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She stared up at the carved oak canopy above her. Oak leaves and acorns decorated the corners, chipped where the wood had dried and split over time. The previous duchess had chosen this bed, or perhaps the one before her; Adelaide could not recall what Cassian had mentioned regarding the historical furnishings, for it had seemed of small importance at the time.
A subtle movement echoed from behind the adjoining door.
Adelaide lay perfectly motionless. Footsteps sounded against the floorboards, restless and slow. Julian was awake, pacing back and forth across his chamber in an uneven rhythm.
She lay listening in the dark. The door separating their rooms was constructed of thick oak with a solid brass handle. She had observed it on their first evening when he had kissed her gloved fingers and departed down the hallway, and again that morning when she had passed it on her way to breakfast, finding the brass handle cool to the touch.
He had remained in his quarters on their wedding night, and he remained there now.
Why?
The inquiry circled her thoughts relentlessly. Their marriage had been established as a practical arrangement; she understood that reality and had accepted it fully. Yet a practical marriage remained a legal union, and a duke required an heir.
His expedition to Xanthos was scheduled, and the door of opportunity belonged to the present, rather than next week or following the upcoming London assemblies.
Sitting up in bed, the silk sheets pooled around her waist as the firelight cast flickering shadows across the far wall.
She considered crossing the room to knock upon the oak paneling, prepared to offer sensible, practical words: Julian, we ought to discuss the matter of succession. The expedition departs in eight weeks, and practical realities demand our attention.
The thought caused her to press her palms against her eyes.
She could not bring herself to address him in such a manner, reducing his burden to a cold duty and her presence to a legal obligation. She had spent thirty years being useful, declining three prior proposals because she desired to be chosen for her own worth. She would not begin her marriage by presenting herself merely as an instrument for the dukedom's continuity.
Rising from the bed, the floor felt cool beneath her bare feet. She retrieved her dressing dress from the armchair by the hearth, tying the silk sash with steadying fingers. Taking up the brass candlestick from the bedside table, she lit the wick, shielded the small flame with her cupped palm, and opened her bedchamber door.
The hallway stretched in both directions, dark and silent, the wall sconces having been doused hours earlier. Her candlelight cast a narrow circle of gold against the wood paneling and the carpeted floor.
She walked forward deliberately. Her steps guided her past Julian's quiet door, past the turn in the passage, and past the gallery with its shrouded portraits, halting at the door at the far end.
It was the chamber Julian had guided her away from on their arrival—Thomas's former bedchamber. I cannot. Not yet.
Standing before the entrance, she reached for the dull brass knob and turned it. The latch yielded without a sound.
The room opened onto cool darkness filled with the subtle scents of cedar and dried lavender. Stepping inside, she lifted her candle to survey the space.
It remained a boy's room, preserved in time. The bed was smaller than her own, its wooden posts uncarved and its counterpane a faded blue. A pair of riding boots stood by the wardrobe, polished and placed side by side, while a dark riding coat hung from a peg behind the door.
Mrs. Rutherford had maintained the room with deep devotion, keeping every surface immaculately clean without disturbing a single object. The linens were fresh, the dust absent, and through the clean glass of the window, the shadowed gardens lay still beneath the half-moon.
A small writing desk sat beneath the window frame. Adelaide approached it, setting her candle down upon the polished wood.
The desk held a delicate miniature portrait in a gilt frame. Thomas gazed out from the painted canvas—young, perhaps seventeen years of age, his hair lighter than Julian's, his features softer, and his smile unguarded. The artist had captured a bright, eager quality in his eyes—the gaze of someone who had not yet encountered the world's perils.
Beside the miniature lay a collection of boyhood keepsakes: a brass pocket compass with a cracked face, a folded handkerchief embroidered with the initials T.H., and a small leather notebook with a worn spine and pages thick with pressed botanical specimens. Opening the journal with care, she noted a dried violet, a sprig of heather, and a single alpine orchid whose petals had turned paper-thin with age, labeled in a youthful script: Found above the tree line. Julian says it is rare. I am keeping it for Adelaide.
Her fingers tightened against the edge of the desk as she read the inscription.
He kept it for me.
The memory returned to her with vivid clarity: a warm summer afternoon in Kent, the fields behind Ashwood Manor glowing gold with late wheat. Thomas had run ahead with his net swinging, calling back over his shoulder about a butterfly near the brook, while Julian had sat in the shade of the ancient oak with his sketchbook open across his knees, his pencil moving in quiet strokes while Thomas's laughter echoed across the grass.
She had been sixteen, Thomas fifteen, and Julian twenty-two—already restless, drawn toward distant horizons. She had stood in the field with her own journal, watching him sketch, and when he looked up, their eyes had met across the distance before he turned his gaze away.
She had not understood the significance of that moment then, yet she comprehended it now.
Adelaide closed the journal, placing it carefully beside the miniature portrait. She looked around the room once more—at the polished boots, the riding coat, and the blue counterpane bearing the faint impression of a head that had not rested there in thirteen years.
Stepping back into the hallway, she closed the oak door, the brass latch clicking softly into place.
