The child’s spoon halted midway to her lips. She glanced up, her clear eyes meeting Dorothy’s only for a fleeting moment before she dropped her gaze again and bent over her plate as if the bread and porridge there required her full attention.
Dorothy’s smile wavered. She cleared her throat softly and reached for her own cup.
“Do not be discouraged, Your Grace,” Mrs. Tresswell said. “Miss Eugenia is not unkind. She only… keeps her words to herself.”
Dorothy turned toward the woman, grateful for the explanation. “She truly does not speak?”
“No,” Mrs. Tresswell replied, shaking her head gently. “She has not spoken since she was very small. Physicians have been summoned, one after another. Learned men with many opinions, none of which have proved useful. They found no affliction of the tongue nor of the throat. Nothing that explains her silence.”
Dorothy’s eyes lingered on the girl, who now ate with careful, almost delicate movements, as though performing a ritual. “Then she chooses not to?”
Mrs. Tresswell’s expression softened. “We cannot say. But she understands everything. If you address her, she will answer in her own way. A nod, a look, sometimes a written note when she is comfortable. She is exceedingly polite. Exceedingly clever too.” She leaned forward just slightly. “Her arithmetic is already years ahead of what one would expect.”
Dorothy felt a pang in her chest that was half pity, half curiosity. “What about her parents?” she asked carefully.
The warmth in Mrs. Tresswell’s features cooled at once. She straightened, her hands folding neatly in her lap. “I am not at liberty to speak of them, Your Grace. It is not my place.”
The firmness in her tone left no room for pursuit. Dorothy inclined her head, though a dozen questions swirled unspokenin her mind. “Of course,” she murmured, casting another look at Eugenia, who kept her eyes fixed stubbornly on her plate.
“I hear that the housekeeper is quite ready to show you about the estate once you have finished here,” Mrs. Tresswell added. She will explain all that is to be managed. It is a great house, and there is much to acquaint yourself with.”
Dorothy sat back, forcing a smile as she lowered her gaze to her plate. “At least that is something to look forward to,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. Something tangible. Something that might make the walls of this great, echoing place feel a little less like they were closing in.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“My lady, if I may be so bold?—”
“I would prefer that you not be so bold, Mrs. Tresswell,” Dorothy cut in.
“It’s the Duke, Your Grace.”
“This isn’t about the Duke!”
“It is not quite fitting that you should be darting about the garden.”
“Mrs. Tresswell, the only reason I sort your advice on this was because you agreed that Eugenia should play.”
“Indeed, Your Grace…but other games.”
“This one is fine. It’s Hide-and-seek. Everyone plays it.”
“His Grace does not favor such noise. The Duke values silence above all.”
Dorothy gave a soft laugh, tilting her head. “Silence, Mrs. Tresswell? Why, if silence were all the garden afforded, then it should be better paved over with stone. What use are blossoms if one may not run between them?”
“The use, Your Grace, is in their contemplation. The garden was laid out for order, for symmetry, for peace. Not for romping.”
“You speak as though the hedges themselves might faint should anyone run past them too quickly.”
Mrs. Tresswell did not so much as flinch. “I speak only of the Duke’s wishes. He does not care for disturbance. If the ruckus reaches his study windows, he will not be pleased.”
Dorothy lifted her chin with mock solemnity. “Then perhaps I ought to laugh more loudly so that His Grace might recall he has married a living creature, not a statue.”
A slight twitch at the corner of Mrs. Tresswell’s mouth betrayed amusement, though she quickly pressed it down. “I should advise against such provocations, Your Grace. His Grace is a man of habit, and habit seldom bends.”
Dorothy clasped her hands behind her back, smiling as though she had already won. “It’s just a game. Don’t worry. Given the nature of the game, I doubt he will hear us.”
Dorothy had been a duchess now for nearly a month, though it scarcely felt as though she lived within the title. Each morning, she rose, dressed, and moved about the cavernous rooms of Walford Manor, but the sense of belonging eluded her, as though she were a guest inhabiting another woman’s life. Even Eugenia—sweet, timid Eugenia—while warming to her presence, still would not meet her gaze nor attempt to speak.
