Chapter 1

 

“Absolutely not, Juliette. I forbid it.”

Mrs. Stichton’s voice carried the sort of righteous indignation reserved for wayward girls who dared suggest swimming in forbidden rivers on perfectly good working afternoons. She stood in the doorway of her haberdashery shop, arms crossed like a general defending a fortress of ribbons and buttons.

“You didn’t forbid it,” Juliette replied, not looking up from the hem she was mending. “You expressed a strong preference against it. There’s a difference.”

“The difference being?”

“One involves actual authority over my person, which you notably lack.”

The older woman’s face turned an alarming shade of puce. “You insufferable girl! After all I’ve done for you…”

“Paid me half wages for twice the work?” Juliette suggested sweetly, finally raising her eyes. “Or did you mean gossiping about my parentage to every customer who cares to listen?”

“I have never…”

“Tuesday last. Mrs. Fairweather. You told her my mother was ‘no better than she ought to be’ and that I’d inherited her ‘wild French blood.’ Juliette bit through the thread with perhaps more force than necessary. “Which was fascinating, considering my mother was from Yorkshire.”

Mrs. Stichton’s mouth opened and closed like a landed trout. “Well. Well! If you’re so ungrateful for honest employment…”

“Oh, I’m grateful.” Juliette stood, shaking out the mended petticoat. “Grateful enough to have finished all of today’s work by noon, plus tomorrow’s embroidery. So unless you’d like me to start on next week’s inventory out of sheer Christian charity, I believe my afternoon is my own.”

She hung the petticoat with the other completed pieces, each stitch perfect despite her employer’s conviction that orphans couldn’t possibly possess such skills without constant supervision.

“That river runs through the Duke of Briarhallow’s lands,” Mrs. Stichton hissed, playing her final card. “His Grace doesn’t take kindly to trespassers. They say he’s become entirely deranged ever since he returned from war, and now fires upon any poor soul found to trespass upon his property.” 

“How positively overwhelming.” Juliette unpinned her work apron. “Though one wonders how he maintains such an impressive amount of lost souls without anyone actually reporting these murders to the magistrate.”

 “Heed my warning, you are destined to expire as your mother did, abandoned in some foul gutter and lacking a single mourner to honour your poor memory!”

The words hung in the air like a slap. Juliette’s fingers stilled on her apron strings. When she spoke, her voice was dangerously quiet. She didn’t know if it was true or not. She had only heard bits and pieces about her mother, what was true and what was false was unknown to her.

“That is more than can be said for your husband, who died falling off his mistress’s balcony in Bath.”

She had the satisfaction of watching Mrs. Stichton turn from puce to white to green in rapid succession.

“Get out,” the woman whispered. “Get out and don’t come back!”

“Nothing would please me more.” Juliette collected her small basket of belongings, a spare ribbon, a half-eaten apple, the penny she’d earned mending the vicar’s wife’s glove in an entirely private manner. “Though you might want to check that last buttonhole on Lady Morrison’s pelisse. I’d hate for you to deliver an ill executed task.”

She swept past Mrs. Stichton bearing herself with an air of dignity, despite the humble state of her patched gown, pausing only at the door.

“Oh, and Mrs. Stichton? When you tell everyone I’ve gone to the devil, do try to make it interesting. Perhaps I seduced a highwayman. Or joined a traveling circus. The truth is so disappointingly mundane.”

She didn’t wait for a response, stepping out into the afternoon sunshine with her chin high and her heart hammering. The bell above the door jangled cheerfully as it closed, as if applauding her exit.

Well, she thought, that’s done it. No position, no reference, and no supper.

But also no more bent backs over endless seams, no more whispered insults, no more pretending she didn’t hear the snickers when she walked through the village square. Freedom tasted like sun-warmed air and possibility, even if it came with an empty stomach.

The river called to her as it always did on days when the world pressed too close. She’d discovered it years ago, following a deer path through the woods until the trees opened onto a hidden bend where willows trailed their fingers in the water and smooth rocks created natural pools perfect for swimming.

That it technically belonged to the Duke of Briarhallow only added to its appeal. What use did a reclusive peer have for one small stretch of water on an estate that sprawled across half the county? He probably didn’t even know it existed, locked away in his manor house, nursing his war wounds and his reputation for madness.

The Beast of Briarhallow, the villagers called him, though never loud enough for the duke’s servants to hear. They were a close-mouthed lot who came to town only for supplies, speaking to no one beyond the necessary. The duke himself hadn’t been seen in public for three years, not since he’d returned from Spain.

Juliette followed the familiar path through the woods, her feet finding their way by memory. The trees grew thicker here, older, their branches forming a cathedral ceiling that filtered the light into green and gold. The air smelled of moss and wild honeysuckle, so different from the oppressive mix of wool and disapproval that clung to the haberdashery.

She had travelled this paths for many a year now, the first being a young girl raw with fury and the kind of hunger that made the world sound hollow. The orphanage bell had counted the hours she’d been meant to spend hemming flannel, and the mistress of her third position had accused her of luring a bored son into sin with nothing more than her existence. Juliette had walked until the country lanes meandered without any discernible design and the hedgerows grew wild and untended. The unforgiving nettles had grazed her ankles, and one damp slipper had stained her stocking. She recalled the overbearing heat of that summer which felt like a profound pressure upon her nape. The very air was thick with the scent sodden meadow, and the sharp, coppery tang resulting from her tongue which she had bitten repeatedly.

She had not chosen her direction, but was merely hurried along by necessity. The ragged track threaded between oak roots and holly, dipped and rose again, and every turn seemed to offer another chance to change her mind, which she refused to do so. Pride served as a wretched sustenance, though it was all she had on her person, save for a scant crust of stale bread and a wooden thimble in her pocket that had been her mother’s before it was hers.

When the trees finally loosened their grip, she heard it before she saw it: a low, steady promise tucked beneath birdsong. She’d frozen, afraid the sound would vanish if she acknowledged it, then slipped forward sideways, palms against bark, as if approaching a shy creature. The wood opened, and there it was, water sliding over amber stones, bright as new coin where the light struck and dark as old glass where it pooled. Willows leaned in as if to confide. The sudden apparition of a kingfisher, its colour an impossible blue, occasioned a momentary yet profound spectacle, and by its swift passage, a previously held tension within her heart was instantly relieved.

It had felt like discovering a door in a wall she hadn’t known she’d been beating her fists against.

She went to her knees without meaning to, the ground still cool where shade held, and touched the surface with two fingers. It was cold and honest and it did not ask who her father had been or why she had left yet another kitchen in disgrace. It did not remind her that girls with no name worth saying aloud were expected to be docile and grateful and quiet. It simply received her.

She’d tested the bend, even then. Broke a fallen branch against a stone and worked it through the water, finding where the current tugged hardest, where the bottom dropped away, where river weed swayed like hair. An orphan’s caution, learned the hard way: never trust a pretty thing until you’ve found its teeth. Only when she’d mapped the hidden pull of it did she strip to chemise and wade in, flinching and laughing at once. A chill took over her slowly, creeping from her ankles to her thighs. As it reached her ribs, she plunged in with boldness, the sudden shock drawing the breath from her lungs for a dizzying instant.

From that day, the river became the measure by which other things were endured.

She heard the river before she saw it, a liquid melody that made her shoulders relax for the first time in days. One more turn in the path, and there it was…her secret sanctuary, untouched and perfect.

The water ran clear over amber stones, deep enough in places to swim properly, shallow enough in others to wade. Afternoon light danced on the surface like scattered diamonds. A kingfisher watched her arrival from a branch, apparently deciding she was acceptable company before diving for his lunch.

“Afternoon to you too, sir,” she called after him, already unlacing her boots. “Don’t mind me. I’m just a disreputable orphan come to scandalize the fish.”

And possibly get shot by a mad duke, her practical mind added. Though that would at least solve the problem of finding new employment.

She’d worn her oldest chemise under her dress precisely for this purpose as it was thin enough to dry quickly, and thick enough to preserve some modesty should anyone happen upon her. Not that anyone ever had. In three years of stolen afternoons, she’d never seen another soul.

The water was cold enough to steal her breath when she first waded in, but her body adjusted quickly. She’d learned to swim in the mill pond behind the orphanage, one of the few useful skills that horrible place had given her. The matron had been horrified when she’d discovered the children’s secret pastime, convinced that swimming was both dangerous and improper, especially for girls.

Everything enjoyable is improper for girls, Juliette thought, diving under the surface and feeling the current wash away the morning’s petty cruelties. We’re meant to sit quietly and embroider samplers while life passes us by.

She surfaced laughing, the sound echoing off the water. When had she last laughed? Really laughed, not the polite titter expected when the vicar made his terrible jokes or the false brightness she wore like armor in the village?

She floated on her back, watching clouds drift across the sky, and felt more herself than she had in months. There was no one present who would presume to censor the notions of her wholly fanciful French ancestry, nor breathe a word regarding her mother’s entirely manufactured reputation, nor question her own unyielding spirit in declining to accept measly offerings with undue gratitude, a refusal which was, by all just accounts, extremely warranted.

She swam until her arms ached pleasantly, then found her favorite rock, sun-warmed and flat, which was ideal for drying. The afternoon stretched before her, empty of obligations. Perhaps she’d walk to the next village tomorrow, see if anyone needed mending done. Might she not, therefore, hazard the attempt at the great house itself? Surely, even dukes so reclusive must occasionally require the services of a competent seamstress.

Or perhaps he’ll shoot you on sight for trespassing, her practical voice suggested. Beast or not, he’s still a duke, and you’re still nobody.

“I’m not nobody,” she said aloud, surprising herself. “I’m Juliette Morin, daughter of Mary Morin, who could make a ball gown from bedroom curtains and taught me every stitch she knew. I’m educated enough to read Latin and skilled enough to mend lace that costs more than I see in a year. I’m…”

She paused, searching for words.

“I’m floating in a duke’s river in my underclothes,” she finished, and the absurdity of it made her laugh again. “Which makes me either very brave or singularly deficient in understanding.”

“The two are often confused,” a deep voice agreed from the bank.

Juliette’s scream would have done credit to any Gothic heroine. She thrashed upright, water streaming from her hair, and found herself staring at a figure that might have stepped from one of those very novels.

He sat astride a massive black horse, both rider and mount still as statuary against the green backdrop of the woods. The man was large, broad-shouldered and tall even in the saddle, with dark hair that needed cutting and clothes that suggested quality without ostentation. His face was hard to read in the leaf-dappled shadows, but she caught an impression of strong features marked by something that might have been exhaustion or pain or simple displeasure at finding trespassers in his river.

Because this could only be the Duke of Briarhallow. Who else would ride these woods with such casual ownership? Who else would appear like judgment personified just when she’d decided to be brave?

“Your Grace,” she managed, belatedly remembering that one should probably address ducal presences with something approaching respect. “I… that is… I didn’t…”

“No, I apprehend the matter exactly. This particular bend in the road is positioned with such admirable discretion. One is truly required to be pre-acquainted with its whereabouts.”

Which raised the fascinating question of how he’d found her, but Juliette’s more immediate concern was her state of undress. Her chemise, perfectly adequate when dry, was now clinging to every curve in a manner that would have given Mrs. Stichton an apoplectic fit. She sank lower in the water, which only drew his attention to the scant covering of her person. 

“I’ll leave,” she said quickly. “Please accept my deepest apology for my trespass…I did not for one moment think…”

“That I’d mind? Or that I’d notice?” He shifted slightly in the saddle, and she caught a glimpse of his face in full sunlight. The gossips hadn’t exaggerated, a scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, pulling at the corner of his mouth. It should have been disfiguring. Instead, it made him look like a Renaissance prince who’d actually fought for his throne instead of inheriting it.

“Both,” she admitted, seeing no point in lying. “Though mostly I didn’t think at all. The water was there, and I was hot, and…”

“And you decided my property rights were less important than your comfort?”

Something in his tone, a note of subdued displeasure mixed with an alarming levity, spurred her on to unwise boldness.

“Yes,” she said. “Yet, if this small detail might afford you some advantage, I’ve been stealing your water for three years now, so technically this is just the first time you’ve caught me at it.”

His eyebrows rose. “Three years?”

“Every week when the weather permits. Twice a week in high summer.” She knew full well she was sealing her own fate; yet, at the very least, she was determined to proceed with the truth. “I’m very careful not to disturb anything. The kingfishers barely notice me anymore.”

“The kingfishers,” he repeated slowly, “have grown accustomed to your criminal activities?”

“They’re remarkably understanding about property law.”

“Unlike their employer.”

“That remains to be seen.” She tilted her head, studying him as boldly as he was studying her. “Are you going to shoot me? Only Mrs. Stichton will be insufferable if she’s proved right, and I’d rather not give her the satisfaction.”

“Mrs. Stichton of the haberdashery?”

“Former employer as of thirty minutes ago. She took exception to my pointing out certain deficiencies in her character. Also her buttonholes.”

“Her buttonholes?”

“Atrocious. I’ve been redoing them for months, but she’ll have to manage on her own now.” Juliette became aware she was having an entirely surreal conversation while treading water in her undergarments. “Your Grace, while this has been fascinating, I’m getting rather cold. Might I have your permission to get out and attend to my attire? I promise to leave immediately after.”

He considered this with more gravity than the question seemed to warrant. “No.”

Her heart sank. “No?”

“No, you may not leave immediately after.” He dismounted with surprising grace for such a large man, though she noticed he favored his left leg slightly. “You’ve been stealing from me for three years. That requires some form of recompense.”

“I have exactly one penny to my name,” she informed him. “Though I suppose you could take my dress. It’s worth at least three pence, and it would make my walk home entertaining for all concerned.”

His mouth twitched, the unscarred corner, she noticed. Almost a smile, quickly suppressed.

“I had something else in mind.” He turned his back to her with deliberate courtesy. “Pray, attend to your person, Miss?”

“Morin. Juliette Morin.” She swam to the bank, hauling herself out with more speed than grace. “And what exactly did you have in mind? Because if it’s the stocks, I should mention that I’ve perfected my martyr’s expression. The village ladies will probably bring me pie out of sympathy.”

“You talk a great deal for someone caught committing a crime.”

“Nervous habit,” she admitted, struggling into her dress over wet chemise, a process that involved considerable wiggling and muffled cursing. “I also talk when I’m happy, sad, angry, or bored. In truth, the only time I don’t talk is when I’m asleep, and even then it’s been reported that I mumble.”

“By whom?”

“The other girls at the orphanage. They used to throw shoes at me.”

“Were the necessary ends achieved?”

“Quite the contrary. But I do claim to be proficient in steering clear of all consequence.”

She fumbled with her laces, wet fingers making the task difficult. “You can turn around now. I’m as decent as I’m likely to get.”

He turned, and she was struck again by the sheer presence of him. Not just his size, though he topped her by at least a foot, but the way he seemed to occupy more space than his body required. A containment of energy that suggested he was holding himself carefully in check.

His gaze traveled over her sodden state with clinical assessment. “You are quite drenched!”

“Swimming does tend to involve water, yes.”

“You’ll catch cold walking back like that.”

“Then it’s fortunate I have nowhere to walk back to.” She wrung out her hair, wondering why he hadn’t sent her on her way yet. Surely mad reclusive dukes had better things to do than stand about making small talk with trespassing orphans. “Your Grace, what recompense did you want? Only the sun is getting low, and I should find somewhere to sleep before dark.”

“Where were you planning to sleep?”

She shrugged. “There’s a hay barn about two miles east. The farmer drinks himself unconscious by eight on the hour. As long as I’m gone before dawn, he never notices.”

A fleeting change crossed his countenance and was gone in an instant, too swiftly to be justly discerned

“The water,” he said abruptly. “How did you find it?”

“I followed a deer path when I was fifteen. I’d just run away from my third position…the mistress had accused me of trying to seduce her son when he cornered me in the pantry. I was so angry I didn’t care where I was going, and then…” She gestured at the river. “There it was. Like something out of a fairy story.”

“And you’ve been coming back ever since.”

“Whenever I could. Whenever the world got too…” She paused, searching for words that wouldn’t sound pathetic. “Too small.”

He was quiet for a long moment, looking not at her but at the water. The afternoon light caught the angles of his face, and she thought he might have been handsome once, before whatever had scored that scar across his features. He was handsome still, in a harsh sort of way, like a cliff face that drew the eye despite its dangers.

“Can you swim well?” he asked finally.

The question was so unexpected she blinked. “I… yes? Well enough. Why?”

“This bend is deceptive. The current is stronger than it looks, especially after rain. There’s an undertow near the far bank that’s caught more than one overconfident swimmer.”

“I am aware. I tested it with a long stick my first summer.” She studied him curiously. “Were you worried I’d drown? How unexpectedly charitable for someone with your reputation.”

“My reputation?”

“Mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Though I must confess that phrase was originally applied to Lord Byron, placing you in quite remarkable company.”

“Are you familiar with Byron’s work?”

“I read everything I can get my hands on. The vicar’s wife lets me borrow books in exchange for mending. She has quite shocking taste for a clergyman’s spouse.” Juliette paused. “You’re not at all what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“More growling. Possibly foaming at the mouth. Definitely more shooting.” She tilted her head. “Though the day is young.”

That almost-smile again, quickly hidden. “I left my pistols at home. A regrettable oversight.”

“I’ll try to look properly terrified next time.”

“Next time?”

The words hung between them. Juliette felt her cheeks warm as she realised what she’d implied …that there would be a next time that this strange encounter might be repeated.

“I mean,” she started, but he held up a hand.

“Miss Morin. You say you have nowhere to go tonight.”

“I’ll manage. I always do.”

“No doubt. However, I find myself in need of recompense for three years of stolen swims, and you find yourself in need of employment.” He studied her with those dark eyes that seemed to see too much. “Can you do more than mend?”

Her heart kicked. “I can do anything with a needle. Embroidery, plain sewing, alterations, and lace work…”

“What about household management?”

“I… what?”

“My housekeeper left six months ago. Since then, the house has been…” He paused, apparently searching for words. “Deteriorating.”

“And you want me to…?”

“Arrest the decline. The maids do their best, but they need direction. The accounts are a disaster, the linens are in shambles, and I’m fairly certain something has died in the east wing.”

“Something?”

“Or someone. I’ve been avoiding that side of the house.”

She couldn’t tell if he was jesting. His expression remained perfectly serious, but there was something about the set of his shoulders that suggested humor lurking beneath the surface.

“Your Grace,” she said carefully, “are you offering me employment?”

“I’m offering you a trade. You work for me through the end of summer, bringing my household back to some semblance of order. In exchange, I’ll pay you fairly, give you a reference that even Mrs. Stichton couldn’t dispute, and…” He paused, and this time she was certain she saw amusement in his eyes. “…you may continue to use the river.”

“With permission this time?”

“With permission.”

The entire arrangement seemed preposterous. Nothing short of folly; indeed, gravely perilous. It encompassed everything against what a judicious society would warn against. Accepting employment from an unmarried man and taking up residence within his very house, relying solely upon domestic staff for propriety; and placing her entire person and reputation wholly at the command of one gentleman whose single word could bring her to utter ruin.

Then again, what did she have to lose? Her reputation was already in tatters, her employment gone, her options limited to hay barns and charity. At least this way she’d have a roof over her head and honest work for her hands.

“What about your neighbors?” she asked. “What will they say when they hear you’ve hired a village girl with no references?”

“I neither know nor care what my neighbors say. Do you?”

And that, she realised, was the heart of it. He stood there in his excellent boots and roughly cut hair, master of all he surveyed, and genuinely didn’t care about the opinion of society. The freedom of it took her breath away.

“No,” she said softly. “I don’t care either.”

“Then we are, therefore, fully agreed.” He whistled, and his horse ambled over, apparently used to waiting while his master conducted strange interviews by riverbanks. “Can you ride?”

“Not in the least.”

“Then you’ll walk. It’s four miles to the house. I’ll send the cart back for you.”

“I could walk four miles.”

“Not in those shoes.” He glanced at her cracked boots. “And not when you’re half-soaked. Wait here.”

He swung into the saddle with that same surprising grace, and she noticed how his left hand gripped the pommel more tightly than the right. Whatever injury had caused his limp had clearly affected more than his leg.

“Your Grace,” she called as he turned the horse. “Why?”

He paused. “Why what?”

“Why offer me this? You don’t know anything about me except that I’m a thief who talks too much and has questionable judgment about swimming in strange rivers.”

He was quiet long enough that she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then: “Perhaps that’s why. You’re the first person in three years who hasn’t looked at me with either pity or fear.”

“Should I fear you?”

“Probably.”

“But you’re not going to tell me why?”

“No.” He gathered the reins. “The cart will be here within the hour. Try not to steal anything else while you wait.”

“Only the water I’m still dripping.”

That almost-smile again, and then he was gone, horse and rider disappearing into the green shadows as suddenly as they’d appeared.

Juliette stood alone on the riverbank, water still streaming from her hair, and wondered what exactly she’d just agreed to. The sensible thing would be to run, to gather her few belongings and put as much distance as possible between herself and the Duke of Briarhallow’s questionable offer.

Since when, she asked herself, have you ever done the sensible thing?

The kingfisher returned, perching on a nearby branch to fix her with a beady eye.

“I know,” she told it. “I’m almost certainly making a terrible mistake. But at least it will be an interesting one.”

The bird tilted its head as if considering this logic.

“Besides,” she added, sitting down to wait for the promised cart, “That he did not fire upon me must be deemed a point of some material merit, and one worthy of recognition.”

The river chuckled over its stones, keeping its secrets, and Juliette began the tedious process of wringing out her stockings. Whatever came next, at least she’d face it with dry feet.

 

Chapter 2

 

The cart arrived in a mere span of forty minutes, not the hour anticipated which she note with satisfaction. It was driven by the head groom, Mr. Harrison, a man of kind eyes and a weathered countenance. He helped her onto the seat without comment on her damp state or questionable origins.

“His Grace said you’re to be the new housekeeper,” he said as they started down the rutted track.

“Acting housekeeper,” she corrected. “Through summer’s end.”

“Well, that’s more than we’ve had for six months. Mrs. Blackwood left in quite a state, muttering about unnatural houses and masters who walk the halls at all hours.”

“Does he? Walk the halls?”

Harrison flicked the reins thoughtfully. “His Grace doesn’t sleep well. Not since his return from the war has he been quite himself. Yet he is a good master, I grant you; he is just and fair in his dealings, pays his wages promptly, and does not overtax his workers.” 

“But Mrs. Blackwood left anyway.”

“Mrs Blackwood was unable to adjust to the Duke who returned from war.”

He glanced at her sideways. “You seem young for a housekeeper.”

“I seem young for most things. It’s very inconvenient.”

That earned her a rusty chuckle. “How old are you then?”

“Two and twenty. Old enough to know better, too young to be respectable.”

“Respectable’s overrated, if you ask me.”

“I’m beginning to believe you’re right.”

They drove in companionable silence through woods that grew thicker as they progressed. The track was well-maintained despite the Duke’s reputation for neglecting his estate. It was evident that somebody cared enough to keep the way clear, even if visitors were rare.

“Mrs Harrison,” she said suddenly. “The Duke’s injuries…are they very bad?”

The groom’s face closed like a slammed door. “That’s not for me to say, miss.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” She twisted her hands in her damp skirts. “It’s just… I’ll be working in the house. I thought it might help to know what to expect.”

Harrison was quiet so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then: “He came back from Salamanca more dead than alive. He took a grapeshot saving his men from an ambush. Lost half his unit anyway. The leg healed poorly…Spanish field surgeons aren’t known for their gentle touch. But it’s not the visible wounds that trouble him most.”

He didn’t elaborate, and Juliette didn’t press. She’d seen men back from the war, jumping at loud noises, drinking to forget things they couldn’t speak of. If the Duke walked his halls at night, perhaps he was trying to outpace memories.

“There,” Harrison said, pointing ahead. “Ashridge Manor.”

Juliette’s first thought was that it looked like a house in mourning.

The building itself was handsome enough, grey stone mellowed to gold by centuries of weather, tall windows that should have sparkled in the late afternoon sun, graceful proportions that spoke of an architect who understood beauty as well as function. But ivy grew too thick on the walls, and several windows were shuttered, and the grounds had a neglected air that spoke of absent direction rather than poverty.

“It was beautiful once,” Harrison said quietly. “The Duchess, his mother had a way with houses. Made them sing, she did. But she died while His Grace was in Spain, and then…”

He didn’t need to finish. Without its mistress, without its master’s attention, the house had simply stopped trying.

“Well,” Juliette said, squaring her shoulders. “I suppose that’s what I’m here for.”

The front door opened as they approached, revealing a small cluster of servants who’d clearly been watching for the cart. At their head stood a tall, thin woman with steel-gray hair and a mouth made for disapproval.

“That’s Mrs. Morris,” Harrison murmured. “She’s been trying to hold things together since Mrs. Blackwood left. She won’t thank you for taking over.”

 “It is an extremely satisfying to commence a new position when the established rivalry or inherent difficulties are made plain from the beginning.”

“You will succeed admirably, Miss. You exhibit a most excellent degree of resolution.”

“Along with wet attire. I’m sure that will impress everyone enormously.”

But she climbed down from the cart with as much dignity as she could muster, smoothing her damp skirts and lifting her chin. She’d faced worse than a resentful cook. At least this one probably wouldn’t throw shoes.

“Miss Morin?” Mrs. Morris’s voice could have frozen July. “His Grace informed us of your… appointment. I must say, it’s highly irregular.”

“Most of my life has been highly irregular,” Juliette replied pleasantly. “I find it saves time if everyone accepts that from the beginning. Now, if someone could direct me to my quarters? I’d like to change into something less riverine before we discuss household matters.”

Mrs. Morris’s nostrils flared. “Riverine?”

“Of or relating to rivers. In this case, the fact that I’m dripping on your doorstep.” She smiled with all the sweetness she’d perfected during years of dealing with difficult employers. “I’m sure you’d prefer I didn’t conduct my first staff meeting while creating puddles.”

A younger maid, barely sixteen by the look of her, stifled a giggle behind her hand. Mrs. Morris shot her a quelling look before turning back to Juliette.

“Betty will show you to the housekeeper’s room. We dine at six in the servants’ hall.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Morris. I look forward to working with you all.”

The lie came smoothly, but she caught something in the cook’s expression, not quite softening, but perhaps a fraction less hostile. Good. She’d need every ally she could get if she was going to survive this position, temporary or not.

Betty turned out to be the giggling maid, a cheerful girl with bright eyes and an obvious desire to gossip.

“Oh miss, we’re that glad you’re here,” she confided as she led Juliette through a maze of corridors. “It’s been ever so difficult without a proper housekeeper. Mrs. Morris does her best, but she’s a cook, not management, if you know what I mean. And His Grace…”

She trailed off, clearly torn between loyalty and the desire to share information.

“His Grace?” Juliette prompted gently.

“He needs looking after,” Betty said in a rush. “Only he won’t let anyone do it. Sends his meals back half-eaten, wears the same clothes for days, and stays up all hours working in his study. It’s not right, a gentleman living like that.”

“And you think I can change this?”

“Well, you got him to come down to the river, didn’t you? He hasn’t ridden anywhere but the home farm in months.”

Interesting. So her trespassing had drawn him out when nothing else could. She filed that information away for later consideration.

The housekeeper’s room was small but comfortable, with a narrow bed, a washstand, and a supreme privilege, one might say, a private fire readily laid bare awaiting to be used. The furniture was good quality, though quite dusty, and the window looked out over what had once been a kitchen garden.

“There’s fresh water in the pitcher,” Betty said. “And I’ll see about finding you some dry clothes. Mrs. Blackwood left some behind…you’re about her size, I believe.”

“That’s very kind, Betty. Thank you.”

The girl beamed and scurried off, leaving Juliette alone to contemplate her new circumstances. She moved to the window, studying the tangled garden below. Like the house, it showed signs of former glory, neat beds now overgrown, fruit trees in need of pruning and herbs running wild among the weeds.

By what unfortunate means have you become so entangled in? She asked herself, but the answer came readily enough. She’d gotten herself a position, a roof, a chance to prove she was more than the village’s favorite subject of gossip. If such an arrangement involved an employer of undisclosed reputation and a house concealed by rumour, she could not complain of a want of novelty.

A knock interrupted her thoughts. “Come in,” she called, expecting Betty with the promised clothes.

Instead, the Duke himself filled her doorway, having to duck slightly to clear the frame. He’d changed from his riding clothes into a jacket that had seen better days, and she noticed he leaned more heavily on a carved walking stick than he had by the river.

“Your Grace,” she said, dropping an automatic curtsy. “I wasn’t expecting…”

“This was my mother’s room once,” he said, as if that explained his presence. “When she first entered into matrimony with my father. 

“Oh.” She wasn’t sure what to say to that. “It is quite charming.”

“It was.” He moved into the room with careful steps, running his hand over the mantelpiece. “She was so very happy here with her duke.” 

“They were very happy together.”

“Indeed.” His mouth curved in what might have been a real smile this time. 

Juliette found herself smiling back. “She must have been a truly wonderful woman.”

“She was.” The smile faded. “She’d have liked you, I do believe she had a weakness for women who spoke their minds.”

“A dangerous weakness in a duchess.”

“She made it work. Then again, she could have made anything work.” He seemed to realise he was sharing more than intended and straightened. “Mrs. Morris will try to test you. Do not permit her to do so.The maids need guidance but they’re willing workers. The footmen are lazy…Father would never have tolerated it, but I haven’t had the energy to correct it.”

“And you?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. “What do you need?”

He went very still, and she bitterly chastised her own impulsive tongue. But instead of the rebuke she expected, he seemed to actually consider the question.

“I need,” he said slowly, “my house to stop falling apart around me. Beyond that…” He shrugged. “I’m not your concern, Miss Morin. Keep the servants in line, the accounts balanced, and the rooms from developing their own ecosystems. That’s all I require.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He turned to go, then paused at the door. “You asked why I offered you this position. The truth is, I, myself am at a loss as to why indeed. Perhaps because you looked at my river with love. Perhaps because you made me laugh for the first time in months. Or perhaps I’m simply mad, as everyone says, and this is proof of it.”

“If you’re mad, what does that make me for accepting?”

“Brave,” he said quietly. “Or foolish. Time will tell which.”

He left before she could respond, the tap of his walking stick was echoing down the corridor. Juliette sank onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. She’d started the day as an underpaid seamstress in a village shop and she was ending it as acting housekeeper to a duke who quoted his mother and admitted to madness with unsettling calm.

Betty arrived with an armful of clothes and a stream of chatter about household routines. Juliette let the words wash over her as she changed into her newly acquired dry attire, which was good quality but plain, as befit a housekeeper’s position. The dress was a bit loose in the waist and tight in the bodice, but it would do.

“There,” Betty said with satisfaction. “You look proper now. Shall I show you the rest of the house before dinner?”

“Please. And Betty? Tell me honestly, what should I know that no one will say to my face?”

The maid bit her lip, then seemed to come to a decision. “His Grace isn’t mad, not like they say. But he’s… haunted, I suppose. By the war, by his mother’s death, by things none of us understand. He saved twelve men at Salamanca, did you know? Held off the French near single-handed while his unit retreated. That’s how he got hurt so bad.”

 “I was quite unaware.”

“He will not discuss the affair. He refuses to receive his old comrades in arms, nor will he attend London to take up his seat in the House.”

Betty’s young face was earnest with worry. “It’s like he’s punishing himself for surviving.”

The words settled in Juliette’s chest like a stone. She thought of the man who’d appeared at the river like judgment, who’d offered her employment for reasons he couldn’t name, who spoke of his mother with such wistful pain.

“Well,” she said briskly, “perhaps what he needs is for someone to treat him normally instead of like blown glass.”

“Miss!”

“Oh, I’ll be respectful. But I won’t tiptoe around him like he might shatter at loud noises. He’s had enough of that, I think.”

Betty looked doubtful but led her through the house tour without further comment. It was worse than Juliette had expected, not filthy, but deeply neglected in a thousand small ways. The draperies stood in need of immediate repair, the silver was in dire need of a good polishing and the floor coverings need a thorough cleansing.

While the foundation of the house was sound, the want of consistent attention saw its refinement sadly diminished.

The servants’ hall at dinner was an exercise in careful politics. Mrs. Morris presided from one end of the table, radiating disapproval. The two footmen, James and Robert lounged in their chairs with the casual insolence of men who knew their positions were secure. Three housemaids besides Betty watched everything with sharp eyes, clearly waiting to see how the new order would establish itself.

“I understand there’s been no housekeeper for six months,” Juliette began, helping herself to the surprisingly good stew. “You’ve all done remarkably well maintaining things without proper direction.”

“We’ve managed,” Mrs. Morris said stiffly.

“More than managed. But I’m sure you’ll agree it’s time to do more than simply maintain.” She smiled around the table. “I’ll need to review all the household accounts tomorrow, as well as the linen inventory and supply stores. Betty has kindly offered to help me understand the daily routines.”

“I suppose you have grand plans,” one of the footmen, James, she assumed, drawled. “Going to transform us all, are you?”

“Nothing so dramatic. Though I do plan to ensure everyone earns their wages.” She met his eyes steadily. “Starting with proper attention to duties that may have been… relaxed in recent months.”

The other footman straightened slightly. Good. They weren’t entirely beyond redemption.

“If I may ask,” Mrs. Morris said with frigid politeness, “what exactly are your qualifications for this position?”

“Absolutely none,” Juliette said cheerfully, enjoying the shock on their faces. “Unless you count years of making do with nothing, managing impossible employers, and learning that most problems can be solved with common sense and strong tea. Oh, and I can mend anything from lace to leather, which I understand may be useful given the state of the household linens.”

“His Grace seems satisfied,” Betty piped up bravely. “That’s qualification enough, isn’t it?”

A murmur ran around the table. Mrs. Morris’s face went through several interesting contortions before settling on resigned displeasure.

“Indeed,” she said. “His Grace’s decisions are not for us to question.”

“Of course not,” Juliette agreed. “Though I do welcome questions about everything else. I’m not Mrs. Blackwood, and I won’t pretend to be. But I am here to help, and I hope we can work together to restore this house to its former glory.”

“And what should it be?” one of the other maids, Sarah, She had learned by asking. 

Juliette thought of the Duke’s words about his mother, about houses that sang.

“A home,” she said simply. “Not a monument to grief, but a home. Is that something you all want?”

The silence stretched long enough that she wondered if she’d overstepped. Then Betty raised her glass of small beer.

“To making it a home,” she said.

One by one, the others raised their glasses too, even Mrs. Morris, though she looked like she’d bitten into a lemon. Only James held back, but his partner Robert elbowed him until he complied with poor grace.

“To making it a home,” they echoed, and if the toast was more dutiful than enthusiastic, at least it was a start.

After dinner, Juliette returned to her room to find someone had lit the fire and turned down the bed. Small gestures, but kind ones. She sat at the little desk, making lists of what needed doing, trying to impose order on the chaos she’d inherited.

A sound in the corridor made her look up. Footsteps, slow and uneven, accompanied by the tap of a walking stick. They paused outside her door, and she held her breath, wondering if he’d knock.

The footsteps moved on.

She returned to her lists, but concentration eluded her. Finally she rose and went to the window, looking out at the dark gardens. Somewhere in this house, a duke who’d saved twelve men and lost his mother walked the halls like a ghost. Somewhere beyond the walls, a river ran through the darkness, carrying secrets and promises in equal measure.

What are you doing here? She asked herself, but the answer came in his voice, rough with disuse: Perhaps because you looked at my river with great love and adoration.

She’d loved it because it was beautiful and forbidden and free. She wondered what he’d loved before the war took it away. Wondered if houses could sing again after forgetting the tune. Wondered if broken things could be mended with more than thread and determination.

Time would tell, as he’d said. Time would tell if she was brave or foolish or simply desperate enough to believe in the possibility of the restoration of houses, of lives, of men who offered employment to trespassing orphans for reasons they couldn’t name.

She worked on her lists until her candle burned low, then climbed into bed, a real bed with clean sheets and a warming pan, luxury beyond measure. Tomorrow she’d begin the monumental task of bringing order to Ashridge Manor. Tonight, she’d simply be grateful for a roof over her head and the memory of almost-smiles from a man who’d forgotten how to give them.

The house creaked and settled around her, and she could swear she heard footsteps again, pacing somewhere above. She thought of Mrs. Blackwood fleeing from a master who walked at all hours and felt only curiosity. What drove him from his bed? What ghosts haunted his steps?

Not your concern, she reminded herself, but she was beginning to suspect that everything in this house would become her concern whether she willed it or not. That was the nature of being a housekeeper, or acting as one. You became the keeper not just of rooms and schedules but of secrets and sorrows too.

The footsteps continued their restless circuit as she drifted toward sleep. In her dreams, she swam through flooded halls while a dark figure watched from the shadows, and somewhere in the distance, a house remembered how to sing.

 

Chapter 3

 

“Good gracious…what is that unearthly commotion?”

Juliette jolted upright in bed, heart hammering, completely disoriented. The sound came again followed by a metallic shriek that seemed to emanate from the very walls, followed by a series of clangs that suggested a sound extremely unfamiliar to her ears.

Pale morning light filtered through her window, revealing the unfamiliar room in all its modest glory. Not the hay barn she’d half-expected to wake in, but the housekeeper’s quarters at Ashridge Manor. Yesterday’s memories came flooding once more to her mind. Mrs Stichton’s outrage, the river, the Duke appearing like some Gothic novel hero, and the surreal journey that had led her here.

“Right then,” she muttered, throwing off the covers. “First order of business: discover what’s all that ruckus is about?” 

She dressed quickly in yesterday’s borrowed clothes, she’d need to retrieve her few belongings from the village at some point and pinned her hair into something approaching respectability. The mirror above the washstand showed a face that looked surprisingly well-rested, considering she’d fallen asleep to the sound of restless footsteps overhead.

The corridor outside her room was empty, early morning shadows making the faded wallpaper look like it was breathing. She followed the sound of voices toward what she assumed was the kitchen, trying to memorize the route. The house seemed even larger in daylight, a maze of passages that branched and twisted with no apparent logic.

“…told you not to touch that valve!” Mrs. Morris’s voice carried clearly. “Now look what you’ve done!”

Juliette rounded a corner to find chaos. The kitchen, a cavernous room that should have been the warm heart of the house was ankle-deep in water. Mrs. Morris stood on a chair like a general surveying a battlefield, while James the footman wrestled with what appeared to be a possessed water pump.

“It’s not my fault the wretched thing’s older than Moses,” James protested, soaked to the skin. “Robert said…”

“Robert says many things, few of them intelligent.” Mrs. Morris spotted Juliette in the doorway. “Miss Morin. Welcome to your first morning at Ashridge Manor. As you can see, we’re entertaining the Thames.”

“So I gathered.” Juliette hiked up her skirts and waded in, the cold water making her gasp. “What happened?”

“Monthly pump maintenance,” Betty supplied from her perch on the large wooden table, looking like a bedraggled sparrow. “Only James turned the wrong valve and now we’ve got a spouting indoor fountain in the scullery.”

 Another geyser of water shot from the pump, catching James full in the face. “Confound it!” 

 “Be silent!” Mrs. Morris snapped, though Juliette noticed she was fighting a smile.

“Where’s the main shut-off?” Juliette asked, rolling up her sleeves.

Everyone stared at her.

“The main valve,” she repeated patiently. “To cut water to the whole kitchen system. Surely there’s one?”

“In the cellar,” Robert appeared in the doorway, took in the scene, and immediately backed away. “I’ll just…”

“You’ll just get down there and shut it off,” Juliette said pleasantly. “Unless you’d prefer to explain to His Grace why his kitchen has become a swimming bath?”

Robert’s face went through several interesting expressions before he turned and fled toward the cellar stairs.

“Very well then,” Juliette continued, sloshing over to examine the pump. “James, stop fighting it. You’re making it worse. Betty, we need every pot, pan, and bucket you can find. Mrs. Morris, is there another kitchen we can use for breakfast?”

“The old summer kitchen,” the cook said slowly, studying Juliette with new interest. “Haven’t used it in years, but the hearth should still work.”

“Excellent. Betty, after the buckets, please start moving what food you can salvage there. Mrs. Morris, if you could oversee that? I’ll help James sort this mess once Robert cuts the water.”

She’d learned long ago that in a crisis, giving clear orders in a calm voice worked better than shouting. Sure enough, everyone sprang into action, grateful for direction. Even James stopped cursing long enough to look at her with something approaching respect.

The water ceased its fountain impression just as they’d established a bucket brigade to the back door. It took another hour to clear the worst of the flooding, by which time everyone was soaked, exhausted, and oddly cheerful.

“Well,” Mrs. Morris said, surveying the sodden but no longer submerged kitchen. “That’s more excitement than we usually see before noon.”

“How often does this happen?” Juliette wrung out her skirts as best she could.

“The flooding? First time. The disasters?” She shrugged. “Weekly, at least. The house is falling apart, Miss Morin. We do our best, but…”

“But you need proper maintenance, not just emergency responses.” Juliette made a mental note. “Who handles repairs?”

“His Grace used to have a steward, Mr. Pembrook. He left two years ago. Since then…” Another eloquent shrug.

Two years. The timeline was beginning to form in Juliette’s mind. The Duke had returned from war three years ago. His mother had died while he was away. One year later, his steward left. Six months ago, the housekeeper followed. A steady exodus of people who couldn’t adapt to whatever had changed in this house.

“We’ll make do,” she said briskly. “But I’ll need a complete list of ongoing problems. Betty, once you’ve finished in the summer kitchen, could you…”

“Miss Morin.”

Everyone froze. The Duke stood in the doorway, taking in the scene with those dark eyes that missed nothing. He looked like he’d slept as poorly as his restless footsteps had as there were dark shadows under his eyes, his jaw shadowed with stubble, his clothes thrown on with little care for appearance.

“Your Grace.” Juliette dropped a curtsy that sent water dripping from her hem. “We’ve had a minor aquatic incident.”

“So I see.” His gaze traveled over the bucket brigade, the soaked servants, and the water stains climbing the walls. “Anyone drowned?”

“Not yet,” James muttered, then looked terrified at his own audacity.

The Duke’s mouth twitched. “Disappointing. I was hoping to reduce the wage bill.” He looked back at Juliette. “You appear to have things under control.”

“Appearances can be deceiving, but we’re managing.” She pushed a wet strand of hair from her face. “Though I should warn you, breakfast may be somewhat delayed. And possibly scorched, depending on how the summer kitchen cooperates.”

“I don’t take breakfast.”

“You do now,” the words escaped before she could stop them. Everyone held their breath. “That is… you should. Your Grace. Eat breakfast. It’s… healthy.”

Brilliant, she thought. Absolutely brilliant. Order your employer about like a nursemaid. That will end well.

He studied her for a long moment, and she became acutely aware of how she must look, soaked through, hair escaping its pins, lecturing a duke on his eating habits while standing in his flooded kitchen.

“The summer kitchen, you said?” He addressed Mrs. Morris. “I remember my mother using it for preserves. She said the light was better there.”

“Aye, Your Grace. Best morning light in the house.”

He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll take breakfast there. In an hour, if possible.” His gaze returned to Juliette. “You’ll join me to discuss the household accounts.”

It wasn’t a request.

“Of course, Your Grace. Though I should change first…”

“Yes,” he said, interrupting her, his eyes dipping to the trail of a droplet sliding from her jaw to her collarbone, then lower, disappearing into the fabric clinging between her breasts. His voice dropped to something dark and velvet. “You should.”

He left as abruptly as he’d appeared, the tap of his walking stick echoing down the corridor. Everyone exhaled simultaneously.

“Well,” Mrs. Morris said faintly. “He’s not taken breakfast in the morning room since his mother passed.”

“The summer kitchen isn’t the morning room,” Betty pointed out pragmatically. “Maybe that makes a difference?”

Juliette rather thought the difference was that she’d challenged him, but she kept that observation to herself. “Very well then, let’s finish this cleanup. I need those problem lists by this afternoon, and…” She paused, struck by a thought. “Where exactly is the summer kitchen?”

The summer kitchen, it turned out, was a revelation. Tucked into the east wing like an afterthought, it had windows on three sides that flooded the space with golden morning light. The hearth was smaller than the main kitchen’s but perfectly functional, and someone, Betty, she suspected had already got a fire going.

Juliette had managed to make herself presentable, though her hair insisted on curling from its dousing despite her best efforts with pins. She’d arrived to find Mrs. Morris performing miracles with limited resources, and the very air was positively imbued with the sweetest aroma of food being prepared. 

“He’s already here,” Betty whispered, nodding toward a small table by the windows where the Duke sat reading what appeared to be agricultural reports. “Been there twenty minutes, quiet as a grave.”

“Has he eaten anything?”

“Not a bite. Just reads and stares out the window as if he’s forgotten we exist.”

Juliette squared her shoulders and approached with the tea tray. He didn’t look up as she set it down, apparently absorbed in crop rotation statistics.

“Fascinating reading?” she asked, pouring tea with hands that were thankfully steady.

“Thrilling. Did you know that turnips can increase soil productivity by up to thirty percent when used in proper rotation?”

“I did not. How delightful for the turnips.” She set his cup within reach. “And the farmers, I suppose.”

“Mostly the turnips. They’re finally getting the recognition they deserve.”

She bit back a smile. “Your breakfast, Your Grace. Mrs. Morris has outdone herself, considering she’s working in a kitchen that hasn’t been used this decade.”

He finally looked up from his reports, and she was struck again by how the morning light revealed things shadow had hidden. The scar was more pronounced, yes, but so were the fine lines around his dark coloured eyes, the kind that came from laughter as much as pain. He’d been handsome before Spain she could see it in the bones of his face, the way he must have smiled before he’d forgotten how.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. “You can’t discuss accounts while hovering. It’s unsettling.”

She sat, trying not to think about how improper this was. A servant dining with her employer, alone but for the distant clatter of Mrs. Morris’s preparations. Then again, nothing about her employment here followed proper patterns.

“I should start by reviewing the household books,” she began, but he held up a hand.

“Eat first. The accounts bring about enough melancholy without facing them on an empty stomach.”

“I don’t…”

“Mrs. Morris,” he called without raising his voice. “Miss Morin requires breakfast as well.”

“Already prepared, Your Grace,” the cook appeared with another plate, setting it before Juliette with a look that dared her to protest.

Outmaneuvered, she thought, but the ham smelled too good to refuse. They ate in surprisingly comfortable silence, the Duke returning to his turnip reports while she tried not to devour her food like the half-starved orphan she’d once been.

“You handled the flood well,” he said eventually, not looking up from his reading.

“I’ve had experience with disasters. They were something of a specialty at my last position.”

“The haberdashery?”

“And the milliner before that. And the tavern before that.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Floods, fires, and in one memorable case, an infestation of particularly ambitious mice who developed a taste for imported silk.”

“You’ve had an eventful career for someone so young.”

“Orphans don’t get the luxury of uneventful careers. We take what we can get and make the best of it.” She hadn’t meant to sound bitter, but something in his expression suggested he understood.

“The accounts,” he said, pushing a leather-bound ledger across the table. “Pembrook left them in reasonable order, but I fear I have been rather remiss since that time.”

She opened the book and tried not to wince….’ rather remiss ‘ was generous. The entries started neat and precise, then gradually deteriorated into barely legible scrawls, then stopped altogether about four months ago.

“When was the last time you reconciled these with actual expenses?”

He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Autumn? Perhaps?”

“Last autumn?”

“The one before.”

“Your Grace,” she said carefully, “are you telling me no one has properly managed your household accounts in over eighteen months?”

“I pay the bills when they arrive. Usually. Sometimes they get lost in my study.”

She turned pages with growing alarm. “The coal merchant hasn’t been paid since January. The butcher is owed… have mercy, that can’t be right.”

“I may have forgotten his bills were in the desk drawer.”

“Which drawer?”

“All of them.”

She closed the ledger slowly, choosing her words with care. “Your Grace, with respect, your estate is wealthy enough to sustain this level of mismanagement for years. Your servants, however, rely on local merchants who can’t afford to extend unlimited credit. If we lose their goodwill…”

“I am quite aware.” He pushed his plate away, breakfast half-finished despite her earlier insistence. “I fully comprehend, Miss Morin. Are you under the impression that I’m unaware that my house is falling apart? That my servants whisper about the mad duke who can’t even pay his bills on time? I know exactly how far I’ve fallen. I simply haven’t had the energy to care.”

The raw honesty in his voice stopped her prepared lecture cold. She studied him across the small table, this man who’d saved twelve soldiers and couldn’t save himself from drowning in paperwork.

“Then it’s fortunate you hired someone who has energy enough for both of us,” she said quietly.

He looked up sharply, something flickering in his eyes that might have been surprise or hope or simply exhaustion lifting for a moment.

“Is it?” he asked. “Fortunate?”

“Well, I’m sitting in a sunny kitchen eating excellent ham instead of sleeping in a hay barn, so I’d say yes. Quite fortunate. For me, at least.”

“And for me?”

She considered the question seriously. “That remains to be seen. I might reorganise your entire life. I might drive you to distraction with my tendency to speak without thinking. I might even convince you to eat entire breakfasts.” She smiled slightly. “Whether that’s fortunate or not depends on your tolerance for change.”

“My tolerance for change died in Spain,” he said flatly.

“Did it? Because yesterday you hired a complete stranger who was trespassing on your property. That seems like a fairly significant change.”

He was quiet for a long moment, staring out the window at gardens that needed as much attention as the house. “You argue like my mother did,” he said finally. “Turning my own words against me until I forgot what position I started from.”

“A useful skill for a housekeeper, I imagine.”

“A dangerous one.” But he was almost smiling again, that slight softening around his eyes that transformed his face. “Very well. Take the books. Do what needs doing. I’ll write drafts for whatever merchants need paying today.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” She gathered the ledger, then hesitated. “The locked room on the third floor…”

His expression shuttered completely. “Is to remain locked.”

“Of course. I only wondered…”

“Miss Morin.” His voice carried the kind of authority that commanded armies. “That room is not your concern. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly, Your Grace.”

She rose to leave, but his voice stopped her at the door.

“The river,” he said quietly. “You’re not to swim there again.”

She turned, surprised. “But you said…”

“I said you could use it. I didn’t say you could use it alone.” He was looking out the window again, his profile harsh against the morning light. “The current is unpredictable, especially after rain. Last night’s storm will have made it dangerous.”

“I’m a strong swimmer…”

“So was my mother.” The words dropped like stones into still water. “She swam every morning in summer. One day the current took her, and by the time they found her, it was too late.”

Juliette’s breath caught. “I must apologise. I was quite unaware.”

“How could you have known? We told everyone it was a riding accident. More dignified than admitting the Duchess drowned in three feet of water because she hit her head on a hidden rock.” He turned to look at her then, and his eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them. “So no, Miss Morin. You will not swim there alone. If you must use the river, you’ll inform someone of your intentions. Preferably someone who can swim.”

The concern in his voice, buried under layers of command, made something flutter in her chest. “Yes, Your Grace.”

She fled before he could see her blush, clutching the ledger like a shield. Behind her, she heard Mrs. Morris’s voice, gentle as she’d never heard it.

“Shall I clear the plates, Your Grace?”

“Leave them,” he replied. “I’m not finished.”

And as Juliette hurried back to her room to tackle the accounts, she couldn’t help but smile. He was going to finish his breakfast.

 

***

 

The household accounts were worse than she’d feared. Not through any malfeasance, the Duke had been telling the truth about paying bills when he remembered them, but through sheer neglect. She spent the morning sorting through drawers in the study after obtaining permission from a bemused Harrison, finding bills tucked between books, under paperweights, and in one case, being used as a bookmark in a volume of Byron.

“Oh, Your Grace,” she muttered, discovering an entire quarter’s worth of staff wages stuffed behind a bust of Aristotle. “What have you been doing?”

By noon, she had a clearer picture of the estate’s financial situation. The income was substantial as there was money coming in from rents from tenant farms, investments in shipping, even a small interest in a Welsh coal mine. The outgoings were modest by ducal standards. But the management was nonexistent.

She was deep in calculations when Betty knocked.

“Miss Morin? Mrs. Morris says lunch is ready in the servants’ hall. And she says to tell you that His Grace has gone out to the home farm, so you needn’t worry about…” She trailed off, blushing.

“About another improper tête-à-tête over turnip reports?” Juliette supplied dryly. “How thoughtful of her.”

Lunch was a livelier affair than dinner had been. News of her efficient handling of the morning’s flood had spread, and even James treated her with something approaching respect.

“Heard you got His Grace to eat breakfast,” Sarah, one of the housemaids, ventured. “That’s more than any of us have managed in months.”

“He eats when he remembers,” Mrs. Morris said defensively. “It’s not our place to force him.”

“No, but it is mine, apparently.” Juliette helped herself to cold meat and pickle. “Tell me, has he always been so… distracted?”

The servants exchanged glances.

“He was different before the war,” Harrison said finally. He’d joined them for lunch, bringing the smell of hay and horses. “Laughed more. Rode every morning with Her Grace. Had friends visiting, parties at Christmas. Normal duke things.”

“And now?”

“Now he’s like a ghost haunting his own life,” Betty said softly. “Walking the halls at night, forgetting to eat, letting everything fall apart around him. It’s like he’s punishing himself for surviving when others didn’t.”

“Betty!” Mrs. Morris’s voice was sharp. “That’s quite enough gossip about His Grace.”

“It’s not gossip if it’s true,” James said unexpectedly. “And if Miss Morin’s going to help, she needs to know what she’s dealing with.”

They all looked at Juliette, waiting. She set down her fork carefully.

“What I’m dealing with,” she said slowly, “is a house that needs managing and a master who needs…” She paused, searching for words. “Who needs to remember that life continues whether we participate in it or not.” Those concerns fall quite beyond my province.”

“Pretty words,” Robert drawled. “But what are you actually going to do?”

“My job,” she said simply. “Starting with paying the merchants you’ve all been too polite to mention are threatening to cut off credit.”

Mrs. Morris’s face went red. “We haven’t…”

“The butcher’s boy mentioned it when Betty was in the yard. The coal merchant sent three notices before I found the bills. And I suspect the wine merchant is only still delivering because he’s hoping for eventual payment on what must be a spectacular debt.” She smiled at their shocked faces. “My experience may be wanting, but my faculties remain quite sharp. Now, who can tell me about the repairs needed in the east wing?”

The afternoon dissolved into a whirlwind of activity. She sent James and Robert to the village with bank drafts and apologies. Betty and Sarah were set to cataloging linens which was a disaster of epic proportions. Mrs. Morris provided a tour of the pantries and store rooms which were understocked but salvageable.

By four o’clock, Juliette was exhausted, overwhelmed, and desperately in need of air. The house seemed to press in on her with all its accumulated neglect and sorrow. She slipped out through the garden door, thinking just a few minutes of freedom might clear her head.

Her feet found the path to the river without conscious thought. The Duke had forbidden her to swim alone, but surely just sitting by the water wouldn’t count as disobedience. She needed the peace of it, the reminder that beauty existed even in forbidden places.

The storm had indeed changed the river. What had been clear and laughing yesterday was now brown and swift, swollen with runoff from the hills. The willows trailed their branches in water that ran higher and faster than she’d ever seen it.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

She didn’t scream this time, but it was close. The Duke stood behind her, having approached with unnerving silence despite his injured leg.

“I wasn’t swimming,” she said quickly. “Just… looking.”

“Looking can be dangerous too.” He moved to stand beside her, his presence solid and warm in the cooling afternoon. “My mother used to say the river had moods like people. Calm one day, furious the next.”

“Is that why you come here? To remember her?”

He glanced at her sharply. “What makes you think I come here?”

“You found me yesterday with suspicious ease. And just now, you appeared exactly when I was thinking of disobeying your orders. You must either have been divinely apprised of my presence, or you make it your custom to frequent this part of the river.” 

 “I may, perchance, be somewhat divinely apprised.”

“Perhaps you are. In which case, you know I was only going to sit and watch the water for ten minutes before returning to battle with your accounts.”

“How goes the battle?”

“I’m winning, but it’s a near thing. Your filing system appears to be based on proximity and chance rather than any logical order.”

“I file things where I’ll remember them.”

“Which would work brilliantly if you ever remembered where that was.” She softened the criticism with a smile. “I’ve found enough lost bills to finance a small war. Your merchants will be delighted to finally see payment.”

“They’ve been patient.”

“They’ve been saints. Another few months and you’d have been living on turnips from your own fields.”

“At least I know they’re properly rotated.”

The dry humor caught her off guard, making her laugh. “There is that. Though I’m not sure even perfectly rotated turnips are worth sacrificing ham for.”

They stood in comfortable silence, watching the river race past. The late afternoon sun slanted through the trees, turning the muddy water to molten bronze. Somewhere downstream, she could hear the splash of what might have been an otter or just a branch surrendering to the current.

“I used to swim here with my mother,” he said suddenly. “She taught me when I was five. Said every Duke of Briarhallow should know how to save himself from his own river.”

“Wise woman.”

“She was. She also said the river would claim what it was owed eventually. I thought it was just one of her stories until…”

“Until it claimed her.”

He nodded slowly. “I was in Spain when it happened. By the time the letter reached me, she’d been buried for three weeks. I couldn’t even…”

He checked himself abruptly, his visage betraying the fierce effort required to master his emotions. Juliette wanted to touch him, to offer comfort, but the gulf of propriety stretched between them like the swollen river.

“She wouldn’t want you to blame yourself,” she said softly.

“No? I left her here alone while I went to play soldier. I knew she swam every morning, knew the river was dangerous, and I left anyway.”

“You went to serve your country. She would have been proud.”

“Proud?” His laugh was bitter. “Her son came back scarred and broken, good for nothing but frightening children and forgetting to pay bills. Yes, I’m sure she’d be overflowing with maternal pride.”

“You saved twelve men.”

He went very still. “Who, pray tell, supplied you with such intelligence?”

“Betty. She’s very proud of you, even if you’re not.”

“Betty’s a romantic child who doesn’t understand what saving twelve men cost.” He turned to face her fully, and she saw something raw in his eyes. “Do you know what grapeshot does to a human body, Miss Morin? Do you know what it sounds like when men scream for mothers who will never come? Do you know what it feels like to hold your sergeant’s intestines in place while he begs you to let him die?”

She held his gaze steadily. “No. I don’t know any of that. But I know you stayed. You could have retreated with the others, saved yourself, and preserved your perfect face and working body for duchess-hunting in London ballrooms. Instead, you stayed.”

 “I remained, I confess, owing to a profound want of good sense.”

“You remained because you’re a good man.”

The words hung between them, stark and simple. He stared at her as if she’d spoken in tongues.

“You don’t know me,” he said finally.

“No,” she agreed. “But I’m learning. I know you patrol this river to make sure no one else drowns in it. I know you eat breakfast in the summer kitchen because it reminds you of your mother. I know you walk the halls at night because lying still makes you remember things you’d rather forget. And I know you hired me not because I can organise accounts or manage servants, but because I looked at your river like it was beautiful instead of cursed.”

He took a step closer, and she could smell soap and leather and something uniquely him. “You see too much.”

“Occupational hazard of being nobody. People forget to guard themselves around the invisible.”

“You’re not invisible.”

The way he said it, low and intense, made heat bloom under her skin. This was dangerous territory, more treacherous than any storm-swollen river. She was his servant, he was her employer, and anything else was impossible.

“I should go back,” she said, not moving.

“Yes,” he agreed, not stepping away.

The river rushed past, carrying debris from the storm, indifferent to the two people standing too close on its bank. A bird called somewhere in the woods, breaking the spell.

“Miss Morin,” he said formally, putting proper distance between them again. “About the swimming…”

“I understand, Your Grace. No swimming alone. The river might claim what it’s owed.”

“That’s not…” He stopped, frustrated. “I’m not superstitious. But this river has taken enough from me. I won’t let it have you too.”

The possession in that statement should have alarmed her. Instead, it sent warmth spreading through her chest like good brandy.

“Then I’ll be careful,” she promised. “Though you should know, I’m an exceptionally poor sacrifice. The river spirits would probably throw me back.”

“Don’t.” His voice was rough. “Don’t joke about it. Just… promise me. No swimming alone.”

“I promise.”

He studied her face as if memorizing it, then nodded sharply. “The household meetings are at six. You should hear what the tenants need before making any grand plans.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

She curtsied and turned to go, but his hand caught her elbow. The touch burned through the thin fabric of her sleeve.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For this morning. For making me eat breakfast. For…” He gestured helplessly at the space between them. “For not being afraid.”

“Should I be afraid?”

His thumb moved against her arm, just once, so lightly she might have imagined it. “Probably.”

Then he released her and strode away, his limp more pronounced with the quick movement. She stood frozen, arm tingling where he’d touched her, watching until the woods swallowed him.

What are you doing? The sensible voice in her head sounded panicked. This is how servants get dismissed without references. This is how reputations get ruined. This is how…

“This is how hearts get broken,” she said aloud, then laughed at her own dramatics. One touch, a few loaded looks, and she was spinning fantasies like a green girl.

But as she walked back to the house, she couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d said I won’t let it have you too. As if she was something worth protecting…as if she belonged to him in some way that went beyond employment.

They were dangerous notions and indeed impossible thoughts. Yet upon a day commenced with the peril of floods and concluded with assurances beside a river in its spate, the notion of the impossible appeared far less utterly fixed than was its custom.