Instead, I threw off the heavy quilt, planted my bare feet on the icy floorboards, and decided to go to war. If this was my kingdom, I was not going to rule over dirt. I dressed myself in my simplest, darkest gown, a heavy wool meant for traveling, and pinned my hair back tightly. I found the kitchens by following the smell of stale bread and boiling water. Mrs. Gable was there, hunched over a battered wooden table, nursing a cup of tea.
A young girl, no older than 14, was scrubbing a pot in the sink with half-hearted lethargy. "Good morning," I said loudly. Mrs. Gable nearly dropped her cup. The girl at the sink spun around, eyes wide. "Your grace," Mrs. Gable stood, smoothing her black skirts.
I was just about to bring up a tray. Don't bother. I prefer to take my meals hot. I walked over to the massive cast iron stove. It was barely lit.
Why is the house freezing, Mrs. Gable? There is an entire forest surrounding this estate. We hardly lack for firewood. The Duke. Mrs. Gable hesitated, glancing nervously at the ceiling.
His grace does not like fires. Not since the accident. I stopped. Of course, the fire that had scarred him, killed his family, and ruined his home. Trauma was a heavy chain, but freezing to death out of sympathy was not on my agenda.
The Duke will not have fires in his private rooms, then, I said, keeping my voice perfectly level. But the rest of the house will be heated. Have the footman chop wood immediately. And you? I pointed to the young girl.
What is your name? Martha. Mom, your grace. Martha, fetch me a bucket of hot water, soap, and rags. Then find every available servant in this house and tell them to assemble in the main hall in 20 minutes.
Mrs. Gable bristled. Your grace. I manage the household. You have managed its decay, Mrs. Gable. I interrupted, turning my gaze on her.
I didn't raise my voice, but I let the authority of a woman raised by a ruthless London matriarch bleed into every syllable. Look at this kitchen. Look at the dust in the corridors. I am the Duchess of Harwood now. We are going to clean this house or I will dismiss you all and hire from the village.
Am I understood? She opened her mouth, closed it, and offered a stiff nod. "Yes, your grace. By noon, I had a headache, a smudge of soot across my cheek, and a small army of five terrified, bewildered servants scrubbing the great hall. I had tied an apron over my dress, and was personally cataloging the tarnished silver in the dining room, when I heard the heavy, irregular tread of boots behind me.
What in God's name are you doing? I turned. Nathaniel stood in the doorway. In the harsh daylight, his scars were even more pronounced, a stark map of survival. He was wearing muddy boots and a thick wool sweater that smelled of horses and rain.