Page 28 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

She sat up. The chamber felt too large, too quiet, the four-poster bed an expanse of linen that emphasized her solitude rather than comforted it.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until the pressure displaced the ache behind them, and then she rose and rang for the maid.

She descended to breakfast with her chin level and her shoulders squared.

Freddie looked up first. His hair stood in its customary defiance of brushes and combs, and a smear of what appeared to be blackberry jam decorated his left cheek.

“You’re late,” he remarked. “We’ve been waiting ages. Charlie said we shouldn’t start without you because of manners, but I told him scones get cold, and manners don’t matter when there’s jam.”

Charlie, who had been dissecting a scone into precise quarters, glanced up briefly. “Good morning, Your Grace.” He returned to his plate, offering nothing more.

“Good morning to you both.” Alice took her seat and reached for the teapot. “And I must disagree with you, Frederick. Manners do matter, though they are sometimes a little outmatched by the persuasive power of jam.”

Freddie considered this with his head tilted, a scone halfway to his mouth. “Does that mean I can have more jam?”

“You may.” Alice passed the dish. “Though I would suggest applying it to the scone rather than your cheek.”

After breakfast, Alice met with Mrs. Finch in the morning room, where the household accounts lay open.

“The linen inventory requires updating,” Mrs. Finch said, her pencil moving down a column of figures with unhurried precision. “And Cook has requested additional funds for the kitchen garden. The spring planting is behind schedule due to the wet weather last month, and she believes an investment in seedlings from the market would compensate.”

“Authorize it.” Alice initialed the relevant line in the ledger. “And perhaps we might consider expanding the herb bed near the kitchen door. Rosemary thrives in that corner, and Cook mentioned its scarcity last week.”

Mrs. Finch’s eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. “An excellent suggestion, Your Grace. I shall inform the head gardener.”

The title still did not fit. Alice heard it each time and felt the same small jolt of wrongness, as though someone had addressed her by a name that belonged to another woman.

The afternoon brought lessons. Freddie’s arithmetic primer lay open on the library table, its pages dog-eared at the chapter on long division. Charlie sat nearby with his geography text, one finger tracing the coastline of Cornwall.

“I don’t understand why anyone needs to divide things into equal parts,” Freddie announced, pushing the primer away with both hands. “If I have twelve apples and I want to eat them all, why would I give half to someone else? It’s foolish.”

“Because sharing is a social convention,” Alice said, pulling back the primer and opening it to the offending page. “And because arithmetic has uses that extend beyond the immediate gratification of appetite.”

“But I don’t want to share my apples.” Freddie crossed his arms. “I want to eat them. All twelve.”

Charlie looked up from his map. “If you eat twelve apples in one sitting, you will be ill. I’ve seen it happen last Michaelmas, with the cider apples from the orchard. You were green for two days, and Papa had to send for the physician, who charged three guineas for the visit and told you to drink chamomile tea, which you refused because you said it tasted like boiled socks.”

“It did taste like boiled socks,” Freddie said defensively. “But the point stands. Division is theft.”

Alice pressed her lips together. The urge to laugh arrived with such force that she had to reach for her teacup as cover, and even then she could feel the corners of her mouth betraying her.

“Perhaps,” she said when she had composed herself, “we might approach the problem from a different angle. Suppose the twelve apples are not apples at all, but hours in a day. And suppose you must divide those hours between lessons, meals, riding, and whatever mischief you typically get up to when you believe no one is watching. How would you apportion them?”

Freddie’s face underwent a series of rapid calculations. “Two hours for lessons. One for meals. Three for riding. And six for mischief.” He nodded, satisfied with his own arithmetic.

Alice smiled gently. “Let us continue.”

She helped Freddie through three problems of long division. She listened to Charlie recite the principal exports of Cornwall. She poured more tea. She adjusted a lamp.

For hours at a stretch, she managed not to think about Kenneth at all.

Days accumulated at Bearmoor faster than she had expected. The household settled around her adjustments like a garment that had been altered to fit a different frame.

The drawing room remained rearranged. The curtains stayed open. Fresh flowers appeared on the mantel each morning without anyone having to be asked twice, and Cook had taken to consulting her on the week’s menus.

Alice appreciated the deference. She appreciated the routine. She appreciated, most of all, the exhaustion that descended each evening. It was the kind of tired that left little room for anything else, and on her better nights, she fell into bed and slept without dreaming of firelit parlors.

She had not seen Kenneth properly in days. He took his meals in his study. He rode out early and returned late. On the rare occasions when their paths crossed, he acknowledged her with a nod.