Catherine was having breakfast alone. As she had the day before and every other day that she had resided at Caerleon thus far. The only meal she and Aaron had shared was their wedding breakfast. She frowned, peering up from the book she had been reading.
“Then please show her in, Mr. McKay.”
The butler jerked his head forward smartly and then paused.
“Your Grace, may I remind you that the correct term is simply McKay. Only my staff use the honorific. It is not required by members of His Grace’s family.”
She was about to apologize and correct herself, but intercepted her automatic deference just in time.
“Nevertheless, it is not respectful to call anyone simply by their surname. I shall call you Mr.,” she chided gently.
I will address servants as I see fit. In a way I deem to be respectful. And Mr. McKay and Aaron can go hang if they do not like it.
She flushed at her own boldness as the butler turned smartly on his heel and strode away. Moments later, a young woman with bouncing dark curls and a vivid emerald gown billowed into the room. Catherine thought she recognized her from the wedding breakfast.
“Your Grace! Do forgive the intrusion,” the girl declared, her voice lilting with irrepressible cheer, “but now that we are neighbors, I simplyhadto call.”
Puzzled, Catherine set aside her book and gestured for Lady Isabella to sit. She felt that she should have stood when Lady Isabella entered the room, but then reminded herself that she was, for all intents and purposes, a Duchess now. It was a foreign mantle, but one she would have to learn to wear.
“Will you take tea, my lady?” she asked, picking up the teapot. A dull ache pressed at her temples, likely the result of too much reading, but she quashed it for her first true guest.
A maid immediately squeaked in the corner and scurried forward like a startled mouse. Catherine jolted, only then realizing she had neglected the proper etiquette.
“You are not yet acquainted with the rank of Duchess,” Isabella observed with an amiable smile.
“I am…not,” she grimaced, putting a hand to her stomach.
There had been a twinge of pain there. One that was familiar… Aaron could not have been right. Surely he was mistaken. Nobody could be as cruel and depraved as to—
“Are you quite well, Your Grace. I must say, you look awfully pale,” Isabella chirped suddenly.
“It is very stuffy in here. Shall we take the air and walk in the garden?” Catherine said hurriedly.
“Of course, whatever you desire, Your Grace,” Isabella replied with a courtly nod.
“No—” Catherine snapped before modifying her tone, “I do not care for that title. It feels like a weight upon me. Would you mind calling me Catherine? And I call you Isabella?”
The answering grin needed no words of reply.
“Please, call me Bella then. That is the name my friends use. And I hope we will become friends.”
Catherine’s smile was genuine, though the pain in her head had aggravated.
She welcomed the openness of her new friend, the simple acceptance. She had not been allowed to mingle with society while living at Haventon and thus had no opportunity to make acquaintanceships—or dare she say,friends.
They broke from the stuffiness of the breakfast room and tried to find their way out to the gardens. Navigating Caerleon proved more difficult than Catherine had expected, and by the time they reached the correct door and stepped out onto a veranda overlooking the lawn, both girls were giggling at the absurdity of the circumstance.
“However will you manage, Catherine? It is such a labyrinth!”
“That is what I said upon first returning here,” she snorted. “Apparently, there is now even a map!”
They walked arm in arm down mossy stone steps to the expanse of lawn, which was being scythed by three groundskeepers.
“Returned?” Bella picked up breezily. “Now, I don’t mean to pry, but am I to take it you were acquainted with the Duke long before your marriage?”
She nodded in answer. “When we were both young. I was allowed to visit with him and he with me before my parents… passed.”
“Oh dear, I am so sorry to hear that,” Bella thinned her lips. “I, too, lost Mama when I was young. My father’s current wifeis my stepmother, and quite frankly,” her new friend leaned in conspiratorially, “she is awitch. But I hope to marry soon, and then I can be away from her.”
