Page 28 of His Mad Duchess
She drew in a breath, adjusted her spectacles, and launched on, “There is also the matter of the stillroom stores; the preserves have run low, and the apothecary bill is yet unsettled. The laundress begs for new soap.” She tapped one finger sharply against the ledger. “And the head groom insists two saddles cannot be mended again. The glasshouse requires attention before the frost sets in, and the tenants’ accounts await review for the quarter.”
Her voice wavered only slightly as she added, “Oh, and the linen inventories. Lady Grantham herself always inspected them before the winter.”
She paused only when Margaret’s eyes lifted from the ledger, wide with astonishment, her lips parted in disbelief. The housekeeper faltered, color rising faintly. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I have gone on too quickly. You need not concern yourself with all at once?—”
Margaret let out a small, breathless laugh. “You’ve given me a year’s worth of tasks in a single breath. Only… tell me, which is most urgent?”
Mrs. Fowler adjusted her cap with brisk dignity, seizing on safe ground. “The butcher, Your Grace. If Cook is to keep tomorrow’s dinner, she must have her word today.”
Margaret closed her hand lightly over the ledger’s corner. “I should like that. And… after the kitchens, perhaps the gardens? I should know what grows here at least.”
Mrs. Fowler allowed herself the smallest hint of warmth. “Very good, Your Grace.”
Margaret paused at the turn of the corridor, her hands resting lightly on the rail as Jenny hovered just behind her shoulder. Mrs. Fowler waited a pace ahead, keys at her waist whispering against her skirts each time she moved.
Margaret’s slippers sank silently on the thick carpets. At the foot of the stairs, servants straightened their backs as she passed, a bow here, a curtsey there, murmurs ofYour Gracethat brushed her ears like ghostly hands brushing her.
And when she stepped into the warm bustle of the kitchens below stairs, Cook’s white cap bobbing among hanging copper pots, Margaret lifted her chin and asked for the butcher’s bill.
When the butcher’s bill was signed, and Cook’s quick nod bobbed, Mrs. Fowler gathered the ledgers and gestured toward the long passage that led back to the service stairs.
“If it please you, Your Grace,” she said, tone gentle but firm, “the gardens are best seen in the morning. Mr. Phipps, our head gardener, is pruning near the west lawn.”
Margaret inclined her head, smoothing her gloves against her palm. They passed through the servants’ narrow walls, painted a faded cream that bore the careful polish of good keeping. Along the corridor, housemaids bobbed curt curtseys as she passed. A footman straightened so sharply he nearly knocked his shoulder against the doorframe.
Margaret returned each small greeting with a nod, careful not to let her mouth tremble. But her eyes caught theirs, and too often, they slipped away. A girl carrying a stack of folded linens ducked her head so low, her cap nearly slipped off.
A pair of kitchen maids stepped aside so fast they pressed themselves against the wall rather than brush her sleeve. One of the young footmen—John, she thought Mrs. Fowler had called him—stiffened so quickly, his tray nearly tipped, the gleam of polished silver catching sunlight in a jittering flash.
The way they looked at her unsettled her. It wasn’t disrespect. Not quite. But the look in their eyes, the faint dart of glances down at her boots, told her all she needed to know. They knew. Or thought they did. That she was the mad one, the cursed wife. The scandal wearing the Ravenscourt silks.
Margaret lifted her chin, letting her steps echo sharply on the worn flagstones. If they watched her, let them see a woman who would not shrink from her own name.
A maid carrying fresh hearth-brushes stopped dead in her tracks, eyes darting to the floor.
Margaret let her steps slow, her glance resting on the maid, a girl no older than Cecily, freckles sharp against pale skin, knuckles white around the broom handle.
“Your Grace,” the girl breathed, voice catching as she dipped a curtsy so deep it nearly unbalanced her.
Mrs. Fowler started to move them along, but Margaret lifted a hand, stopping the older woman mid-step.
“What’s your name?” Margaret asked, her voice as soft as the corridor’s decorum.
The maid’s eyes flickered up, wide as saucers. “Anne, Your Grace.”
“Anne,” Margaret repeated, letting the name sit warm on her tongue. “Is this your first position?”
Anne nodded, a quick dart of her chin. “Y-yes, Your Grace. First proper house, I mean.”
Margaret felt Jenny shift behind her, felt Mrs. Fowler watching too, weighing her.
“Well then, Anne,” Margaret said gently, “mind your broom near the grand stair—the polish there is treacherous. And when you’ve finished this corridor, do have Cook set aside a proper tea. You’ve done well.”
Anne’s eyes went rounder still, and for a heartbeat, she looked like she might spill over with relief. “Yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.”
Margaret tipped her chin once, the faintest nod of command she’d seen Aunt Agnes wield a thousand times over. Then shewalked on, Mrs. Fowler stepping smartly beside her, Jenny a half-pace behind.
When they got to the far door, Mrs. Fowler paused, glancing back. “Shall I fetch your shawl, Your Grace? The breeze can be sharp near the west lawn.”
