Page 22 of A Family Bargain with the Duke

“There is no shame in curiosity about one’s own home, Your Grace. I should think it a poor sign if you felt none at all.” Mrs. Whitfield’s mouth softened a fraction. “Shall I show you through the house while His Grace attends to whatever business awaits him in his study? I find new mistresses generally prefer to get acquainted with their new household before it is thoroughly explained to them by someone else’s opinion of it, and since you have not seen a single room of it before now, I expect we will be at it for a while.”

“I would like that very much, thank you.”

Julian caught Louisa’s eye briefly before turning toward the house, something unreadable passing over his face. “I shall find you both before dinner.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Before Mrs. Whitfield could lead her inside, Louisa glanced toward the entrance, where the wet nurse was carrying a peacefully sleeping Eleanor through the doorway, while Mrs. Finch followed with the baby’s things.

“If you would not mind,” Louisa said, turning back to the housekeeper, “I should like to see the nursery first. Eleanor has been wonderfully patient throughout the journey, but I would rest easier knowing she is comfortably settled.”

Mrs. Whitfield’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly before she inclined her head. “Naturally, Your Grace. This way.”

She led them upstairs to a sunny suite overlooking the south gardens, where the afternoon sunlight spilled across polished floorboards and a freshly painted cradle stood ready beside the fireplace. A rocking chair occupied one corner, and the shelves were already stocked with linens, blankets, and the small necessities of an infant’s care.

The wet nurse crossed immediately to the cradle, laying Eleanor down with practiced ease. The baby stirred, gave a tiny sigh, and settled again, one impossibly small fist escaping the blanket.

Louisa found herself smiling before she realized she had done so.

“It is lovely,” she said softly.

“His Grace instructed that nothing is left out,” Mrs. Whitfield replied. “Should anything still be required, it will be provided.”

Louisa stepped toward the cradle and gently brushed a fingertip across Eleanor’s tiny hand. The little fingers curled instinctively around hers, and the knot of apprehension she had carried since leaving London loosened just a little.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now, I believe I am ready to see the rest of the house.”

Mrs. Whitfield nodded. “Very good, Your Grace.”

She led her back through the entrance hall with brisk efficiency. Louisa scarcely had time to admire the gallery, where portraits of stern-eyed Cavendish ancestors watched from gilded frames, or the library that occupied an entire wing with shelves reaching to the ceiling, or the pale blue morning room Mrs. Whitfield pointed out with quiet pride.

“This was the late Duchess’s favorite room,” she revealed. “Though it has stood mostly closed after her death.”

“His Grace’s mother?”

“Yes, Your Grace. She died bringing Lord Piers into the world, God rest her soul.” Mrs. Whitfield’s voice softened briefly, before resuming its brisk efficiency. “The room has been kept aired and dusted, but no one has properly used it since. Perhaps you might find some use for it.”

“I should like that.”

They continued through a dining room grand enough to seat forty people, though Louisa privately doubted it had hosted anywhere near that number in recent memory, and a drawing room furnished beautifully but seemed meant to be seen rather than lived in.

“It is a beautiful house, Mrs. Whitfield.”

“It is, Your Grace.”

Something in the housekeeper’s tone made Louisa glance at her. She found the older woman staring into the distance with a thoughtful expression.

“Though I confess that the liberty has felt rather quieter than a house this size ought to feel these past years. Master Kit keeps mostly to the stables and his rooms. His Grace keeps mostly to his study. Sometimes I have thought this house has more rooms than it has reasons to use them.”

When they left the dining room and made their way back towards the drawing room, Louisa looked down the length of the empty gallery, at the row of closed doors leading to rooms she had not yet seen, at the hush that seemed to sit over everything, beautiful and undisturbed and profoundly still, and felt something in her chest tighten with quiet resolve.

“Perhaps that is about to change, Mrs. Whitfield,” she said.

The housekeeper studied her for a moment, the assessing glint in her gaze slowly giving way to the ghost of an approving smile. “Perhaps it is, Your Grace. I confess I’m beginning to hope so.”

CHAPTER 11

“Two places, set at opposite ends of a table meant for forty.” Louisa stood in the doorway of the dining room, surveying the arrangement with open disbelief. “Whoever decided this was sensible clearly did not consider that a conversation requires two people within shouting distance of each other.”