Rosalie wasn’t sure what to expect when she arrived in the duchess’ study to begin her informal training. The housekeeper Mrs. Davies was waiting as well. She was an austere older woman with absolutely no smile lines. She wore her grey hair in rigid curls that peeked out around her face under a frilled mop cap.
“Right then,” the duchess said, getting to her feet as soon as Rosalie entered. “Let’s begin.”
The morning passed in a blur as Rosalie was shown every nook and cranny of the house. Mrs. Davies prattled off a host of maintenance and cleaning concerns, which the duchess took very seriously. They examined the lower floors—the large and small library, the music room, ball room, large and small drawing room, the grand gallery. And they went even further, marching through the new wing to examine the billiards room, a card room, an unused parlor, and three storage rooms.
“When you have a moment, return to my study and fetch the catalogs,” the duchess directed, snapping closed the door to the red storage room.
“Catalogs, Your Grace?” she said, trotting to keep up.
“You’re an artiste are you not?” the duchess replied. “There are three leather-bound volumes in my study that catalog all the paintings in Alcott Hall—dates of purchase, artists’ names, reason for commission, and any other notes a former duke or duchess wished to preserve. I want you to examine the lists and tell me if there is anything that ought to be on our walls that we are wasting in storage.”
Rosalie fought the urge to blush. It was a great honor to be asked to curate the art of a house such as Alcott. If Mrs. Davies thought the request was odd, she pointedly said nothing. Instead, she showed them into a new wing of the house Rosalie had yet to enter.
“This is the servant’s wing, miss,” Mrs. Davies said over her shoulder.
Rosalie let herself be led through a string of interconnected rooms—a gun room, boot room, sewing room, three kitchen larders, a drying room. Servants scurried about, ducking out of the way of the duchess as she swept through.
The last stop on the tour was the grand Alcott kitchen. Rosalie blinked wide to see how large the space was, how busily all the staff worked within. Cooking three meals a day for a party as large as this one must surely be an all-day affair. She took in the massive open hearth, framed on either side by ovens built into the brick. A haunch of pork turned on a spit over the hearth fire, sizzling as drops of fat dripped onto the flames. It was enough to make Rosalie’s stomach groan with hunger.
A set of two prep tables took up space in the middle of the flagstone floor, piled high with all manner of produce and meats in various stages of readiness. A trio of maids chopped and diced as they chatted. Activity ceased as the room took note of the new visitors. All eyes turned to the duchess and bowed with murmurs of ‘Your Grace’ and ‘M’lady.’ Rosalie realized there was already someone else in the room who didn’t quite belong.
Lord James stood at the end of the prep table, a beam of sunlight shining through the open window onto his almond locks. For the first time, she noticed a bit of an auburn glint in the tips of his curls. He took her in with a frown, glancing from her to his mother.
“Ah, James, dearest. Right on time,” the duchess said, sweeping forward.
They looked so out of place in this space—he in his fine blue morning coat and yellow waistcoat with a crisply tied white cravat. The duchess wore a fuchsia gown patterned with bright blue flowers, her golden curls piled fashionably on the head. All around them, the staff waited, swaying on their feet, one eye on their unfinished work, as the duchess made her inspection.
“Please don’t stop on my account,” the duchess called with a wave of her hand.
The servants slowly resumed work, keeping one eye on their mistress.
“What is she doing here?” James growled, both eyes still locked on Rosalie.
The duchess sighed, accepting his perfunctory kiss on her cheek. “Heavens James, is that any way to greet Miss Harrow? I know I raised you with better manners.”
His jaw clenched tight as his eyes flashed. Two young kitchen maids tensed with nerves at being so intimately close to this conversation. He made a shallow exhale. “Fine. Good morning, Miss Harrow. What are you doing here?”
Rosalie tried to smile. “Good morning, my lord. Your mother was taking me on a tour of the house.”
“Miss Harrow is an artist, James. I was showing her our collection. She’s agreed to peruse the art in storage to see if we need to make any rotations,” the duchess explained.
“I didn’t know we kept art in the kitchen,” he said drolly.
The duchess ignored him, turning her attention instead to an imposing man with a thick black mustache and icy blue eyes. “Ah, Monsieur Dubois, our man of the hour. Please tell me you have everything under control.”
Rosalie listened quietly for the better part of half an hour as the head cook walked them all through food preparations for the ball. She had no idea how much had to go into planning for such an event. Three additional cooks and two pastry chefs were already en route from London, and they had commandeered the use of additional kitchen space from the inn in Finchley. She didn’t envy Monsieur Dubois his busy schedule.
“Well, we shall not keep you, Monsieur,” said the duchess, accepting his offer to sample the pistachio prawlongs. “As the date gets closer, you know you have my permission to make all executive decisions. We shall settle accounts after.”
A muscle ticked in Lord James’ jaw, but he said nothing. The duchess had hinted multiple times how fastidious the lord was with accounting. Rosalie could only imagine the monthly bills for running such a grand estate. She wasn’t surprised to learn from the duchess that he struggled with sleep. Such responsibility would make Rosalie lose sleep too.
She followed them out of the kitchen back into the sunny hall.
“You have a meeting with Wiggins now, right dearest?” the duchess said, looking at her son.
“Yes, I’m late for it actually,” he replied, checking the time on his pocket watch.
“Why don’t you take Miss Harrow?”
Rosalie stilled as the lord glared at her again.
“Is Miss Harrow a groundskeeper now as well as an art curator?” he said with a raised brow.
“Really, James, this rudeness is growing tiresome,” the duchess replied. “You will take her because I asked. You could use a lady’s opinion and she could do with stretching her legs.”
“I really don’t want to intrude—” Rosalie began, her eye darting between mother and son.
“Nonsense, it will do you good. Be my eyes and ears. I can never trust James to give me a full accounting of his meetings. You’ll be invaluable, dear,” the duchess said with a pat to her hand. “Mrs. Davies, come. You and I still have much to discuss.”
The women swept away, already talking low.
Rosalie stood alone with Lord James.
He gave her a level look before shaking his head and stuffing his time piece back in the pocket of his waistcoat. “Fine. Let’s go, Miss Harrow. I’m already running late, so I intend to stride out. Do keep up.”
He pushed his way through a side door into the back garden and it was all she could do to match his longer stride as he took off in the direction of the pond.
“So, are you both still resolute in obfuscating the purpose of your visit here?” he said.
“My lord?”
“You’re meeting in her study for long hours, now you’re touring the house and discussing menus, curating our art, monitoring me while I discuss a delivery of ornamental trees with our groundskeeper. Should Mrs. Davies soon expect her notice?”
“Of course not,” Rosalie cried, now practically trotting behind him. “Mrs. Davies is indispensable. Her Grace absolutely relies on her—”
Lord James slid to a halt, eyes flashing in annoyance. “Then what the hell is going on? Why is my mother so interested in you?”
Rosalie took a breath, fighting the urge to shrink back under his angry glare. There were many possible answers to this question. Some Rosalie understood better than others. Some she was not yet at liberty to discuss. But she had to give him something. “Do you want my honest opinion?”
“Of course,” he huffed.
“To own the truth…I believe I discomfit her more than I bring her any pleasure.”
He blinked, his mask of righteous anger faltering. “Why would you discomfit her?”
“Because I look remarkably like my mother,” she replied with a shrug. “I think when she sees me, she sees Elinor again. She wants me close at hand because it feels like she’s holding on to my mother’s memory.”
The lord resumed walking toward the lake. He slowed his steps, letting her walk at his side. “And you don’t mind being treated like her pet ghost?” he said after a moment.
“Grief is different for everyone,” she replied. “My method has been harsh denial. I put everything about my mother in a fine box in my mind, trimmed with lovely blue velvet…then I shut the lid.” They walked on, following the curve of the lake as it angled towards the trees. “For your mother, I think my face keeps Elinor alive…until she looks in my eyes.”
At this, Lord James couldn’t help turning. She felt his gaze and smiled weakly, letting him see her eyes too.
“My mother’s eyes were blue,” she explained. “Each time Her Grace meets my eye, I see the flicker of recognition, the resignation. Elinor dies all over again.”
“That is…morbid,” the lord muttered.
“Perhaps a bit,” she replied. “But I don’t mind. I know you see our time together as me conniving to some nefarious end. You assume I mean you and your family harm.”
“I don’t—”
“Oh yes you do,” she said with a smile. “And I can play the villain if you’d like. Shall I pretend to twirl my mustache? Perhaps I can stuff my pelisse to give myself an unsightly hunchback. Will that better complete your image of me in your mind?”
“No,” he said, letting loose a tight laugh.
Her smile widened for a moment…then fell. “The truth is, we are just two souls adrift in a sea of memory and loss. For whatever reason, we found each other. I’m not sorry about it. I like your mother. I like how she includes me in her grand life here. It’s no secret the other guests dislike me…as you clearly do too.”
He groaned. “Miss Harrow, if I’ve given that impression…”
She laughed. “Come now, my lord. Let us not go changing our natures. I respect the man you are. You’re protective of your family and your home, as you should be. All I can do is prove to you that I am not a threat. But I think that will take some time, as your friendship is not a prize easily won…is it?”
They were quiet for a minute, walking along the lake’s edge. He paused, glancing down at her. She tried to read the complex web of emotions swirling in those forest green eyes. “I don’t want to dislike you,” he admitted quietly.
She smiled. “I am glad. Perhaps this can be the start of our friendship.”
He smiled too. But before he could reply, a rustling in the bushes had them both turning. A swan pushed its way out of the shrubbery, waddling on its way towards the lake.
“Bloody hell,” Lord James murmured. “Don’t move.” His shoulders went rigid as he slowly raised one arm before her.
“It’s just a swan,” she whispered.
“No, it’s a devil,” he replied, his body tense. “Be quiet.”
The swan honked as it took them both in, ruffling its feathers. Its beady black eyes watched them, and Rosalie felt a sudden sense of foreboding. James’ arm pressed against her chest as he slowly took a step back, drawing her with him. The swan screeched, flapping its wings as it approached. Rosalie cried out, stumbling back as James shouted, waving his arms.
The angry swan honked again, leaping off the ground in a flurry of wings.
“Fucking dead piece of shit!” James raged, kicking at the bird.
Rosalie stepped back a few more paces, watching with wide eyes as the lord battled the swan, landing one more kick as it fluttered away and splashed into the lake.
James stood at the water’s edge, chest heaving. He spun around. “I fucking hate swans!” He stormed back over to her, snatching her hand. His was cut and bleeding.
She practically had to run to keep up as he led her back towards the house, one eye constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure it wasn’t following. “Where are we going?” she asked, letting herself be dragged along.
“I’m through! Mother insisted on having swans on the property, but they’re a goddamn nightmare. Territorial and aggressive. That cob is a devil. He’s attacked me twice.”
Rosalie fought the urge to laugh. Apparently, Lord James was fending off constant threat from all corners—man and beast. No wonder he struggled to sleep at night.
He held tight to her hand as he charged into the kitchen. “Burrow! Bring me a shot gun!”
Rosalie was giggling now, one hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. She prayed he wouldn’t turn around and see her laughing, not when they’d made a little progress at last.
“What happened, m’lord?” one of the maids cried.
“Dubois,” James barked, taking the shotgun the hall boy offered him. “Change of plans. The second course for tonight’s dinner is going to be swan.”
