“I know, but I wish to oversee it all too. I do not want to be unaware of what is happening in my town.”
It was mostly true. Of course, she also wanted something to do, and a purpose.
The rest of the morning unfolded in similar fashion.
Cook met her in the kitchens, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I did not expect to see you down here again so soon, Your Grace,” she said.
“I expect to be here often,” Margaret replied.
Cook studied her.
“We have managed well enough.”
“I know,” Margaret said gently. “I am not here to correct. I am here to understand.”
There was a small pause.
“Well,” Cook said at last, gesturing toward the hearth, “the ovens draw unevenly in damp weather.”
Margaret stepped closer, feeling the heat against her face.
“Can it be repaired?”
“It can,” Cook admitted. “If someone is willing to pay for it.”
“It will be repaired.”
Cook blinked once, then nodded slowly.
“Very well, Your Grace.”
By midday, she had spoken with the head gardener about the frost, with the laundress about mending supplies, with two maids who had not expected her to remember their names.
She remembered them anyway.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said to one of the maids, who had hesitated before mentioning a leak in the west corridor.
The girl flushed.
“I did not wish to trouble you.”
“You are not troubling me,” Margaret said. “You are helping me.”
By afternoon, the staff no longer regarded her with guarded curiosity. They watched her with something closer to relief. When she finally returned upstairs, her shoulders ached from holding herself upright.
Her chamber felt too quiet. The fire had been lit, as always, the curtains drawn. Everything was in order. She removed her gloves slowly, setting them on the dressing table with care. All of it felt tangible during the day.
At night, it dissolved into something softer and more uncertain.
A knock sounded at her door.
“Come in,” she called.
It was Mrs. Hill again.
“I wished to inform you,” the housekeeper said, “that the coal order has been placed.”
