Jenny chuckled. “Perhaps the blue pinafore would look nicer. What do you think, Maggie?”
“Undoubtedly,” Maggie responded with a grin.
While Emma was chattering on and on to herself, Jenny leaned forward, dropping her voice.
“I don’t envy you this breakfast,” she murmured.
Maggie sighed. “Nor do I. But it can’t last forever.”
It can only feel as though it will,she thought grimly.
Maggie had chosen her good pale-green gown—plain but neat. It was hardly a match for the frilled confections Lady Constance seemed to favour, judging by what glimpses Maggie had caught of her. But that was of no consequence; she was not trying to compete. She was a governess, not a lady.
“Simon says Lady Westbrook wants his Grace to marry Lady Constance,” Jenny remarked, brushing Emma’s hair. “She’s the most beautiful lady I’ve ever seen—though not the most pleasant.”
A chill went down Maggie’s spine. She had no right to feel unsettled. The duke could marry whomever he pleased—and Lady Constance would make a perfectly suitable duchess.
“Oh?” she said lightly, striving for indifference. “And is he likely to marry her, then?”
“I couldn’t say. His Grace has never shown much interest in marriage, but he’s a duke, so I suppose he must, and he’s always held his aunt in such respect.”
“I don’t like Lady Constance,” Emma declared. “She pushed me over.”
Maggie hid a smile. “I’m sure it was an accident, Miss Emma.”
“It wasn’t,” Emma muttered darkly. “Idon’tlike her.”
***
Half an hour later, Maggie led Emma by the hand into the dining room, where the table had been set for breakfast.
The space was huge, with a high ceiling and massive windows which bathed the room in light. The table was piled high with dishes, full of far too much food even for twenty people to eat. The sulphurous smell of eggs hung in the air, and Maggie fought the urge to wrinkle her nose.
All eyes turned toward them—Lady Constance herself, a hawk-eyed older woman Maggie took to be Lady Westbrook, a cadaverous gentleman and his silent, blank-faced wife—presumably Lord and Lady Farendale—and, of course, the duke at the head of the table.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, rising to his feet. “Good morning, Emma! Good morning, Miss Winter.”
Emma went rushing into the duke’s arms, and he whisked her up and over his head, throwing her up into the air. Maggie stood where she was, hands folded in front of her waist and tried not to feel awkward.
Am I allowed to eat? Am I even allowed to sit down?
As if sensing her thoughts, the duke glanced at her, over the top of Emma’s head.
“Here, Miss Winter—two places beside me, for you and Emma. Do sit down.”
Maggie managed a faint smile and obeyed. Emma was seated beside her uncle, Maggie beside Emma, and Lady Westbrook on her other side. Lady Constance sat opposite, openly scowling.
“Is the governess going to eat with us?” Lady Constance asked tartly. “That never happened when I was little, did it, Mama?”
“Of course she’s to eat,” Lady Westbrook said wryly. “She’s missed her usual breakfast in the nursery to be here. It would be cruel to deny her a meal now. Help yourself, Miss Winter. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
That, at least, was a relief. Maggie offered a quick smile of thanks. As she filled her plate, her thoughts spun.
Why am I so out of my depth? Why am I letting them make me feel small?
She forced herself to breathe evenly. Composure—always composure. When she looked up again, Lady Constance was watching her with narrowed eyes.
Maggie had crossed paths with the guests once or twice since their arrival and had been ignored every time. Lady Constance and her mother had swept past her without acknowledgement, though Lady Farendale had offered a quick, curious, and almost apologetic glance.
