Page 50 of Six Nights to Marry a Marquess

Did Theodore perhaps harbor a desire for children and had not mentioned it to her? Maybe he had shared this longing with the housekeeper and butler, trusting them with his deeper wishes.After all, he did place a significant amount of trust in them, enough that he might have confided such a personal matter.

This thought brought a resurgence of suspicion, wrapping around her heart with an uncomfortable squeeze.

And she realized once more with a heavy heart what little she knew about the man she’d vowed to share the rest of her life with, for better or for worse. The depth of their emotional distance weighed on her, a somber reminder of the uncertainties in her marriage.

A knock on the door pulled her abruptly from her contemplations. Lifting her gaze, she saw Mrs. Davis entering the room, her hands carefully balancing a tray with a pot of tea and a single cup.

"Chamomile tea, My Lady. For your nerves," the housekeeper announced as she set the tray down on a nearby table. Her tone was kind, her intent clearly to soothe.

Agnes was not particularly fond of chamomile tea, but the gentle steam rising from the cup seemed inviting enough under her current duress. She accepted the cup with a muted thank you, hoping it might ease her mind.

Indeed, the warm, mild brew did more than soothe; it lulled her into a restful sleep, from which she did not awaken until the sun was well into its afternoon arc. When she opened her eyes, she felt significantly better—lighter, as if the tea had washed away some of her burdens.

Evans, noticing her stirring, suggested getting some food, but Agnes declined. Her stomach was still in knots, no appetite to speak of. Instead, she decided to dress and leave her chamber, determined not to let herself wallow in bed any longer.

Feeling somewhat refreshed and dressed in a light day gown, Agnes stepped into the hallway, her steps more assured than they had been in days. As she passed an end table, a flash of paper caught her eye. It was a gossip sheet, folded carelessly and left perhaps by another member of the household.

With a mix of curiosity and dread, she picked it up and scanned the contents. Indignation flared within her as she read the bold headlines and speculations about her life—proof that society and its prying eyes were relentless.

But amidst the swirl of emotions, a thought struck her, anchored by the memory of a pleasant conversation and walk with Theodore the previous night. Despite everything, she realized they still maintained a good friendship.

She would use that to her advantage, she decided. With resolve stiffening her spine, Agnes recognized that she had to make this marriage work, if not to silence the gossiping tongues of society, then for her own peace of mind.

But deep down, she knew that wasn't her only reason. A startling thought crossed her mind—perhaps she did want more from her relationship with Theodore. The idea was both alarming and strangely exhilarating.

Agnes gave her head a little shake, as if to dislodge the thought, but immediately regretted the action as a sharp throbbing pain shot through her temples.

Resolved to understand the intricacies of her new life better, Agnes knew she had to delve deeper into the mysteries of this household, and her husband's life in general. She was determined to break down the walls Theodore erected whenever she probed too deeply. Slowly but surely, she would draw him out, she resolved.

With a new sense of purpose, Agnes went to her newly claimed office and penned an overdue letter to her family. She painted a picture of happiness in her words, claiming she was enjoying her time immensely and eagerly anticipating the visit of the boys.

Next, she decided to continue her exploration of the manor. After wandering through several hallways, she arrived at what appeared to be the portrait gallery. The room was quiet except for the soft shuffling of Mrs. Davis, who was diligently dusting some paintings.

Agnes was surprised to find the housekeeper at such a job. She had grown up with the understanding that maids handled such tasks. Perhaps they were occupied with other tasks and only the housekeeper could do this now.

“My Lady,” Mrs. Davis turned when she heard Agnes's entrance, a cloth still in hand. She inquired about Agnes’s well-being with genuine concern, to which Agnes replied, “Oh, the tea helped alot. And after the nap, I feel a lot better now, thank you, Mrs. Davis.”

As they exchanged these pleasantries, Agnes's gaze was drawn to the portrait the housekeeper was dusting. It depicted a very beautiful woman who held herself with such regal poise that one might mistake her for royalty. Yet, despite the woman’s commanding presence, there was a forlorn and distant look in her eyes. Something about the woman, especially those distinctive green eyes, seemed eerily familiar to Agnes.

“That is the late Marchioness,” the housekeeper explained, noticing Agnes’s fixed stare. “The Marquess’s mother,” she added, offering a bit more context.

With this information, Agnes understood the familiarity she felt. Though Theodore did not closely resemble his mother in most features, the intense green of his eyes—a striking mirror to those in the portrait—was unmistakable.

“What was she like?” Agnes asked, her voice laced with curiosity, hoping to glean more information from the housekeeper than her husband had ever shared.

Mrs. Davis paused, her expression unreadable. Just when Agnes began to suspect she would face another reticent barrier, the housekeeper finally spoke. “The late Marchioness was the strongest woman I’ve ever known,” she declared with a reverence that piqued Agnes’s interest.

Agnes’s brows furrowed in surprise; this description was unexpected and oddly specific. “Her children must miss her…” she ventured further, trying to draw out more personal reflections.

“They hardly remember her, those little ones,” Mrs. Davis responded, her tone tinged with a hint of sadness.

“Oh but I’m sure the Marquess…” Agnes began, eager to discuss Theodore’s memories of his mother, but Mrs. Davis was already stepping away from the painting.

“This right here is the second Marquess of Gillingham,” the housekeeper interjected, guiding Agnes towards a group of portraits depicting a much older generation. It seemed a deliberate change of subject, and Agnes’s interest in ancestral tales waned in light of her more immediate curiosities.

Despite her disinterest, Agnes nodded and listened as Mrs. Davis shared details about the figures in the aged canvases. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the housekeeper had purposefully steered them away from the late Marchioness’s portrait to dodge further inquiries.

She was being almost as evasive as Theodore, Agnes mused to herself, a knot of frustration forming in her stomach.

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