“Your Grace,” the housekeeper said, offering her customary curtsy with such precision that Isadora felt quite uncomfortable. It seemed far too rehearsed. “If you are ready, I would be honored to show you the Abbey properly. His Grace thought you might wish to familiarize yourself with the household arrangements.”
His Grace thought. Even this simple courtesy was filtered through Edmund’s authority, his decisions, his carefully maintained control over every aspect of life within these walls.
“I should like that very much,” Isadora replied, gathering her shawl against the December chill that seemed to permeate stone and mortar alike. The corridors of Rothwell Abbey held cold the way other houses held warmth, as though winter had taken permanent residence in the very walls.
They began in the state apartments, a series of interconnected chambers that might have housed half the nobility of England in more prosperous times. The silk wall coverings were exquisite—damask in shades of midnight blue and gold that caught what little winter sun managed to penetrate the tall windows. Even the Christmas garments around the house lacked joy. They seemed to be put down with mathematical precision, far too formally.
“These rooms are opened only for the most formal occasions,” Mrs. Pemberton explained as they moved through spaces that felt more like a museum than a home. “His Grace’s father entertained the Prince Regent here in 1815, and everything remains exactly as it was arranged for that visit.”
Isadora studied the pristine furniture—chairs upholstered in brocade that looked as though no human had ever dared disturb their perfect arrangement, tables polished to mirror brightness that reflected nothing but emptiness. A portrait of some long-dead Ravensleigh ancestor gazed down at them from above an ornate fireplace, his painted eyes seeming to judge their intrusion into his frozen domain.
“How often are these rooms used now?” she asked, noting how her voice seemed to echo strangely in the vast space.
Mrs. Pemberton’s hands twisted in her apron—that gesture again, the one that spoke of discomfort carefully contained. “Not since His Grace inherited the title, Your Grace. That is, His Grace prefers more... intimate arrangements.”
The euphemism hung between them like incense, heavy with unspoken meaning. Edmund didn’t entertain. These magnificent rooms stood empty year after year while their master lived in deliberate isolation, surrounded by beauty he never shared and grandeur that served no purpose beyond display.
As they progressed through the house, Isadora began to understand the true scope of what she had inherited. Chamber after chamber stood shuttered and unused, their windows covered with heavy draperies that blocked out both light and hope. In the Blue Drawing Room, dust covers shrouded furniture like burial shrouds, and the Christmas decorations seemed halfhearted—sprigs of evergreen scattered across tables as though someone had fulfilled an obligation without enthusiasm.
“These were the late Duke’s favorite rooms,” Mrs. Pemberton said, her voice dropping to the respectful whisper reserved for speaking of the dead. “After Her Grace—that is, after the sixth Duke lost his beloved wife—he could not bear to have them used. They reminded him too much of happier times.”
“And the current Duke has maintained this practice?”
“His Grace finds... change difficult in matters concerning his parents’ memory.” The housekeeper’s careful phrasing spoke volumes about the man who had inherited not just wealth and title, but the weight of unresolved grief.
They paused before a portrait in the Long Gallery—a woman with Edmund’s striking green eyes and the sort of gentle beauty that seemed to illuminate the canvas despite the gloom surrounding it. She wore the fashions of twenty years past, her dark hair arranged in soft waves that framed features marked by intelligence and warmth. Even in paint and varnish, she possessed a vitality that stood in stark contrast to the lifeless perfection of her surroundings.
“The seventh Duchess,” Mrs. Pemberton said unnecessarily. “She was... she was everything a duchess should be. Kind, gracious, beloved by all who knew her.”
“She was Edmund’s mother.” It wasn’t a question. The resemblance was unmistakable, though the woman in the portrait carried none of the hard edges that marked her son’s features.
“His Grace adored her. And then... after...”
She trailed off, apparently realizing she had revealed more than was wise.
“After she died, there were no more celebrations,” Isadora finished gently.
“His Grace—the sixth Duke—never recovered from losing her. And when young Edmund inherited...” Mrs. Pemberton shook her head. “Well, grief has a way of passing from father to son, doesn’t it?”
They continued their tour, but Isadora found herself increasingly aware of being watched. Servants appeared and disappeared through the corridors like wraiths, but she caught glimpses of curious eyes that followed her every movement.
When she attempted to engage them directly, however, the result was always the same. They mumbled something, avoided her eyes, then fled in terror. The third time this happened, she turned to Mrs. Pemberton, her eyes searching for answers on the older woman’s face.
“The staff are well-trained in discretion,” Mrs. Pemberton said from behind her, though the housekeeper’s own discomfort was evident in the rigid set of her shoulders. “His Grace values efficiency above... familiarity.”
The euphemism was becoming tedious. Edmund ruled his household through fear, pure and simple. Not the healthy respect that naturally flowed between master and servant, but the sort of terror that kept tongues silent and eyes downcast.
It wasn’t until they reached the upper floors that she found someone willing—or perhaps simply unable—to escape immediate conversation.
The schoolroom occupied a sunny corner of the east wing, its tall windows providing the best light in the house for study. Here, at least, attempts had been made at Christmas cheer—paper chains hung from the ceiling, and evergreen boughs had been arranged on the windowsills. A fire crackled warmly in the grate, and the room held an air of lived-in comfort that was entirely absent from the grand apartments below.
Lillian sat at a writing desk, a book open before her and ink staining her fingers in a way that reminded Isadora strongly of her own scholarly habits. The girl looked up as they entered, her expression brightening before quickly becoming guarded.
“Your Grace,” she said, rising to offer a proper curtsy. “I hope you are finding the Abbey to your liking.”
“Very much so,” Isadora replied, though the lie sat uneasily on her tongue. “Mrs. Pemberton has been most thorough in showing me the household arrangements. And what are you studying today?”
Mrs. Hale, who had been dozing in a chair near the fire, started awake at the sound of voices. “Your Grace! Forgive me, I didn’t realize... Lillian, stand properly when addressing Her Grace.”
