Chapter 15

The following day, France awoke early, determined to occupy herself with more of her sewing. She'd made it a point to be on time for breakfast, even arriving in the dining room before Anthony in hopes of making him reveal more of that pleasant demeanor that she knew he was hiding. He was polite enough, as usual, but still closed off and distant, unwilling to engage in her efforts at conversation.

But the disappointment was not going to be the end of her good mood. With the day fair and Frances not yet resigned to accepting the solitude, she sought out a seat in the shade of a tree that overhung the terrace. The book she'd brought down from the library was firmly in hand, and she tried her best to follow the story. However, her attention was constantly drawn to the thoughts that refused to be kept at bay.

To keep to the comfort of the shade, Frances had positioned herself with her back to the gardens, facing the house. From this view, she could see that the back of the structure was just as lovely as the front, an enormous wall of majestic stone blocks and windows that gleamed in the mid-morning sun. As she looked up at the house, she began to wonder about the portion that Anthony had told her was not to be disturbed.

Suddenly, a brief encounter from the day before returned to her mind.

Frances had been walking on the first floor, looking for Sara to get her help with some of her sewing. As she turned the corner of one hallway, she spied Miss O'Reilly going about her work. Her arms were laden with folded piles of fresh linens and bedclothes.

"Miss O'Reilly! Here, let me help you with all of those," Frances had offered, darting forward to take some of the load from her.

"It's quite all right, Your Grace. I can manage it myself," the nurse had replied, her tone firm but polite.

"Don't be silly, I don't mind at all. We wouldn't want you to stumble if you cannot see where you're going," she had said, taking several of the articles from the top of her pile.

Frances had arranged the articles in her arms and smiled at Miss O'Reilly, but the nurse had not returned her cheerful demeanor. With a pinched expression, she'd begun walking down the hall once more, leaving Frances to follow after her.

It hadn't taken long before Frances realized where they'd been going: to the heavy door leading to the part of the house that was locked away. As she'd watched, Miss O'Reilly had shifted her items to one arm and lifted a small key that hung from her chatelaine. With a dull, thudding echo, the weighty bolt had turned in the lock and the door had fallen open on its hinges. The nurse had quickly stopped it with her foot and turned to face Frances.

"Thank you for your help," she'd said in a hollow voice. "I shall take the items from here."

"I really don't mind helping, you know," Frances had protested weakly, but Miss O'Reilly had been unmoving. She'd only stared, unspeaking, until Frances had begun to feel guilty for intruding.

"There you are, Your Grace," Mrs. Barrett had suddenly called out, emerging from some room nearby. "The stairs in that part of the house are not sturdy. We cannot have you falling! I'll help Miss O'Reilly."

The housekeeper had swooped in and taken the linens from Frances, then nodded to the nurse to proceed. No sooner had the door to the stairs closed behind them, leaving Frances to stand there like a useless dolt, than the lock had sounded once more from the other side.

It was certainly an odd encounter, Frances thought, now looking up at the house and trying to determine which of the windows before her might belong to that locked away portion. From the little she'd seen of the house, most of the room had two to four windows, though ones that took up the corner as her rooms did had six. As she stared up at the house, she was struck by the realization that she had yet to find the staircase that would take her to the very top windows.

The library is the same dimension as my bedchamber and sitting room, she thought, her mind sorting out the calculation. If these windows below mine are the library, then it stands to reason that the windows above mine would perhaps be a room of the same size.

It was unthinkable that there would be an entire portion of the house with expensive glass windows and no way to see out of them. There had to be some way to reach the top floor that she hadn't yet discovered. The only solution she could think of at the time was the staircase behind the locked door.

But that makes no sense, Frances wondered, frowning and closing her book. An entire third of the house with only one staircase to reach it? And a narrow, unsteady one at that?

Her mind went to work with possibilities. Perhaps some long ago relative had portioned off that part of the house for a dowager duchess rather than sending her off to the country estate. In his kindness, perhaps both his mother and his wife's widowed mother had shared the immense space. On the other hand, Frances had heard of some families appointing their servants' quarters just beneath the attic, especially in larger homes where the downstairs rooms wouldn't suffice.

But Anthony had told her that part of the house was private. As his mother had passed and there were clearly no other servants about, what could possibly be so unique about that place as to keep it a secret?

She was determined to find out.

Frances tucked her book under her arm and returned inside. Almost at once, she felt the pinpricks of guilt that accompany anyone who is sneaking about, trying not to be seen. Her first stop was to the library, placing the book she'd taken out back in its proper place on one of the endless shelves. After deciding that was a casual enough gesture, Frances peered out into the hall and began walking towards the staircase where Miss O'Reilly had gone before.

But there's a lock on the door, Frances remembered as she tried to walk confidently but quietly in that direction. Perhaps she'll have forgotten, or she only locked it before because I was standing there.

Frances crept nearer and nearer, glancing over her shoulder once to ensure no one else was in the hallway. As she passed every room, she peeked inside to ensure no one was within who might step out and see her. After the third room she passed, she stopped, questioning her motives. If there was a need to be so quiet and unseen, then that told her she was doing something that she knew to be wrong.

It was enough to make her pause in her crusade to uncover the mystery.

This is not the way to win Anthony's trust and make him open up to me, Frances thought, staring down the hallway. The forbidden door was only a stone's throw away, practically within reach.

No. I mustn't.

Frances turned around, determined to avoid such a temptation, only to find Anthony standing directly behind her. She cried out in fright at the surprise, but his placid features remained as aloof as ever.

"Anthony. You startled me. Where did you even come from?" she demanded, recounting all the rooms she'd looked in.

"I was just over there," he answered plainly. "What are you doing?"

"I… well, that is, I just left the library and thought to explore the house some more," she stammered, knowing it was a brazen lie but not wishing to make him doubt her.

"I see," he said, then a weighty pause created such tension between them Frances thought to make some excuse and take her leave. Before she could think of anything to say, he looked directly at her and asked, "Would you like for me to show you the gardens now?"

Frances instantly met his eye. She could see such effort on his face, in his posture, in the way his fingers moved faintly at his sides, all of it telling her that this was so completely uncomfortable for him. Sympathy flooded her veins, and though she could not understand what it was that made him so distant, she could see how obvious it was that he was trying to overcome it.

"I would love that," she answered honestly, smiling at him.

Anthony gave her the briefest flash of a smile in return, then he looked away shyly. It was almost heartbreaking to see a man of such imposing height and devastatingly handsome features still seem to be at a loss around people, especially the one person on earth who could never turn her back on him.

In the eyes of the Crown and the Lord, I am practically his property, yet he seems to fear that I will cause him harm, Frances thought, a veil of sadness coming over her. She pushed it aside and vowed that she would show him he was safe with her.

Frances took Anthony's elbow, resting her touch there gently as he looked down at her hand. He seemed to be examining it somehow, as though trying to understand why she would take hold of him this way. Soon enough, he bent his arm and provided her with a safe stronghold to rest her hand, and together they headed towards the terrace doors where she'd just come in.

"I hope you've enjoyed your explorations so far," he said, as though actually trying to begin a conversation.

"I have indeed. Vickers showed me around a little, and Mrs. Barrett comes running to help me whenever I get lost, of course."

Anthony actually laughed softly, a faint sound that was so quick Frances wasn't sure she'd even heard him correctly. It was thrilling to know that she could say things that amused him. "I would love to know more about the house, though."

"What do you mean?" he asked, his words a little too sharp.

"I only mean that history," Frances clarified quickly, noting his unusual reaction to such an innocent statement.

"Oh. Of course," Anthony answered. "It was built under the direction of the third Duke of Preston, Thomas Bradburge. He had no sons, and his title and estates went to his nephew, William Hughes. The title has remained with William's direct descendants ever since."

"For twelve more generations? That is quite an accomplishment," Frances replied, but Anthony only nodded.

I see, she thought with a faint and brief flash of disappointment. It turns out that someone is in need of an heir so as to not dissolved his family's legacy. I would have liked for him to be more forthcoming about his reasons for marriage, but which gentleman doesn't think only of his legacy when choosing a wife?

"Our family has long kept this house as the London residence, though there is the grand estate to the west where our family hails from, and then a modest property on the seaside in the north for escaping the heat of summer."

"How interesting. What are those places like?" she asked politely, glad to hear him speak so much.

"I don't know. I've never visited them."

"Ever?" she asked, stopping to look at him. "In all your life, you've never ventured to these other homes?"

"No. I've kept to London all this time."

"But don't you wish to see them?"

"I don't think I would care for it. They're very far away, and all of my belongings are here," he said as they continued walking.

Frances laughed at his joke, but when she glanced over at him once more, she saw that he was not making a jest. She cleared her throat and kept her reply to herself, content to simply return to talk of the house.

When they reached the terrace, Anthony led Frances across the open marble portion that overlooked the grounds below. The gardens, clearly once majestic and a source of pride to the house, were sadly overgrown and in desperate need of care. The remnants of a small fishpond ringed with stones contained murky green water that hinted at something lurking beneath the surface. Grass had grown up through the pebbles that formed the winding path, and the scraggly shrubs contained the last determined blooms that simply refused to die.

"I fear it is not very enticing," Anthony finally said, staring down at the property.

"On the contrary, I think it's rather inviting for the right sort of person. However, it must be someone who will be able to hear it calling out for help and comes to its rescue," Frances said playfully.

Anthony laughed for the second time, and Frances was stunned by how it did her heart good to hear it. She shivered with happiness at how he seemed to be able to speak more openly, to show more concern for her feelings.

Mrs. Barrett has cautioned me that this is difficult for him, so I shall not be ungrateful for whatever small measures he may take!she thought as they continued to look out over the forlorn property.

"Perhaps one of the servants you intend to employ knows something about gardening," Frances suggested hopefully. "I still don't know the names of those who've been dismissed, but if any of them have any skill with the grounds, that might be a good place to begin."

"That's very smart," Anthony answered quickly, and Frances was glad to hear that he didn't seem surprised by it.

Frances turned and approached one of the two sets of wide stone steps that led down to the gardens, wondering if Anthony would choose to follow. She trailed her hand along the balustrade as she went, purposely taking her time and looking around. The sun felt warm on her back, but the whisper of Anthony's gaze following her positively burned.

When Frances reached the lowest step, she stopped to look around. From high up, the entire garden seemed to be longing for repair, but down here where the plants and stones were near, there was an air of promise to the place that did wonders for her spirits. Up close, every flowering bush and waving frond of too-tall grass appeared almost whimsical rather than derelict.

"I don't know that I've spent much time out here," Anthony confessed as he approached. "Now I'm beginning to remember why."

Frances turned around, astonished.

"Your Grace, did you just make a joke?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"I have done it from time to time. You have just never heard me. I rather think you might not have been paying attention."

"I've known you for a matter of weeks. I cannot recall a single time in that mere fortnight when I would have heard you utter such a thing."

Frances gave him a wry grin, knowing that this was another of his attempts at humor. Still, she had to keep this banter going if there was any chance that he wouldn't retreat like a scared hare.

They began to walk throughout the garden, the neglected pebbles turning beneath Frances' thin slippers. From time to time, her footing rolled out from beneath her, prompting Anthony to reach for her protectively. The feel of his grasp on her arm, even as nothing more than an instinctive reaction, filled her with hope. She looked at him and saw something akin to peace on his face, as though he was precisely where he wished to be.

"Frances," he began, leaving her breathless when he did not say anything further.

"Yes?" she finally prompted him, praying that whatever spell had been cast at that moment wasn't broken.

"I'm… very happy you're here," Anthony finally said, though the words seemed to be a struggle.

"I'm happy to be here as well," she assured him softly.

"Are you? Truly?"

Frances winced, wondering what could be behind such a question. Don't think too much about it, she told herself with a surge of caution.

"Yes, Anthony. I am."

Frances fought to make her words sound as sincere as her heart knew them to be, if only to convince Anthony that it was true. Everything about his stance, his posture, his eyes told her that he wanted to believe it, even if he wasn't certain yet.

Somehow, I will prove it to you, she promised silently.

Frances wasn't sure if she'd imagined it, but Anthony seemed to have come to stand closer to her now. His towering stance seemed to hover over her as though leaning down, his eyes watching hers carefully. She dared not look away, not when she was so certain that he intended to kiss her at long last.

Behind them, someone cleared their throat. Anthony stood up straight and looked around, and Frances turned to see who'd come outside. Shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight, she saw Vickers standing at the bottom step, looking very uncomfortable.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but the Duchess has visitors," he said, looking away.

"Visitors?" Frances asked, wondering who could be so untoward as to barge in on a newly married couple only days after they'd taken up residence.

"Yes, Your Grace. Lady Agnes Young, Lady Emma Lovell. They said to tell you that it's terribly important, a ‘matter of life and death,' to be precise. They are waiting in the drawing room. Shall I inform them you'll be along shortly? Or should they return another time?"

"No, it's all right, Vickers. I'm coming. Thank you for telling me," Frances said in a rush. She started to hurry inside but she stopped and returned to Anthony. With a half-hearted smile that was now dampened by worry, she said, "Thank you for showing me the gardens. I had a lovely time with you."

As she hurried ahead of the butler, Frances' mind was reeling with tormented emotions. She'd longed for Anthony to open up to her, to be himself and talk to her. But now that he had taken those first tenuous steps towards that end, she didn't know what to feel. Was this what it meant to be in love with someone? To relentlessly attempt to sort out one's emotions?

She couldn't think about that now. If anyone would have thought that a new bride did not receive guests so soon after her wedding, it should have been Agnes. That could only mean that something awful had happened.

"Aggie! Emma! What's wrong?" Frances cried out as she rushed into the drawing room to find her closest friends seated on a sofa together, weeping into their handkerchiefs.

"It's Juliet," Agnes began, her eyes red from prolonged bouts of tears.

"Juliet? What happened? Tell me at once!"

Emma sniffled and dabbed at her eyes, then composed herself enough to say, "She's to marry Lord Rowland in three weeks' time."