“Hold still, Your Grace,” Mrs. Weber said, her tone kind but clipped as she adjusted the corset, her hands deft and practiced.
The older woman, with her gray-streaked bun and calm demeanor, moved with quiet efficiency, arranging Camelia’s evening gown for her first dinner with her husband. The blue silk gown was breathtaking as it flowed around her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Weber,” Camelia said, forcing a smile as she smoothed her skirts. “I do hope you can help me around. I would love to know more about His Grace and Pamela.”
Mrs. Weber stepped back, lowering her gaze to the floor. “It is my job to help you, Your Grace, but there is not much I can say about His Grace and Lady Pamela. I am just their servant.”
Camelia felt terrible for making her uncomfortable.
“I apologize, Mrs. Weber. Your help around Brentmere Manor is more than enough for me.”
Mrs. Weber beamed at her. “You’re ready for dinner now, Your Grace.”
Camelia thanked her, but her heart sank slightly.
Brentmere feels like a fortress of secrets.
She already missed her sisters’ lively chatter, Iris’s stern wisdom, and Margaret’s quick wit.She wished they were there to brighten this strange new world.
“You may lead the way, Mrs. Weber,” she said, sounding brighter than she felt.
The maid guided her through Brentmere’s grand corridors. Each wall was adorned with tapestries and gilded frames. Camelia’s eyes caught the portrait of a striking young woman, her ebony hair cascading in soft waves and her serene expression hauntingly familiar.
“Who is she?”
Mrs. Weber shuffled her feet. “That is Lady Josephine, Your Grace.”
“She’s beautiful,” Camelia whispered as she admired the painting. “But there’s a sadness in her eyes.”
“Yes, she was very beautiful.” The elderly woman looked up at the painting with glassy eyes.
“Was?”
“She is no longer with us, Your Grace.”
Camelia longed to probe Mrs. Weber further, but she knew that it was useless to ask a loyal servant for an explanation.
“I am sorry for your loss,” she said gently.
Mrs. Weber responded with a soft smile, before they resumed walking.
But the portrait lingered in Camelia’s thoughts as they reached the dining room.
A long mahogany table was set with gleaming silverware and candles. Lady Pamela sat stiffly next to His Grace. Her delicate features composed and her hands folded primly under the table.
The Duke stood at the head. His presence filled the entire room, and Camelia felt the familiar flutters in the pit of her stomach when her eyes landed on him.
“Welcome, Duchess,” he said authoritatively, gesturing to her seat. “You’re punctual. That’s good.”
Camelia offered a small smile, hoping it would mask her annoyance. “Do you think so little of me, Your Grace?”
The Duke’s jaw worked, and he glared at her as she sat opposite Lady Pamela, who watched them in utter shock.
“I half-expected you to run by now,” he retorted.
“I wouldn’tdreamof keeping you or Lady Pamela waiting.” She hoped he picked up on the sarcasm in her tone. She turned to Lady Pamela, determined to break through the girl’s reserve. “Lady Pamela, do you have any favorite pastimes? Perhaps you enjoy reading or sketching?”
Lady Pamela’s eyes flicked up briefly, then dropped to her plate. “I… read, Your Grace,” she replied, her voice barely audible.
