Chapter 43

She toyed with the keys on her chain, watching them shine in the morning sunlight. It had been a lovely gift, but what did it mean? It made her happy to look at them, but was Authur happy that she wore them?

Perhaps she should be more like Lucille. He’d never suggested it, but if he could have a happier, kinder, more devoted version of his first wife, Authur might not look so sad and brood so on the past. If she were someone who could embroider useless frills and paint inferior watercolours, and sit at the spinet in the evenings, singing tedious songs in bad French, someone who could display her good breeding to the best advantage of her husband.

She sighed. If she could be someone she could never be. The servants in this house knew their place better than she did. Of course they hadn’t known it until she’d arrived and taken charge of them, but what did that prove? That she’d make a better housekeeper than a duchess, she supposed.

And what was left to her now?

Gardening, perhaps. She