“Perhaps both of us have a knack for doing things that we ought not to.”
He reached out to her, and Rachel prepared herself for another kiss. But the moment his hands touched the side of her face, the room around them began to spin, and Simon was suddenly out of sight.
“Where are you?” she called out for him, panic rising in her tone now.
“I am right here, my dear,” came the reply. But it was not Simon who was speaking to her any longer.
“Mama?”
Rachel woke up with her breathing coming out in rapid spurts. Beads of sweat had formed on her forehead, and she hastily wiped them away as she came to her full senses.
“It was a dream,” she told herself, her voice now trembling. “Nothing more.”
But it had left behind a mark. Even in her dreams, she was being visited by those she had lost. And those she could not ever fully have.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tomorrow had arrived.
The highly anticipated day when she would take charge of her life and not let herself get bogged down by the past. It was here, and there was no question of wasting time away in her chambers.
Rachel had awoken this morning with a plan.
She descended the stairs of the estate and decided that she was going to go meet the staff. It was morning, so she figured that most of them would be found in the kitchen.
But the moment she entered the kitchen, all attention shifted immediately to her. Curious and concerned faces of the staff stared back at her, as though she had somehow lost her way. She heard a few whispers.
“The duchess is here.”
“Quick, stop what you are doing.”
“Stand straighter.”
“Hush.”
Sure, it was not usual for a duchess—or any lady for that matter—to wander over to the kitchen or even be seen near it, so she could understand their surprise. But she wanted to engage with them directly—without calling for them.
At least it is not the attic,she thought to herself before announcing her arrival.
“Good morning,” Rachel said brightly. “I hope that all has been going well this morning.”
The head cook, a stout woman with a no-nonsense expression, stepped forward and dipped into a curtsy.
“Your Grace.”
The other staff murmured polite greetings, each offering curtsies of their own.
Rachel offered a warm smile, trying her best to seem as approachable as possible.
She had decided that was the sort of duchess she wished to be. One who was warm and inspired confidence instead of fear.
“I really hope that I am not intruding,” she said, smiling still. “I do not wish to, anyway. I came here to see if all is well in the kitchen, and perhaps even offer some of my own assistance.”
The cook’s eyes widened, and she exchanged a glance with one of the younger maids.
“Your Grace, everything is perfectly in order. You did not have to trouble yourself by making the journey down here.”
“Oh, it is not trouble at all,” Rachel nodded.
