She spent her days staring at these four walls, and that was all.
Diana pushed away from the table, startled by her own action, but she had little interest in her food and couldn’t concentrate on her book. Instead, she wandered around the room, looking between the paintings. In the two short months she had been there, she had given them all names in this room, as though they were friends who could talk back to her.
There was Isabella, the young maiden who sat on a garden swing with the sun high above her, having lost a shoe amongst the undergrowth, though she hardly cared and was smiling in the painting. There was Robert beside her, a rather stiff-upper-lipped gentleman, who she always imagined would disapprove of Isabella’s carefree nature, and lastly, there was a young couple together, who she had named Jordan and Eleanor.
They sat together, rather formally, yet the way their hands were clasped suggested something very intimate indeed. It was a stolen moment in a formal situation, one that Diana envied. She had never known that kind of warm and intimate touch.
“Well, what do you think of my life here, Isabella?” she asked aloud as she walked back to the painting on the swing. “Yes, I know …” She paused and sighed. “It is very dull, isn’t it?” She kept staring at the painting for some time, not really caring that her food was going cold as she admired Isabella’s painting, feeling envy for the woman. “I will try to be happy here. I have to be,” she murmured. “It is the only life dealt to me after all, isn’t it?”
She could remember something her mother had said to her once.
“Life is like playing whist. You cannot always win, but you do have to play with the hand that is dealt to you.”
Maybe it was time Diana tried to make more of the hand she had been dealt.
There was a gentle tap to the door, and she turned to see Mr Arnold enter the room another time. Her face spread into a smile at his entrance.
“Your Grace, is there anything you need?” he asked gently.
A lot!She was tempted to cry, but she restrained herself.
“Is there something wrong with the food?” He gestured towards the table that she had vacated.
“Nothing wrong, Mr Arnold,” she said, walking back to her seat. “I simply wished to look at the paintings for a while.” As he busied himself around the table, helping her to more food, she was struck by the action. It was as though he was taking care of her, serving her up more food to eat.
She glanced at the painting of Isabella on the wall, longing to ask her opinion on the action.
What does it mean?
Chapter 2
“She barely ate it!” Tommie cried in complaint.
“I know,” Owen said, sighing as he and the other servers brought the plates back to the kitchen. As people busied around him, he released the capon plate and rubbed his hands over his face, feeling the confusion swell. He’d even found himself serving up the duchess’ plate himself, so intent on seeing she ate well that he had interfered.
I should not have done that.
It was hardly the place of a butler to do such a thing, but he was growing worried at seeing her eat so little. She was slight in build as it was.
“This is not good, Owen,” Tommie said as he pushed the plates towards the maids to clean. “I keep cooking all these lovely things, and it’s clear she doesn’t like any of it. I thought you said capon was her favourite?”
“I thought it was. It is asked for more than anything else,” Owen said, lowering his hands and looking at the cook another time. They had arrived at Hungerford Manor around a similar time and had been firm friends ever since.
Where Owen was tall and lithe, with brown hair and angular features, Tommie was the opposite. Short, stocky, an open round face topped with red hair, and manner so animated that it was sometimes tiring to be in the same room as him.
Now was one of those times as he instructed the maids in what to do, urging them on so fast that when he dropped a plate, it was a wonder it didn’t smash on the floor. Fortunately, Tommie was used to his own ways and grabbed the plate from the air before it could hit the floorboards beneath their feet.
“You will give me a heart attack one of these days,” Owen said as he leaned on the bench and looked around the kitchen. It was a busy affair, with the vaulted stone ceilings arching over the heads quite low, so Owen had to duck as he walked under a few of them.
In the centre, herbs hung down from hooks as they dried, filling the chamber with the scents of rosemary, thyme, and mint. On the far side, pheasants hung up too, waiting to be plucked.
“Aren’t you used to me by now?” Tommie said, waggling his eyebrows and laughing. “You should be, quiet man; I give you a heart attack most days. Heads up!” he called to one of the cooks who turned to catch a bundle of napkins he tossed their way. “Now, back to the matter at hand,” he said, turning back to face Owen. “Why isn’t our good duchess eating?”
“I do not know,” Owen said with frustration as he leaned on the workbench and began to tidy a few plates to help.
“Have you asked her?”
“Tommie, that is hardly my place now, is it?”
