grandson to make up for this lost time, and you should go see the housekeeper. Now .”

—---------

Grace stifled her instinct to do the exact opposite of what the Breaker ordered. She wanted to spend as little time in his presence as possible, so there was naught to be gained by acting the contrarian. Outside in the hallway, she realised she had no idea where to find the housekeeper. More importantly, the staff would not welcome her wandering around their domain. She turned to the nearest footman and asked him to see if Mrs Yardley could spare her some time.

“Mrs Yardley has made herself available,” he confirmed. “If my lady would care to wait in the family sitting room, I will let her know you are ready to see her.”

“That will be fine. But before you rush off, would you mind showing me the way to the sitting room? I am still learning my way around.”

The footman took the lead, guiding Grace through the corridors and up the stairs. Grace followed blindly, focusing her attention on what would come next. Roland had been able to offer only limited advice about how to interact with Mrs Yardley. She had joined the Duke’s household sometime while he was away, giving her enough experience at running the house, but leaving him with no knowledge of what Grace could expect. This meeting was most certainly a test, and Grace did not mean to fail.

However, Grace also knew that she and Roland would not be departing anytime soon. It would be the height of foolishness for Grace to make Mrs Yardley into an enemy. Therefore, it was incumbent that Grace find a safe middle ground until she could get a firm handle on where Mrs Yardley stood.

The footman opened a door on the first floor and welcomed Grace inside. The family sitting room boasted a southern exposure that maximised the available sunlight. It was small, but richly furnished with armchairs and sofas upholstered in floral silk damask. A brocade tapestry depicting a pastoral scene hung on the interior wall, helping to hold the heat from the fireplace in the room.

After the footman closed the door behind himself, Grace allowed her curiosity full rein. This was her room to use as she saw fit. The old duke might even allow her to make changes to it if she asked. She was, after all, the lady of the house. However, the longer she studied the space, the more beauty she found in it.

The legs of the armchairs had been carved into lion’s paws, bringing to mind her childhood dreams of far-off lands. She traced the floral scrolls carved into a side table, one perfectly sized to be a writing desk. Across the room, the gilded edges and lacquered finish of a large cabinet called for her to explore. Inside, she found paper, ink and quills along with sealing wax and a stamp. Miniature volumes of poetry bound in fine leather filled another shelf. Though they were not to Grace’s taste, she decided she would read them anyway. Perhaps she would find some sweet nothing to whisper in her husband’s ear. The next cabinet proved to be half empty, offering space to store books more to Grace’s liking.

She was checking her appearance in the ornate overmantle mirror hanging above the fireplace when a sharp rap on the door announced Mrs Yardley’s arrival.

“Come in,” Grace called.

“Good morning, your ladyship,” Mrs Yardley said as she came into the room. She dropped into a shallow curtsey, as befitted Grace’s station as future duchess, but made no friendly overtures. Her face was carved into a mask of polite indifference. Whether she would turn out to be an eventual friend or foe remained unanswered.

“Please, Mrs Yardley, have a seat. We have much to discuss.” Grace indicated a pair of carved wooden chairs at a table next to the fireplace. She took the nearest and settled into it, folding her hands in her lap as her mother had taught her.

Mrs Yardley took the opposite chair and sank onto the edge of it. She kept her back straight, not daring to relax in front of her superior, as she unfurled a roll of papers and laid them on the table. “I have brought along a list of the household inventory for your review. You will see that all is in order. Cook has also sent along the menus for the week. If you have any feedback, I will pass it along, but I cannot promise we can make changes at such short notice, particularly given the state of the roads.”

Once again, Grace felt pulled in two directions. Her mother would have never stood for a servant dictating any limitations on her control over the household. But Grace was not her mother, and she had no interest in arguing over which dish to serve for the meat course at dinner. Likely, they had prepared the menu based on the duke’s preferences, and any changes would only incur his wrath.

Grace chose discretion over valour, turning the conversation toward the events the duke had referenced. “I understand that there are social events in the diary. Might we begin with those? I am sure they must be more pressing than me seeing how many candlesticks Alnwick boasts.”

Mrs Yardley nodded her agreement. She shuffled through her notes until she located the right page. “Given the season, we have several annual events planned for the coming weeks. Tomorrow, we will decorate the castle. There are dinner parties with the local gentry, the Christmas and New Year’s balls, the village fair this week?—”

“Tell me about the fair,” Grace said. “Are we to host here in the castle?”

Mrs Yardley cast Grace an askance glance. “No, my lady. His Grace does not want all and sundry traipsing through the hallways. It is in the village hall. The ladies of the village put the event together. It is more of a charity drive than a festival. I have prepared a set of notes on it here.”

Grace accepted the proffered piece of paper and skimmed over the housekeeper’s neat penmanship. Each letter was clear and carefully formed, but lacked the fanciful flourishes of an upper class woman. Mrs Yardley had helpfully included a timeline for the event, a list of women and men assisting with the preparations, and the donation of the ducal estate.

“We are to provide the food and drink?” Grace asked to make sure she understood.

“Yes, my lady. Cook is already preparing pots of stew. We have ordered extra bread from the local bakery and cheese from the local dairy.”

The choices made sense—the stews would be hearty and easily made in large quantities. By sourcing the breads and cheeses elsewhere, the estate would support local businesses. Grace could leave well enough alone, but what if this was the test? Nothing in Mrs Yardley’s comportment suggested she wanted Grace to be further involved. However, if Grace remained mum, was she ceding ground she would later regret?

“I would like to make an addition to our contribution.”

Grace’s words hung in the air. Mrs Yardley froze in her seat, almost as though she was bracing for whatever Grace would say next.

“We shall bring apple pies, or any orchard fruit we have in abundance. I am certain the people of Alnwick will appreciate a sweet treat on such cold days, would they not, Mrs Yardley?”

“I— that is, yes, my lady. But pies?” Mrs Yardley’s cheeks flushed. She ventured, “Might a pudding do instead?”

In truth, Grace did not have a preference at all, but now that she had set out on this path, she meant to see it through to the end. If the staff failed to execute her small request, she would know exactly where they stood with regard to her wishes.

“My family always brings pies to the village events. Our cook has quite the reputation, and they go down like a treat. The cook may make hand pies if they are easier to prepare and transport, but I insist they have a fruit filling. Is there any problem with my request?”

Mrs Yardley’s eyes darted left and right, but she shook her head. “I will pass along the orders, my lady. In fact, I should go now, so Cook has sufficient time to get organised.”

As she watched Mrs Yardley gather her papers and exit the sitting room, Grace could not help but take satisfaction in how their first meeting had gone. So busy was she being proud of herself, she failed to note Mrs Yardley’s tense shoulders and furrowed brow.