“How dare you laugh,” she said coldly, rising to her feet. “Who are you?”
The man straightened his back, but his face remained unperturbed. “Frank Wickham, my lady.”
The name did not belong in her father’s house. She felt that instinctively. It carried warmth. Ease. Something unregulated.
“And what,” she asked, lifting her chin, “were you doing skulking about where you do not belong?”
His mouth quirked. “Doing my duty, my lady. I thought I heard distress.”
“You thought wrong.”
“Perhaps,” he said mildly. “But it did not sound like nothing.”
Her fingers curled at her side. “You will forget what you saw.”
He met her gaze steadily. “Very well, m’lady.”
She studied him, searching for insolence, for mockery, for fear. She found none of it—only a quiet confidence that unsettled her more than scorn would have. No servant had ever looked at her like that. Not with pity. Not with reverence. Just… honesty.
He tilted his head. “Your secret is safe with me, Lady Amelia,” he added.
The words struck deep—much deeper than words from a servant should have.
She turned abruptly and swept past him, her skirts whispering sharply across the floor.
But from that moment on, Frank Wickham was suddenlyeverywhere.
He was the footman who escorted her to the milliner. Walked a measured distance behind her in the gardens. Held doors, fetched parcels, waited patiently when she lingered too long over books or flowers. He did all of it correctly—no impropriety, no over-familiarity—and yet there was nothing wooden about him, unlike all of the other servants in the earl’s household.
He smiled. He listened intently when spoken to. Henoticedthings.
Once, when thunder cracked suddenly overhead and Amy startled despite herself, he murmured quietly,“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei…”
She turned sharply, her breath caught and her pulse raced.
“You said—what did you say?”
He gave her the smallest smile. “Only a comfort.”
After that, their conversations lengthened. Never where others could hear, of course. Never long enough to invite suspicion.
But with Frank, Amy felt something she had not felt since her mother’s passing.
Safe.
He did not lecture. He did not condescend. He never told her she was too sensitive, too emotional, too dramatic. He listened when she spoke of her mother. Of the hollow left behind. Of her brother’s increasing resemblance to their father. Of her fears for her future.
Neither did he laugh at her or dismiss her. When she asked questions about the world outside her father’s estate, he answered without amusement.
Then there was the fact that he remembered things she said. Once, on the anniversary of her mother’s birth, he brought her a tray—unasked—with her favorite tea. When she blinked up at him in astonishment, he merely nodded to her.
In a world that constantly told her to be silent, Frank Wickham heard her.
And when she whispered one evening, barely audible, “You are like me, are you not?”
He did not answer aloud, but silently crossed himself.
Her breath left her in a rush.He believes as I do,she thought in astonishment, and somehow she did not feel quite so alone anymore.
