Chapter One

 

The carriage rattled over the final stretch of gravel drive, and Margaret Hartwell pressed her gloved hand against the window to steady herself.

Blackmere Hall rose before her through February mist—grey stone, severe lines, windows like empty eyes staring across grounds winter had stripped bare. It was precisely the sort of house a dying duchess would summon a paid companion to. Imposing. Cold. Indifferent to human comfort.

Margaret had seen worse, and she had lived in worse, during the lean years after her father’s death, when positions were scarce and dignity a luxury she could not afford.

But something about Blackmere Hall made her spine stiffen with instinctive wariness.

The carriage stopped, and a footman opened the door with mechanical efficiency.

“Miss Hartwell. Welcome to Blackmere Hall.”

Margaret descended into the wind that bit through her wool travelling cloak. The entrance loomed before her—massive oak doors, stone steps worn smooth by generations, an iron knocker shaped like a snarling wolf.

She had learned long ago that survival required making herself small, necessary, and utterly unremarkable. Imposing houses like this did not reward boldness from women in her position.

But as she climbed those stone steps, Margaret felt a flicker of something unexpected. Not hope; she had abandoned hope years ago. But perhaps… curiosity about whether this place might allow her to be something more than merely invisible.

She dismissed the thought immediately because it was both foolish and dangerous.

The door opened before she could knock. A butler stood in the entrance; elderly, impeccably dressed, his face carved from the same stone as the house itself.

“Miss Hartwell. We have been expecting you. I am Hendricks, butler to His Grace the Duke of Blackmere. Please, come in.”

Margaret stepped into an entrance hall that seemed designed to dwarf human presence. Polished floors, a soaring ceiling, a staircase that curved upward into shadows and cold. Not just cold temperature, though the hall was barely warmer than the February wind outside, but the kind of cold that came from years of careful emptiness, as though warmth itself had been deliberately banished.

She had inhabited many houses over the course of her six years as a companion, and she had learned to read them quickly, which were merely formal, which were actively hostile, and which might offer some small measure of comfort between the demands of service.

Blackmere Hall felt like a monument to silence, beautiful, expensive, but utterly devoid of anything resembling life.

“The dowager duchess is expecting you,” Hendricks said, his voice echoing in the vast space. “But His Grace requests a brief audience first. If you could follow me.”

Margaret’s stomach tightened. Meeting the employer before the duchess was irregular. Usually, companions were hired, installed, and effectively invisible to anyone beyond the lady they served.

A duke requesting an audience suggested scrutiny. Assessment. The kind of attention Margaret had learned to avoid.

“Of course,” she said, keeping her voice level. “I am at His Grace’s convenience.”

Hendricks led her down a corridor lined with portraits; generations of stern-faced aristocrats staring down with expressions ranging from disapproval to outright contempt. Margaret kept her gaze forward, her posture perfect, her face carefully neutral.

They stopped before a heavy door. Hendricks knocked once, then entered without waiting for a response.

“Miss Margaret Hartwell, Your Grace.”

Margaret stepped into a study that matched the rest of the house; all dark wood and leather, books lining the walls, a massive desk positioned to dominate the room. And behind that desk, rising with the mechanical precision of a man performing an unwelcome duty, stood the Duke of Blackmere.

He was younger than Margaret had expected. Perhaps thirty-five, though his bearing suggested someone decades older. He was tall, broad-shouldered and handsome in the severe way of classical sculpture—all sharp angles and rigid control. His dark hair was expertly cut, his cravat tied with mathematical precision, his coat fitted so perfectly it might have been armour.

But it was his eyes that arrested her. Grey, cold and absolutely empty of anything resembling warmth.

This was a man who had perfected the art of feeling nothing.

“Miss Hartwell.” His voice matched his appearance—controlled, flat, devoid of inflection. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Margaret curtseyed with practised precision. “Your Grace. I am honoured to serve.”

“Please, sit.”

She sat in the chair he indicated, keeping her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, her expression composed. Every gesture was calculated to project competence without presumption.

The Duke remained standing, and he was studying her with the kind of assessment usually reserved for livestock at market.

“You come highly recommended,” he said finally. “Mrs Davidson spoke well of your service to her late mother.”

“Mrs Davidson was very kind.”

“She also indicated you have experience managing… difficult temperaments.”

Margaret chose her words carefully. “I have found that ladies nearing the end of life often have very specific ideas about how they wish to be treated. I am comfortable accommodating those preferences.”

“My aunt is not merely particular. She is imperious, demanding, and thoroughly convinced of her own infallibility.” The duke’s voice held no affection. Just a statement of fact. “She has dismissed three companions in as many months. I need someone who will not flee at the first sign of difficulty.”

“I do not flee easily, Your Grace.”

“No?” His eyebrow rose fractionally. “What is it you do instead, Miss Hartwell?”

The question caught her off guard. Most employers never asked what she did. They simply expected her to do it quietly and without complaint.

“I adapt, Your Grace. I observe what is needed and provide it with as little disruption as possible.”

“You make yourself invisible.”

Margaret’s breath caught. The observation was too accurate. Too close to truths she preferred not to examine.

“I make myself useful,” she corrected quietly. “There is a difference.”

Something flickered in the duke’s eyes. Not warmth. But perhaps recognition of a fellow practitioner of careful control.

“Indeed.” He moved to stand beside his desk, one hand resting on its polished surface. “Miss Hartwell, I will be direct. My aunt is dying. The physicians give her perhaps three months. She refuses to acknowledge this reality and insists on maintaining her household routines with absolute precision. Your task is to facilitate those routines while ensuring she does not exhaust herself into an earlier grave.”

“I understand, Your Grace.”

“Do you? Because the last companion believed ‘facilitating routines’ meant indulging every whim. My aunt attempted to attend a village assembly despite being unable to walk more than ten steps without assistance. She collapsed and spent three days bedridden in consequence.” His voice hardened. “I will not have my aunt’s final months made more painful by well-intentioned incompetence.”

Margaret felt a spark of something dangerous flare in her chest. Not quite anger. But close.

“Your Grace, if I may; a dying woman who wishes to attend assemblies is not being foolish. She is asserting what little control remains to her. Denying that control out of concern for her health may prolong her life by days or weeks. But it will make those days miserable. Is that truly what you wish?”

The silence that followed was absolute.

The duke stared at her with an expression Margaret could not read. Shock, perhaps. Or fury at being contradicted.

Margaret braced herself for dismissal.

Instead, the duke’s mouth curved. Not quite a smile. But something that suggested he had not expected resistance and found it… interesting.

“You are either very brave or very foolish, Miss Hartwell.”

“I am honest, Your Grace. I assumed that was preferable to deference.”

“Most women in your position would not make that assumption.”

“Then perhaps that is why they failed.” Margaret kept her voice level despite her racing heart. “Your Grace, you hired me because I do not flee when facing a difficulty. But I also will not be effective if I am terrified of speaking plainly. If you require a companion who will simply nod and obey without question, I am not suited to the position. I will withdraw now and save us both the inconvenience.”

She made to rise, but the Duke raised one hand.

“Sit, Miss Hartwell.”

She sat and waited.

The duke studied her for a long moment. “You are ruder than I expected.”

“I am honest. You are confusing the two.”

For the first time, something that might have been genuine surprise crossed the duke’s face. Then it was gone, replaced by his habitual careful neutrality.

“Very well. Honesty, it is. But Miss Hartwell, understand this. My aunt is the last family member I possess. I will not have her final months made more difficult by poor judgment, yours or hers. If you believe she is endangering herself, you will inform me immediately. Not after the fact. Not when the damage is done. Immediately. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Your Grace.”

“Good.” He moved to a sideboard and poured two glasses of sherry without asking if she wanted any. He handed one to her with the air of a man performing a social ritual he barely tolerated. “To your employment, Miss Hartwell. May it be less turbulent than your interview.”

Margaret accepted the glass though she rarely drank. “To successful service, Your Grace.”

They drank in silence. The sherry was excellent—smooth, expensive, wasted on an afternoon interview that felt more like an interrogation.

The duke set down his glass with precise care. “Hendricks will show you to my aunt’s chambers. She is expecting you. Fair warning…. She will test you. Thoroughly. If you survive the first day, we will discuss your duties in more detail.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Margaret rose, curtseyed and turned toward the door.

“Miss Hartwell.”

She looked back.

The duke stood very still, backlit by the window, his expression unreadable. “I may be cold, but I am not cruel. If you find the position untenable, you may leave with a month’s salary and a reference. I will not trap you here out of spite.”

The statement should have been reassuring. Instead, it felt like a warning. Or perhaps a confession.

“I appreciate your candour, Your Grace.”

She left before he could say anything else that might unsettle her further.

Hendricks waited in the corridor. “This way, Miss Hartwell. Her Grace’s chambers are on the second floor.”

Margaret followed, her mind churning with the strange interview.

The Duke was exactly what she had expected, cold, controlling, and determined to manage every detail. But there had been moments, brief, barely perceptible, where something else had shown through. Grief, perhaps. Or simply exhaustion from carrying authority he did not want.

The thought was dangerous. Margaret had learned long ago not to see her employers as human. Seeing them as human meant caring. Caring meant vulnerability. And vulnerability was a luxury that women in her position could not afford.

They reached the second floor. Hendricks led her down another corridor—this one slightly warmer, with windows letting in weak February light.

“Her Grace’s chambers,” Hendricks said, stopping before an ornate door. “She is awake and expecting you. Ring if you require anything.”

He withdrew. Margaret stood alone in the corridor and drew a careful breath.

This was the moment that would determine everything. First impressions with dying duchesses were invariably crucial.

She knocked gently.

“Enter.”

Margaret opened the door and stepped into chambers that were a stark contrast to the rest of the house. These chambers were warm and bright. Cluttered with books and correspondence and evidence of an active mind refusing to acknowledge bodily decline.

And in the centre of it all, propped up in an elaborate four-poster bed, sat the Dowager Duchess of Blackmere.

She was tiny. Illness had ravaged whatever physical presence she once possessed. But her eyes, sharp, intelligent, missing nothing, pinned Margaret with the intensity of someone who had spent a lifetime commanding rooms through sheer force of will.

“So, you are the latest sacrifice.”

Margaret curtseyed. “Miss Margaret Hartwell, Your Grace. I am honoured to serve.”

“Honoured. What nonsense.” The dowager gestured impatiently. “Come closer. I will not shout across the room.”

Margaret approached the bed but stood at a respectful distance.

The dowager studied her with unnerving thoroughness. “You are older than the others. How old?”

“Two and thirty, Your Grace.”

“Unmarried?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Why?”

The blunt question should not have surprised Margaret. Dying women rarely bothered with subtlety.

“I had no prospects and no dowry, Your Grace. Spinsterhood was the logical outcome.”

“You say that without self-pity. That is refreshing.” The dowager shifted in her bed with visible discomfort. “Most women your age who discuss their unmarried state do so with either bitterness or false cheer. You simply state a fact. I appreciate that.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Do not thank me yet. You have not heard my requirements.” The Dowager reached for a glass of water on her bedside table. Margaret moved instinctively to help, but the Dowager waved her off. “I am not dead yet. When I require assistance, I will ask for it. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly, Your Grace.”

“Good. Now. My requirements. I rise at eight. I have breakfast at nine. I read until eleven. I receive correspondence until one. I take lunch at half past one. I rest, under protest, until three. I walk the gardens when the weather permits. I dine at seven. And every evening, I am supposed to dine with my nephew.”

Margaret’s breath caught. “With His Grace? Every evening?”

“Every evening, because it is written into his father’s will, a requirement for maintaining the estate.  His father was convinced that forcing Nathaniel to dine with family would prevent him from becoming a complete hermit.” The Dowager’s mouth twisted. “It has not worked, though. He never appears to dine with me, but the requirement stands. And you, Miss Hartwell, will ensure I am presentable and transported to the dining room each evening regardless of how I feel or if my nephew appears or not.”

“Your Grace, if you are unwell…”

“If I am dying, I will die with dignity and routine intact. Not languishing in bed like some pathetic old woman.” The Dowager’s voice was sharp. “I will not spend my final months as a burden to be managed. I will maintain my household. My schedule. My dignity. Your task is to facilitate that. Not to coddle me into an early grave out of misguided compassion.”

The statement was so similar to what the duke had said, almost word-for-word in some places, that Margaret almost smiled.

They were family indeed. Both convinced that control was the only acceptable response to circumstances beyond their power.

“I understand, Your Grace.”

“Do you? I wonder.” The dowager studied her again. “Miss Hartwell, why did you accept this position? A dying woman is not an attractive prospect for long-term employment.”

Margaret chose honesty. “Because I need the salary, Your Grace. And because three months of difficult employment is preferable to unemployment of any duration.”

“Mercenary. I like that.” The dowager nodded approvingly. “You will do, I think. Better than the weeping girl who lasted four days. Better than the simpering miss who told me I was being very brave about my illness. Brave. As if illness were a choice requiring courage rather than an inevitability requiring management.”

Despite herself, Margaret felt the corner of her mouth twitch. “You do not care for sympathy, Your Grace.”

“I do not care for dishonesty disguised as sympathy. If you pity me, keep it to yourself. If you admire my fortitude, likewise. I require competence. Efficiency. And someone who will not dissolve into tears when I die.” The dowager paused. “Can you provide that, Miss Hartwell?”

“I can, Your Grace.”

“Good. Then we will suit admirably.” The dowager waved toward a door on the far side of the room. “Those are your chambers. Adjoining mine. You will hear me if I require assistance in the night. Your salary is sixty pounds per annum, paid quarterly. Room and board provided. Use of the library permitted. Questions?”

Margaret had a hundred questions. But she asked only the one that mattered. “What does Your Grace require of me beyond the daily schedule you described?”

“Honesty, competence and the willingness to tell my nephew when he is being autocratic and overbearing.” The Dowager smiled; the first genuine warmth Margaret had seen. “Nathaniel needs someone who will not simply defer to his authority. Someone who will challenge him when a challenge is warranted. I suspect you are that person, Miss Hartwell. Am I correct?”

Margaret thought of the interview. Of telling the Duke he was confusing honesty with rudeness. Of nearly walking out when he demanded unthinking obedience.

“I am capable of speaking plainly when circumstances require it, Your Grace.”

“Excellent. Then we have an agreement. Welcome to Blackmere Hall, Miss Hartwell. Try not to let my nephew’s coldness freeze you entirely. There is a man somewhere beneath all that ice. Though I confess, I have not seen evidence of him in five years.”

Five years. Since the duke’s wife died, Margaret remembered from the sparse information she had been given before accepting the position.

“I will do my best, Your Grace.”

“I am certain you will. Now, leave me. I am tired. We will discuss the evening routine later.” The dowager waved her toward the door. “Oh, and Miss Hartwell—dinner is formal. You will need to change into something appropriate. I assume you brought an evening dress?”

“I did, Your Grace.”

“Good. Seven o’clock. Do not be late. Nathaniel despises tardiness.”

Margaret curtseyed and withdrew to her new chambers.

They were smaller than the Dowager’s but comfortably appointed. A bed, a writing desk, a wardrobe and a window overlooking the gardens; bare and grey in February cold, but doubtless lovely in better seasons.

Margaret unpacked her trunk methodically. She hung her few dresses, arranged her books on the small shelf and placed her writing materials on the desk.

Then she sat in the chair by the window and tried to process what she had agreed to.

Three months. Perhaps less. Caring for a dying duchess who refused to acknowledge her mortality. Navigating the demands of a duke who controlled everything around him with rigid precision.

It should have felt oppressive. Impossible.

Instead, Margaret felt something she had not experienced in years. Not quite curiosity. Not quite hope.

But perhaps the faint, dangerous possibility that this place, this cold, controlled, carefully empty house, might demand more from her than mere invisibility.

Whether that was an opportunity or a threat, she could not yet determine.

Outside, the wind rattled the windows. Inside, Blackmere Hall maintained its careful silence.

And Margaret sat in her new chambers and wondered whether survival here would require making herself smaller than ever before.

Or whether, impossibly, dangerously, it might require her to claim something more.

The question remained unanswered as the afternoon faded toward evening and the time for dinner approached.

Chapter Two

 

He will not come down for dinner.

Margaret stood in the blue room, her trunk unpacked, her few belongings arranged with methodical care, and knew with absolute certainty that the Duke of Blackmere would not join them for the evening meal.

Men like him did not alter their habits for the arrival of a paid companion.

A knock at the door.

“Come in.”

Mrs Albright entered—the housekeeper Margaret had met briefly upon her arrival. A beautiful woman in her fifties, with kind eyes and the sort of quiet competence that came from decades of managing a great house.

“Miss Hartwell, I’ve come to escort you to the small dining room. Her Grace dines at seven.”

“Thank you, Mrs Albright.” Margaret smoothed her skirts—the dark blue muslin that was her best dress, though it had seen better years. “Will His Grace be joining us?”

Mrs Albright’s expression flickered. “His Grace takes his meals in his study, miss. He has done so for some time.”

“I see.”

“Her Grace has… expressed her displeasure at the arrangement.” Mrs Albright’s tone was carefully neutral. “But His Grace is not easily swayed once his mind is set.”

Margaret followed the housekeeper into the corridor. Blackmere Hall was even more imposing by lamplight; all shadows and gleaming wood, portraits of stern ancestors watching from the walls. The silence was profound. No music. No conversation drifting from open doors. Just the soft sound of their footsteps on thick carpet.

“How large is the household staff, Mrs Albright?”

“Thirty-two in total, miss. Though His Grace keeps only essential staff in the main house. The rest work at the estate—stables, gardens, and home farm. His Grace is particular about… privacy.”

Privacy, Margaret thought. Or isolation.

They descended the main staircase and turned down a corridor toward the back of the house. The small dining room, when they reached it, was far less imposing than Margaret had expected; a modest chamber with a table that could seat eight at most. The Dowager sat at one end, looking small and brittle in the candlelight.

“Miss Hartwell. Sit.”

Margaret took the indicated seat. A footman appeared, the same young, nervous one from earlier, and began serving soup.

“Mrs Albright,” the Dowager said. “Has my nephew eaten?”

“I believe His Grace requested a tray in his study, Your Grace.”

“Of course he did.” The Dowager’s mouth thinned. “You may inform His Grace that I require his presence in the library tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. I have estate matters to discuss.”

Mrs Albright hesitated. “Your Grace, His Grace has a meeting with Mr Pembroke at that hour.”

“Then he will reschedule it. Ten o’clock, Mrs Albright. In the library. Tell him I shall not be discouraged by any excuses.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The housekeeper withdrew. Margaret kept her eyes on her soup, feeling the weight of the dowager’s attention.

“You are wondering,” the Dowager said, “why I persist in forcing my nephew to endure my company when he so clearly wishes to be left alone.”

Margaret looked up. “It is not my place to wonder, Your Grace.”

“Nonsense. You are wondering. You simply have the good sense not to say so.” The Dowager sipped her wine. “I persist because someone must. If I do not drag him from that study, he will spend the rest of his life hiding among ledgers and tenant reports.”

“Perhaps,” Margaret said carefully, “His Grace finds comfort in work.”

“Work is not comfort, Miss Hartwell. It is avoidance.” The dowager set down her glass with deliberate precision. “But you will see for yourself tomorrow. I intend for you to be present when I speak with him.”

Margaret’s pulse quickened. “Your Grace, surely a companion need not be involved in estate matters.”

“You are not there for estate matters. You are there to observe.” The Dowager’s eyes gleamed. “I wish to see how my nephew behaves when confronted with a witness he cannot dismiss.”

Margaret said nothing. There was nothing to say.

They finished the meal in silence. The Dowager ate little, pushing food around her plate with visible distaste. Margaret ate because it was practical—she had learned long ago not to waste food when it was offered.

Afterwards, Margaret read aloud from Fordyce until the Dowager’s eyes grew heavy and her breathing slowed. Mrs Albright appeared to help Her Grace to bed, and Margaret was dismissed with a curt nod.

She started walking towards her chambers, thinking that the Duke probably sat alone in his study. Working. Avoiding. Grieving.

She entered her room, closed the door, and did not let herself imagine what it must be like to carry such weight in absolute silence.

 

***

 

The library was a cathedral of books.

Margaret stood just inside the doorway at five minutes to ten and felt her breath catch despite herself. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined every wall, filled with leather-bound volumes organized with meticulous precision. Tall windows let in the morning light, illuminating dust motes that drifted like snow through still air. A massive desk sat near the windows, its surface clear except for a single inkwell and a stack of papers arranged at perfect right angles.

“Impressive, is it not?”

Margaret turned. The dowager stood behind her, leaning heavily on Mrs Albright’s arm.

“It is beautiful, Your Grace.”

“It was Catherine’s favourite room.” The dowager moved past Margaret, settling into a chair near the fireplace with visible effort. “She spent hours here. Reading and sketching. My nephew has not set foot in it since her death.”

Margaret looked around the room with new eyes. There were no cobwebs, no dust on the shelves. Someone had been keeping it maintained despite the duke’s absence.

“Then why meet here, Your Grace?”

“Because it is time.” The dowager’s voice was firm. “He cannot avoid every room that holds a memory. He will run out of rooms soon enough.”

Suddenly, there were footsteps in the corridor. Measured. Deliberate.

Margaret’s hands tightened on the book she still carried from breakfast; the Dowager had asked her to fetch a volume on estate management from the shelf.

The door opened.

The Duke of Blackmere stood in the doorway, and Margaret saw immediately that he was displeased. His face was a mask of cold control, but his jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid.

“You wished to see me, Aunt.”

“I did. Come in. Sit.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“I was not asking.” The dowager’s voice cracked like a whip. “Sit down, Blackmere. This is not a battlefield, and I am not your adversary.”

For a long moment, he did not move. Then, with deliberate slowness, he crossed the room and took a chair opposite his aunt. He did not look at Margaret. His gaze remained fixed on the dowager with icy precision.

“I have fifteen minutes before my meeting with Pembroke. Say what you must.”

“You will make time for what I require, Nathaniel. You are a duke, not a clerk.”

His jaw tightened further, but he said nothing.

The dowager leaned back in her chair. “I have reviewed the estate accounts. Your steward sent them to me last week.”

“Pembroke had no authority to do so without my permission.”

“I am still the Dowager Duchess of this estate. I have every right to review its management.” The dowager’s eyes narrowed. “You have been selling off investments. Three in the past six months. Why?”

The duke’s expression did not change. “The investments were underperforming. I reallocated the capital to more productive ventures.”

“You reallocated the capital to the tenants’ relief fund. And to repairs on cottages that were perfectly serviceable.”

“The cottages required modernisation.”

“The cottages required minor repairs at best. You spent three times what was necessary.” The dowager leaned forward. “You are pouring money into this estate as though you can somehow earn your way back to…What? Redemption? Absolution?”

“I am ensuring the estate remains profitable, and the tenants are well cared for. That is my duty.”

“Your duty,” the dowager said softly, “is to live. Not to work yourself into an early grave out of misguided guilt.”

The duke stood abruptly. “If you summoned me here to lecture me on how I manage my grief, you are wasting both our time.”

“Sit down.”

“I have a meeting…”

“Sit down.”

Margaret stood very still near the bookshelves, wishing she could disappear into the walls. The tension in the room was suffocating.

The Duke remained standing, his hands clenched at his sides. “I will not be spoken to like a child, Aunt. Not even by you.”

“Then stop behaving like one.” The Dowager’s voice was merciless. “You hide in your study. You avoid every room that holds a memory. You refuse to dine with anyone, speak to anyone, or see anyone beyond the absolute minimum required by duty. That is not grief, Nathaniel. That is cowardice.”

“Enough.”

The word was quiet. Deadly quiet.

The Duke turned toward the door.

“If you leave this room,” the Dowager said, “I will instruct Pembroke to lock the estate accounts and refuse you access until you agree to dine with me. And Miss Hartwell. Tonight.”

The duke stopped. His back was to them, his shoulders rigid beneath his dark coat.

“You would not dare.”

“I am dying, Nathaniel. I have very little left to lose. And I will not spend my final months watching you bury yourself alive.”

Margaret’s heart pounded. She should not be witnessing this. It was too private. Too raw.

The duke turned slowly. His face was white, his eyes blazing with something that was not quite anger but something deeper and more dangerous.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to sit at a table with other human beings and remember how to behave like one.”

“I will not.”

“You will. Seven o’clock. The small dining room. Miss Hartwell, you and me.” The dowager’s voice softened slightly. “It is one meal, Nathaniel. Surely you can endure one meal.”

The duke’s gaze finally shifted to Margaret. She met it steadily, though her pulse was racing.

He studied her for a long moment—taking in her plain dress, her calm expression, and her unflinching posture.

“Miss Hartwell.” His voice was cold. Controlled. “You have my sympathy. My aunt is using you as a weapon. I apologise for the inconvenience.”

Margaret kept her voice level. “I am employed to serve Her Grace, Your Grace. If she requires my presence at dinner, I will be there.”

“How obliging.” His tone suggested anything but approval. “Tell me, Miss Hartwell, do you always allow yourself to be used so freely?”

“I allow myself to do my duty, Your Grace. As I imagine you do yours.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, perhaps. Or irritation.

The dowager made a sound of satisfaction. “Seven o’clock, Nathaniel. Do not be late.”

The duke looked at his aunt for a long moment. Then he inclined his head; a gesture so slight it barely qualified as an acknowledgement.

“As you wish, Aunt. But do not expect civility beyond what courtesy demands.”

“I expect nothing, Nathaniel. I have learned not to.”

He turned and walked to the door. But before he left, he paused and looked back at Margaret.

“Miss Hartwell.”

“Your Grace?”

“My aunt is ill. She requires rest and calm. I trust you will not allow her to exhaust herself with these… theatrics.”

It was a dismissal. An accusation. An attempt to make Margaret complicit in controlling the dowager’s behaviour.

Margaret met his gaze directly. “I am a companion, Your Grace. Not a gaoler. Her Grace is in full possession of her faculties. I will not presume to dictate her actions.”

The duke’s eyes narrowed. “How principled.”

“I prefer honest, Your Grace.”

For a brief moment, something shifted in his expression. Then the mask returned; cold, impenetrable, absolute.

“Seven o’clock, then. I will endeavour not to offend your honesty with my presence.”

He left, and the door closed behind him with careful, controlled precision.

Margaret stood very still, her heart pounding, her hands trembling slightly. She had just contradicted a Duke. Twice.

The Dowager’s laughter broke the silence, and it was soft, delighted, utterly shameless.

“Oh, Miss Hartwell. You are magnificent.”

Margaret turned. “Your Grace, I apologise if I overstepped…”

“Overstepped? You did exactly as you ought.” The Dowager’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “He expected you to defer. To apologise. To make yourself small and invisible. Instead, you stood your ground.”

“I merely spoke the truth, Your Grace.”

“Precisely. And my nephew has not heard the truth from anyone in five years.” The dowager leaned back in her chair, looking more pleased than Margaret had yet seen her. “This will be very interesting indeed.”

Margaret set down the book she had been clutching. Her hands were still trembling.

“Your Grace, I fear I have made an enemy of His Grace.”

“Nonsense. You have made an impression. There is a difference.” The dowager smiled. “An enemy would be easy for him to dismiss. An impression… that will linger.”

Margaret was not reassured.

 

***

 

The rest of the day passed in careful routine. Margaret read to the Dowager, wrote letters at her dictation, and helped her walk slowly through the gardens despite the chill in the air. The dowager tired easily, her breathing laboured, her strength clearly failing.

But her mind remained sharp as ever.

“What will you wear tonight?” She asked as they returned to the house.

“My blue muslin, Your Grace. It is the only dinner dress I possess.”

“Hmm. We must remedy that. A companion in my household should not appear shabby.”

“I am not shabby, Your Grace. Merely practical.”

“Practical is another word for dull, Miss Hartwell. But no matter. My nephew will not notice, regardless.” The dowager paused to catch her breath on the stairs. “He notices very little these days beyond ledgers and duty.”

Margaret helped her up the remaining steps, noting how light she felt, how fragile. Three to six months, the physicians had said. Perhaps less.

She pushed the thought away and focused on the immediate: getting the Dowager settled, ensuring she rested, and preparing for dinner.

The meal she was already dreading.

 

***

 

At a quarter to seven, Margaret stood before the mirror in her room and assessed herself with ruthless honesty.

The blue muslin was clean but out of fashion. Her hair was pinned severely back from her face. She wore her mother’s pearl earrings—the only jewellery she owned. She looked exactly what she was: a woman of two-and-thirty, plain-faced and plainly dressed, who had long since stopped hoping for anything beyond respectability and employment.

A knock at the door.

“Miss Hartwell? Her Grace is ready.”

Margaret took a breath, squared her shoulders, and went to collect her employer.

The dowager was dressed in black silk, her hair arranged with more care than usual, a shawl draped around her thin shoulders. She looked formidable despite her illness; a duchess to her bones.

“You look frightened, Miss Hartwell.”

“I am not frightened, Your Grace.”

“Liar. But I appreciate the effort.” The dowager took Margaret’s arm. “Come. Let us see if my nephew remembers how to use a fork.”

They descended to the small dining room. The table was set for three; the Dowager at the head, two places arranged on either side. Candles flickered in silver holders, and a fire burned in the grate.

And at precisely seven o’clock, the Duke of Blackmere arrived.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, his face utterly impassive. He had changed for dinner. His coat was dark blue superfine, his cravat tied with perfect precision. He looked every inch the aristocrat.

And absolutely miserable.

“Aunt.” He inclined his head. “Miss Hartwell.”

Margaret curtseyed. The Dowager gestured to a chair.

“Sit, Nathaniel. Let us attempt civilisation.”

He sat. A footman appeared, not the nervous young one from before, but an older man with steady hands, and began serving the first course.

The silence was excruciating.

Margaret kept her eyes on her plate, the Dowager sipped her wine, and the Duke ate mechanically, his jaw tight, his movements precise and controlled.

Finally, the dowager spoke.

“Miss Hartwell was admiring the library this morning, Nathaniel. I told her it was Catherine’s favourite room.”

The duke’s fork stilled. “Did you?”

“She found it beautiful. As indeed it is.”

The duke set down his fork with careful precision. “If you brought me here to discuss my late wife, Aunt, you are wasting your time.”

“I brought you here to dine. The fact that we are conversing is merely incidental.”

“We are not conversing. You are baiting me.”

“Am I?” The dowager smiled. “How perceptive.”

The duke pushed back his chair. “I have fulfilled your requirement. I have sat at your table. I will not remain to be examined like a specimen on display.”

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Nathaniel!”

“No.” His voice was quiet but absolute. “I have given you one meal. Do not ask for more.”

He turned to leave but stopped.

Hendricks stood in the doorway, his face carefully neutral.

“Your Grace, forgive the interruption. Mr Pembroke has sent an urgent message. There has been an incident at the home farm. He requires your immediate presence.”

The Duke’s entire posture changed; it shifted from barely controlled fury to cold, focused attention.

“What manner of incident?”

“A fire, Your Grace. In the main barn. Mr Pembroke believes it is contained, but he requests you come at once.”

The duke was already moving. “Have my horse saddled. Immediately.”

“Already done, Your Grace.”

He strode past Hendricks without a backward glance. Then stopped and turned.

His eyes found Margaret’s.

“Miss Hartwell. My aunt is not well. See that she retires early. Do not allow her to overexert herself.”

It was not a request. It was a command.

Margaret rose. “Yes, Your Grace.”

He left. The sound of his boots echoed down the corridor and then faded.

The dowager sighed. “Well. That was brief.”

Margaret looked at the old woman. “Are you well, Your Grace?”

“No. But I will survive the evening.” The Dowager’s mouth twisted. “Unlike the dinner. That, I fear, is quite dead.”

Margaret helped her from the dining room, up the stairs, to her chambers. The Dowager leaned heavily on her arm, her breathing laboured.

“Your Grace, shall I send for the physician?”

“No. I merely need rest.” The dowager sank into a chair by the fire. “Ring for my maid. And then you may go.”

“I should stay…”

“You should go to bed, Miss Hartwell. Tomorrow will be trying enough.”

Margaret hesitated. Then curtseyed. “Good night, Your Grace.”

She left the Dowager with her maid and walked slowly back toward her own room.

But as she passed the great windows overlooking the drive, she stopped.

A figure on horseback was riding hard toward the home farm, his coat streaming behind him, his posture tense with urgency.

The Duke of Blackmere. Racing toward disaster with the same cold control he brought to everything else.

Margaret watched until he disappeared into the darkness.

Then she went to her room, undressed, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

She wondered if he would return tonight.

And then wondered why it mattered.

However, she knew, with sudden, terrible certainty, that she was already in far deeper than she had intended.

 

***

 

She did not sleep.

Half an hour after midnight, she heard voices and movement in the courtyard below. 

She rose and went to the window.

The Duke had returned. Even in the darkness, she could see the exhaustion in his posture as he dismounted. Soot streaked his coat, and his hair was dishevelled.

Hendricks appeared with a lamp. They spoke briefly, and then the Duke turned toward the house and looked up.

Directly at Margaret’s window.

She froze. He could not possibly see her in the darkness. The candle in her room was out. She was invisible.

But he looked. For a long moment, he simply looked.

Then he turned and walked into the house.

Margaret stepped back from the window, her heart pounding.

He saw you.

No. Impossible. It was dark. He was exhausted. He had been looking at the house, not at her window specifically.

But as she climbed back into bed, she could not shake the feeling that somewhere in this vast, cold house, the Duke of Blackmere was standing at a window of his own.

Wondering.

Chapter Three

 

“The fire was deliberate.”

Margaret stood in the doorway of the breakfast room in the morning and heard the Duke of Blackmere speak for the first time since his return the previous night.

He sat at the head of the table, a plate of untouched food before him, his steward, Mr Pembroke, standing at rigid attention beside his chair. The duke’s coat still bore faint traces of soot at the cuffs. His face was drawn with exhaustion, but his voice was steady, cold and controlled.

Pembroke shifted his weight. “Your Grace, we cannot be certain, but…”

“I am certain.” The duke’s fingers drummed once against the table. “The fire began in three separate locations simultaneously. That does not occur naturally.”

Margaret stepped back, meaning to retreat before she was noticed.

“Miss Hartwell.”

She froze.

The Duke did not turn. “You may enter. This does not concern you, but my aunt will demand a full account regardless. You might as well hear it directly.”

Margaret moved into the room and took a seat at the far end of the table, as distant from the Duke as the space would allow. A footman appeared with tea, and she accepted it with a small nod.

“Continue, Pembroke.”

The steward cleared his throat. “The damage is contained to the main barn, Your Grace. The structure itself is salvageable, though it will require substantial repair. Three horses were injured, thankfully, none fatally. The hay stores are a total loss.”

“And the origin?”

“As Your Grace suspected—three points of ignition. North wall, south wall, and near the hay loft.” Pembroke’s voice tightened. “The constable believes it was set intentionally.”

“By whom?”

“That remains unclear, Your Grace. None of the tenants has reported seeing strangers on the property. The labourers who work the home farm were all accounted for at the time the fire began.”

The Duke was silent for a long moment.

Margaret sipped her tea and tried to appear invisible.

“Increase the watch on the estate,” the duke said finally. “Two men at night. Four during harvest. Ensure they are armed.”

“Armed, Your Grace?”

“Someone attempted to destroy my property and endanger my livestock. I will not wait for them to succeed.” The Duke’s voice was utterly flat. “Speak with the tenants. Quietly. Determine if anyone has grievances they have not brought to my attention. And send word to the magistrate. I want this investigated properly.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“That will be all, Pembroke.”

The steward bowed and withdrew. The duke remained seated, staring at his untouched breakfast with the same cold focus he might give to a ledger.

Margaret set down her teacup carefully while the silence stretched.

“You did not sleep,” the duke said.

Margaret’s breath caught. “Your Grace?”

“You were at your window when I returned last night. Shortly after midnight.” He still did not look at her. “I assume my aunt’s condition worsened. Or were you simply unable to sleep in a strange house?”

Margaret chose her words with care. “I heard horses in the courtyard, Your Grace. I wished to ensure all was well.”

“How thoughtful.”

His tone suggested anything but approval.

He pushed his plate away and stood. “My aunt will wish to know the details of the fire. You may inform her that the damage is contained and there were no fatalities. She need not concern herself further.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He moved toward the door, but he stopped and turned.

For the first time since entering the room, he looked directly at her.

“Miss Hartwell. A question, if I may?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Why are you here?”

Margaret blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are two-and-thirty. Well-spoken and clearly educated. You could seek a position as a governess in a respectable household. The pay would be better. The work less taxing.” His eyes were cold, assessing. “Yet you choose to accompany dying women in remote estates. Why?”

Margaret met his gaze steadily. “Governesses raise children, Your Grace. I have no talent for managing the young.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the truth.”

“But not the whole truth.”

Margaret’s hands tightened in her lap. “Governess positions are offered to women of youth and charm, Your Grace. I possess neither. Companion work is what remains.”

Something flickered in his expression. Not sympathy but something harder.

“I see.”

He left without another word.

Margaret sat alone in the breakfast room and tried not to feel the sting of her own honesty.

 

***

 

The dowager was seated in her private sitting room when Margaret arrived, her breakfast tray untouched beside her chair.

“You look pale, Miss Hartwell. Did my nephew frighten you at breakfast?”

Margaret set down the book she had brought. “He informed me of the fire, Your Grace. I was not frightened. Merely concerned.”

“Concerned for the estate? Or for him?”

“Both seemed appropriate under the circumstances.”

The dowager’s mouth curved. “How diplomatic. Sit. Tell me everything.”

Margaret recounted the conversation as accurately as she could; the three points of ignition, the increased watch, the magistrate’s involvement. The dowager listened with sharp attention, her fingers drumming against the arm of her chair.

“Deliberate,” she murmured when Margaret finished. “How interesting.”

“Your Grace?”

“My nephew has managed this estate with meticulous care for five years. He has improved tenant conditions, modernised equipment, and increased yields. He is well-liked among the labourers.” The Dowager’s eyes narrowed. “For someone to attack him so directly suggests either a personal grievance or something more calculated.”

“Surely the constable will determine the cause.”

“The constable is a fool who spends more time drinking than investigating.” The dowager leaned back in her chair. “No. Nathaniel will handle this himself. As he handles everything. Alone.”

Margaret said nothing.

The dowager studied her for a long moment. “You stood your ground with him yesterday in the library. And again this morning, I suspect.”

“I merely answered his questions, Your Grace.”

“Honestly. Without flattery or evasion.” The dowager’s smile was thin. “He is not accustomed to that. Not anymore.”

Then there was a knock at the door.

“Enter.”

Hendricks appeared, his face carefully neutral. “Your Grace, His Grace requests your presence in his study. At your earliest convenience.”

The dowager’s eyebrows rose. “Does he indeed? How extraordinary.”

“He indicated the matter was urgent, Your Grace.”

“Everything is urgent to my nephew.” The Dowager gestured to Margaret. “Fetch my shawl, Miss Hartwell. Let us see what crisis requires my immediate attention.”

 

***

 

The Duke’s study was a monument to order.

Margaret stood just inside the doorway and took in the space with a single sweeping glance. Every book was perfectly aligned, and every paper was stacked at precise right angles. The desk gleamed with polish. Not a speck of dust. Not a single item out of place.

The duke stood behind the desk, his hands resting on its surface, his face carved from stone.

“Aunt. Thank you for coming.”

“You summoned me, Nathaniel. I could hardly refuse.” The Dowager settled into a chair with Margaret’s assistance. “What is this urgent matter?”

The Duke’s gaze flicked briefly to Margaret. “This conversation concerns estate business. Perhaps Miss Hartwell would be more comfortable waiting in the corridor.”

“Miss Hartwell stays,” the Dowager said flatly. “She is my companion. She goes where I go.”

The Duke’s jaw tightened. But he did not argue.

He pulled a document from his desk drawer and set it before his aunt. “I need your signature.”

The dowager picked up the paper and scanned it with narrowed eyes. “This document confers full authority to act in my stead.”

“Yes.”

“Granting you full control over my personal finances.”

“Yes.”

The dowager set down the document. “Why?”

“Because you are dying.” The duke’s voice was utterly flat. “Because your affairs must be settled properly. Because I will not allow your estate to fall into chaos after your death.”

“How thoughtful. And how convenient for you.”

The duke’s hands flattened against the desk. “This is not about convenience. This is about ensuring your wishes are carried out. Your will is outdated. Your investments are scattered across multiple accounts. Your personal debts…”

“They are my own concern.”

“They were your own concern. Now they are mine.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Margaret stood very still beside the dowager’s chair, wishing she were anywhere else.

The dowager leaned forward. “You wish to control my money, Nathaniel. Very well. But I have a condition.”

“I am not negotiating.”

“Then you will not have my signature.” The dowager’s voice was steel wrapped in silk. “I will sign your document. But only if you agree to dine with Miss Hartwell and me. Every evening. For the duration of my remaining time in this world.”

The duke went very still.

“That is absurd.”

“That is my condition.”

“You are using legal documents to force me into social compliance.”

“I am using the only leverage I possess to ensure my nephew remembers he is human.” The dowager’s fingers drummed once. “Every evening, Nathaniel. Civilised conversation. No retreating to your study. No eating from a tray like a hermit.”

“I will not…”

“Then you will not have control of my finances. I will instruct my solicitor to distribute my estate according to his discretion. Which, I assure you, will be far less organised than your meticulous plans.”

The duke’s hands clenched. “You are dying. You should not be subjected to this sort of manipulation.”

“I am dying. Which is precisely why I can manipulate you without consequence.” The dowager smiled. “Sign or decline, Nathaniel. But choose quickly. I tire these days easily.”

The duke looked at Margaret. “Miss Hartwell. You are a witness to this coercion.”

Margaret kept her voice steady. “I am a witness to a conversation, Your Grace. Nothing more.”

“How convenient for my aunt.”

“How honest of Miss Hartwell,” the dowager corrected. “Well, Nathaniel? Do we have an agreement?”

The Duke was silent for a long moment.

Then he pulled a second piece of paper from his desk, wrote what he thought necessary and set it before his aunt.

“I shall dine with you,” he said quietly. “Every evening. As you wish. But there will be rules.”

The Dowager’s eyes gleamed. “Will there?”

“Dinner will be served at seven o’clock precisely. If you are late, I will not wait. If you are unwell, you will send word by six o’clock at the latest. If you attempt to use these meals as an opportunity to lecture me on my personal affairs, I will leave the table immediately.”

“And Miss Hartwell?”

“Miss Hartwell may attend if you require her presence. But she is not to be used as a weapon against me.”

Margaret’s breath caught, but the Dowager’s smile widened.

“How very specific, Nathaniel. One might think you fear her.”

“One would be mistaken. I merely prefer clarity in all arrangements.”

He pushed the second document forward, close enough so that even Margaret could see it.

The Duke of Blackmere agrees to dine with the Dowager Duchess each evening at seven o’clock for the duration of her natural life. In exchange, the Dowager Duchess agrees to provide full authority to the Duke of Blackmere to act in her stead concerning financial affairs and estate management.

It was, Margaret realised with cold clarity, a business contract.

For dinner.

The Dowager read it slowly. Then she picked up the quill pen from the duke’s desk and signed both documents with a flourish.

“There. We have an agreement.”

The duke took the papers, checked the signatures, and filed them away with methodical precision.

“I will have copies made for your solicitor.”

“How efficient.” The dowager rose, leaning heavily on Margaret’s arm. “I look forward to our first official dinner this evening, Nathaniel. Do try to be pleasant.”

“I will try to be present. Pleasant is not included in the contract.”

The Dowager laughed; a dry, humourless sound. “No. I suppose it is not.”

They left the study, and Margaret helped the Dowager back to her sitting room in silence.

When they arrived, the dowager sank into her chair with visible relief.

“Well, Miss Hartwell. What did you think of that performance?”

Margaret chose her words carefully. “I think, Your Grace, that you have bound His Grace to your company through legal obligation.”

“I have indeed. Because he would not come willingly.” The dowager closed her eyes. “He needs structure, rules and contracts. Without them, he would drift until there was nothing left of him but work and silence.”

“And me, Your Grace?”

The dowager’s eyes opened. “What about you?”

“His Grace said I was not to be used as a weapon against him. Yet you insisted I attend these dinners.”

“You are not a weapon, Miss Hartwell. You are a witness.” The Dowager’s voice softened slightly. “He needs someone to see him. To bear witness to his existence beyond duty and grief. That is all I ask of you.”

Margaret looked down at her hands. “I am not certain I understand.”

“You will.” The Dowager’s fingers drummed against the chair. “You will see him every evening now. You will watch him and listen to him. Do not try to fix him or save him. Simply… be present.”

“And if he dismisses me?”

“He cannot. You are part of the contract now.” The dowager smiled faintly. “I made certain of it.”

Margaret’s throat tightened. “Your Grace…”

“Ring for tea, Miss Hartwell. And then you may read to me. Something less tedious than Fordyce. I find I am tired of sermons.”

 

***

 

At six o’clock, Margaret changed into her blue muslin and pinned her hair with shaking hands.

She was trapped now. Bound to these dinners by the dowager’s manipulation and the duke’s legal precision.

Every evening. For the duration of the dowager’s life.

Six months, perhaps. Possibly less.

Six months of sitting across from a man who looked at her as though she were an inconvenient piece of furniture.

Six months of bearing witness to a grief she could not touch and a distance she could not bridge.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Miss Hartwell? Her Grace is ready.”

Margaret took a breath and went to collect her employer.

 

***

 

The small dining room felt smaller tonight.

Margaret sat in her assigned place, to the Dowager’s right, and folded her hands in her lap. The Duke arrived precisely at seven, dressed in dark blue superfine, his cravat tied with mathematical precision.

He took his seat without greeting either of them.

A footman appeared and began serving the first course.

And Margaret found that the silence was crushing.

“Miss Hartwell,” the Dowager said. “Tell His Grace about the book we read this afternoon.”

Margaret’s hands tightened in her lap. “Her Grace chose a volume on ancient Rome, Your Grace. The campaigns of Julius Caesar.”

The Duke’s expression did not change. “How edifying.”

“I found it rather violent,” the dowager continued. “All that conquering and betrayal. Miss Hartwell found it tedious.”

“I did not say tedious, Your Grace. I said the strategic sections were less engaging than the political ones.”

“Ah, yes. You preferred the senate machinations to the battlefield descriptions.” The Dowager sipped her wine. “Nathaniel, Miss Hartwell has opinions on political strategy. How unusual for a woman.”

Margaret felt heat rise in her cheeks. The duke’s gaze shifted to her—cold, assessing.

“Do you study politics, Miss Hartwell?”

“I read, Your Grace. That is all.”

“Reading implies interest. Interest implies opinion.” He cut his meat with precise movements. “What are your opinions on Caesar’s strategies in Gaul?”

Margaret hesitated. This felt like a test.

“I think,” she said carefully, “that Caesar was effective because he understood his enemy’s weaknesses and exploited them without mercy. But I also think his greatest strength was his ability to make his soldiers believe they were fighting for something greater than conquest.”

The Duke’s knife stilled. “You believe morale matters more than tactics?”

“I believe morale enables tactics. A demoralised army cannot execute a strategy, no matter how brilliant.”

“And how did you come to this conclusion?”

“By reading accounts of failed campaigns as well as successful ones, Your Grace. Failure is often more instructive than victory.”

The Duke set down his knife and looked at her directly for the first time that evening.

“That is a remarkably pragmatic view for a woman whose occupation involves reading sermons to elderly ladies.”

Margaret met his gaze. “Pragmatism, Your Grace, is what one learns when one’s options are limited.”

Something shifted in his expression. Not softness. But recognition.

He returned to his meal without comment.

The Dowager smiled into her wine glass.

The rest of the dinner passed in stilted conversation; the Dowager prodding, Margaret responding with careful honesty, the duke contributing only when directly questioned. He ate mechanically, spoke minimally and left the moment propriety allowed.

As he reached the door, he paused.

“Miss Hartwell.”

“Your Grace?”

“My aunt’s health is fragile. These dinners will exhaust her. I trust you will ensure she does not overtax herself.”

“I will do my best, Your Grace.”

He nodded once and left.

The Dowager leaned back in her chair, looking pale and satisfied.

“Well. That was almost pleasant.”

Margaret helped her from the dining room and up the stairs. The Dowager’s breathing was laboured by the time they reached her chambers.

“Your Grace, you should not have insisted on this arrangement. It tires you too much.”

“I will rest when I am dead, Miss Hartwell.” The Dowager’s grip on her arm tightened. “These dinners are all I have left.”

Margaret helped her to bed and waited until the Dowager’s maid arrived before slipping away to her own room.

She stood at the window and looked out at the darkened grounds.

Somewhere in this house, the duke sat alone in his study. Working, avoiding, surviving.

And tomorrow night, they would do this again.

And the night after that.

And every night until the dowager died.

Margaret pressed her forehead against the cold glass and tried not to think about what would happen when the dinners ended.

When the contract dissolved.

When she had no reason left to stay.

But even now, after only three days, she knew the answer.

She would leave.

And something in this cold, silent house would break beyond repair.