CHAPTER 6 — The Shadow of the Duchess
Morning light spilled through the high windows of the Mickelson breakfast room, pale and cold as polished silver. The air smelled of tea and restraint. The Duke had already gone riding; his absence left a peculiar stillness behind — one that the Duchess seemed eager to fill.
She sat at the head of the table, dressed in cream satin, her composure carved from centuries of breeding. Her eyes, however, were sharper than any blade.
"Selene," she said without preamble, "Lady Harrington will call this afternoon to discuss your trousseau. You will attend her with grace and gratitude."
Selene lowered her gaze. "Yes, Mother."
"And Hakeem," the Duchess continued, her tone turning colder, "you will accompany your father to the Everard estate tomorrow. It is time you learned the measure of the man your sister will marry."
Hakeem's knife paused midway through his toast. "You mean the man who will buy her obedience."
The Duchess's smile was faint and flawless. "Careful, my son. You mistake pragmatism for cruelty."
He set down the knife, jaw tight. "And you mistake cruelty for duty."
For a heartbeat, silence hovered. Then, with a graceful motion, the Duchess folded her napkin and rose. "The blood of our house is not a thing to be diluted, Hakeem. You would do well to remember that."
When she swept from the room, the air seemed to grow lighter, though the weight in Hakeem's chest did not.
---
Later, Hyacinth was summoned to the upper corridor. She smoothed her apron, heart beating fast. The Duchess never spoke directly to the servants unless there was a purpose — and it was seldom kind.
In the Duchess's private sitting room, sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating rows of porcelain figurines and perfectly arranged roses.
"You are Hyacinth," the Duchess said, not as a question but as a verdict.
"Yes, Your Grace." she answered.
"I have been told you serve in the east wing."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The Duchess's gaze drifted over her — not lecherous, but appraising, like a collector studying a flaw in fine china.
"You are diligent, they say. Polite. Yet lately, your duties seem to take you into places above your station. The terrace, for example."
Hyacinth's breath caught. "I only followed orders, my lady." she says faintly.
The Duchess smiled. It was a terrible thing — beautiful and without warmth. "Of course you did. Still, I believe a change of routine is in order. You will assist Mrs. Ellsworth in the laundry from now on. The servants' hall has no need of… distractions."
Hyacinth bowed her head. "As you so wish, Your Grace."
"Good." The Duchess turned back to her roses. "And Hyacinth—forget the terrace. It is not a place for dreams."
Hyacinth left in silence. Only when the door closed behind her did her composure crumble. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest and fought the urge to cry. The corridor blurred through her tears.
---
That evening, Hakeem found her in the courtyard, kneeling beside a fountain, scrubbing linens until her fingers were raw.
"You shouldn't be doing this," he said softly.
She didn't look up. "It seems I shouldn't be doing many things, my lord."
He crouched beside her, voice low. "My mother—what did she say?"
"That I should remember my place."
"And do you believe her?" he asked.
Hyacinth wrung the cloth hard, the water splashing cold against her hands. "Belief doesn't matter, my lord. In this house, only obedience does."
He wanted to take her hands, to stop her from hurting herself, but the sound of footsteps made them both turn.
It was Vincent, candlelight flickering over his pale face. "Brother," he said quietly, "the Duchess is looking for you." His eyes shifted to Hyacinth, full of gentle sorrow. "You're both playing with fire."
When Vincent was gone, Hakeem stood. "I won't let her drive you out," he said.
Hyacinth looked up then, her eyes shining in the dim light. "You can't fight the walls of your own house, my lord. They'll only close tighter."
He said nothing, but as he turned away, his hands were trembling — not from fear, but from the unbearable truth of her words.
---
In another part of the manor, the Duchess watched the courtyard from her window. The faint glow of a candle moved like a restless spirit below.
Beside her, the Duke entered, dust from the stables still clinging to his coat. "You're awake late," he said.
"I have cause."
He followed her gaze. "Hakeem?"
She nodded once. "He's losing himself to sentiment. I will not have it."
The Duke sighed. "He's young."
"He's heir," she replied sharply. "And heirs must not feel too deeply."
She turned from the window, her expression as calm as a storm about to break.
The Duke could feel it but he kept silent steering at her.