Several days had passed without incident since the night I made my debut appearance as the prospective Lady of House Barclay. Thankfully, matters within the House of Lords prevented His Grace from making everyday as eventful as our first. However, what I felt was no relief from his absence; in truth, having not seen much of the young duke, the reality of his eventual encroachment loomed over me. Without a doubt, my presence would be expected of His Grace and hinged merely on a matter of time.
The morning sun greets me before the maids do. The weight of my fatigue is heavy, making it difficult to creep out from under the comforter. Hunched over the side of my bed, I wrap my arms over my sides, trying to preserve its remaining warmth. I shuffle over to my vanity seat and peer into its mirror. The dark patches under my eyes beg for the lull of rest, but that’s not the luxury of His Grace’s fiancée. The books peek out the corner of the vanity’s reflection, reminding me of my failure. Sighing, I resign myself to sitting in anticipation of my handmaid’s arrival.
A gentle knock accompanying a soft spoken voice alerts me to Adela’s presence and I allow her in. To my surprise, she is aided by another attendant who I had not yet been acquainted with. She holds the door open while Adela strolls in the pushcart. Her neat bangs are a dark shade of blue and she is of a similar height to Adela. She introduces herself as Rebecca and we exchange spoken pleasantries.
Adela reveals to me my breakfast, which consists of sunnyside eggs, sausage, cherry tomatoes, and a bowl of porridge. I consume half of the porridge for digestion and reserve my appetite for the more savory half of my meal. Over my shoulder, Adela insists on brushing my hair and I consent. Unlike my mother, she’s patient enough to start with the ends first and use small brush strokes as opposed to forcing the bristles down my scalp. In her doing so, the experience is much more therapeutic than irritating. I think I might make this a regular part of my routine.
Behind me, Rebecca is tidying up my bed, tucking the sheet corners under my mattress, fluffing my pillows, and smoothing out the blanket. At this moment, I had nearly finished my breakfast when we received a knock at the door. I doubt it’s another handmaid, such as Adela or Rebecca, so I surmise the purpose must be unrelated to my morning ritual. Adela offers to handle the interruption and peers through a crack of the door to address them. In the hall stands His Grace’s butler, Robert. If not for the sake of his duty, I’d resent him for intruding on my personal territory so early on into the day. Sat beside my vanity, I eavesdrop on their conversation upon hearing of his plans to speak with me.
“Lady Avalor is unfortunately busy at the moment,” Adela informs him, blocking his path, “May I take a message for her?”
“Of course,” Robert says courteously, “It is merely His Grace’s wish that I relay to Lady Avalor of his desire to accompany her at tonight’s ball,” the butler affirms, unknowingly stifling my air.
“Robert,” I interject, tilting my head as I beckon his gaze, “when exactly shall His Grace be expecting me?”
“Well,” he answers, welcoming my query, “he has insisted on escorting you himself to partake in this evening’s activity.” He pauses to contemplate the notion before reaching his conclusion, saying, “So, he will be arriving at your residence during the third quarter of the day.” So I will have until sunset, peace to myself.
“Alright,” I concede, grinning as though I take pleasure in the prospect of being accompanied by my betrothed. “Thank you for your insight, Robert.”
“Of course, Lady Avalor.” The uptight corners of my lips relax as Robert pulls away from the doorway and disappears down the hall. Adela gently closes the door as the echoes of his footsteps trail off. I let out a sigh of dread, reluctant on making good with my promise.
“Shall I procure a dress for today’s activities, My Lady?” Adela asks, turning to me. “Perhaps something elegant for your dance with His Grace?”
“Of course,” I insist, disguising my remorse with a cheerful tone. “I wouldn’t want to risk disappointing His Grace at the ball.”
The glow of tonight’s festivities are blaring, blinding me as though His Grace was leading me into the sun. Bustling was the state of affairs within the dance chamber, compact with lords and ladies of all status. Having witnessed the glee of other couples waltzing, the young duke proposed for us to follow suit. At his request, I suffered through the motions of a dance with His Grace without misstep. Opposed to my plastered smile, his grin seemed to truly revel in the thrill of the moment.
Wishing to extend his merriment, His Grace suggests indulging in the available champagne and asks if I’d partake. Although I would otherwise reject such a proposal coming from him, alone in my discontent within the crowd of jovial faces, I hesitate. Perhaps, a drink might prove necessary. Upon my consent to a single glass, those same shades of hazel are illuminated with a honeyed gold. As he happily excuses himself to procure our drinks, I find my eyes following after him.
I watch as his tall physique weaves through the sea of guests until I can no longer set my eyes on him. Taking notice of my lingering gaze, I gently pull away from his direction and cross my arms, suddenly open to the possibility of conversing with the nearest noble. Serenity, she might also be present at tonight’s ball. I attempt to scout out her dark locks. However, my eyes unnaturally gravitate towards those adorned with a head of carob brown waves, still seeking out traces of the young duke. In an effort to mitigate this, rather than seeking her out by hair, I set my focus on distinguishing her by fashion sense. Keen of her fondness for pastels, I filter through the assortment of bright ballgowns for her familiar palette of pale tones.
“Looking for someone?” The depth of a man’s voice convinces me it’s the young duke, turning my attention to its source. My lips remain parted at the sight of a thinner noble at least a decade my senior, who, other than his smirk, resembles nothing of His Grace. He is of a light complexion, his hair is a murky shade of gray, and his eyes are a dark parallel of the freezing water below a glacier. The maroon velvet of his trenchcoat lays over a beige vest. Flaring out from his collar is the white lace of a button up, carrying himself with an air of pomp. I surmise his cool disposition is nothing more than a show of bravado, distinguishing by the quality of his attire that he doesn’t mirror my wealth. Though I resented the social hierarchy for its rules of relation amidst the aristocracy, primarily for its treatment regarding women, it was an unspoken regulation, nonetheless. Thus, his presence alone with a noblewoman, as high ranking as myself, warranted my suspicion. Before he could even plead his case for addressing me so casually, I would reserve my misgivings for all that he had to divulge.
“Good evening,” I say, with a note of disdain, unamused by his address.
“Good evening to you as well, My Lady,” he replies, seemingly aware of who I am yet still unfazed by my status. “Allow me to make your acquaintance,” he continues, neglecting to bow his head even past my gaze, “I am Lord Vincent Hendriks, here to congratulate you on your coming marriage to His Grace.” I only listen to the mention of his name, Lord Vincent of House Hendriks, confirming to me my impression of his lower rank. To my knowledge, he had only recently married the Lady of House Campbell and sat at the bottom rung of the peerage.
“Well, thank you Lord Vincent,” I say, not at all thankful for his well wishes. “If that is all,” I interject, motioning to end the conversation before it begins, “then I sincerely hope you enjoy the remainder of your time at the ball.”
“Pardon me, My Lady,” he insists, not taking kindly to my decline. “But perhaps we linger for a conversation,” he offers with an outstretched hand, “It doesn’t seem fitting for His Grace to have left you by yourself.” Left me? Could it be that His Lordship has been spying on me?
“Hmm,” I retort, with a crude smile, “It would appear you are mistaken.” “His Grace has only been gone a moment to fetch us both some sparkling wine,” I contend, gesturing with my gaze to the nearby bar.
“Ah,” he counters, with wide eyes, “but it is your engagement to His Grace that I would like to discuss with you.”
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