Page 47 of Duke of Emeralds
Hester retreated from the room, retracing her steps until she reached her study. There, she sat at the escritoire and pulled a sheet of pale blue stationery from the drawer. She seized her pen, dipped it, and wrote:
My dearest Leonard,
I trust you are well. How is Mama faring? Do tell her that Lushton Castle is every princess’ dream. The grounds are enchanting, the walls magical with ivy crawling up the stone, and the turrets remind me of ancient knights. I am doing quite well and trust you are the same.
Do write back soon so I know how you are.
With fondness,
Hester
She sanded the page, folded it with care, and sealed it with the Lushton crest. Nowhere did she mention the child or Thomas or the way her heart had gone cold at the sight of those blue eyes.
Hester retreated to her chambers upstairs and sat by the window overlooking the garden. She did not move for a long time, and the castle seemed to settle around her—its timbers creaking, wind rattling a shutter, the distant echo of Mrs. Smith’s instructions somewhere above stairs.
When the knock finally came, the sky beyond the windows had gone nearly black.
“Come in,” she called, voice steadier than she felt.
Miss Holt entered, curtsying before she crossed the threshold. “Mrs. Smith asks if Your Grace wishes to dine downstairs this evening or take your supper here.”
The thought of facing the dining room, with all its empty chairs and the memory of last night’s laughter, made Hester’s stomach lurch. “Here, please,” she said. “A tray will be sufficient.”
Miss Holt dipped again and vanished. The door had not even latched before Mrs. Smith herself appeared with a tray bearing tea.
She set it on the low table and drew a single chair close. “You must forgive the intrusion, Your Grace. I wanted to be sure you were… all right. I took the liberty of bringing you tea before your dinner is served.”
Hester blinked then shook her head. “I am quite well, Mrs. Smith. Thank you.”
The housekeeper looked unconvinced. “There’s something else. The girl. We dressed her in one of the laundry maid’s old frocks, but it will not do for more than a day. She arrived with nothing but the frock she had on, a single shift, a blanket, and her satchel, which contained little more than a cracked slate and two bits of dry biscuit.”
“Send word to the village modiste,” Hester said. “Have the girl’s measurements sent, so she can alter whatever is available.” She paused. “And if she is still cold, add more blankets to her room. She seemed very thin.”
“She is,” Mrs. Smith agreed. “But I daresay she ate nearly half a loaf of bread and two bowls of soup, so there is hope yet.”
“Good,” Hester said then, after a beat: “Has she spoken?”
Mrs. Smith’s mouth turned down a fraction. “Not a word. Nor a tear, nor a tantrum. She simply sits at the edge of the hearth, clutching her satchel.”
Hester nodded, more to herself than to Mrs. Smith. “Children will speak when they are ready.”
“So I believe. But it’s a strange thing, how quiet she is. Stranger still, the color of her eyes.” The housekeeper’s gaze lingered, as if waiting for Hester to confirm some secret suspicion.
Hester’s mind circled the phrase. “It is good for children to eat well,” she said at last, feeling utterly absurd as the words left her mouth.
Mrs. Smith looked as though she wished to say more but only dipped her head and retreated, leaving Hester.
When her dinner arrived, she sat and tried to eat. The roast duck congealed on her plate. The wine, which she sipped out of stubbornness, tasted like vinegar and something bitter.
Why did he leave me just before this storm broke? Did he know? Did he?—
No. It was a mere accident of timing; that was all.
She pressed her hand to her chest and tried to slow her heartbeat, as if that could keep the world from tilting any further beneath her feet.
CHAPTER 23
Hester pressed her fingers to her temple, kneading at the dull, insistent ache that had gnawed at her since the girl’s arrival. She had not slept. Not truly.
