Chapter Text
Morning broke gently over Ashford House.
A pale wash of golden light filtered through the narrow casement of Helen's chamber, illuminating the modest room little by little, until the darkness of the night had wholly surrendered itself to the dawn.
Yet Helen had been awake long before the sun had made its appearance.
Sleep had visited her only fitfully.
Whenever she had begun to drift into peaceful slumber, her thoughts had carried her once more to the Duchess.
She lay still for several moments, her hands folded neatly atop the coverlet as she regarded the ceiling above.
It was a most peculiar thing.
Only two days before she had scarcely known the name Madeline Ashton beyond the countless columns devoted to her within the London newspaper.
Now, after but a single morning in Her Grace's service, she found herself unable to think of much else.
She had expected to dislike the Duchess.
Indeed, she had thought it impossible that she should not.
Every soul with whom she had spoken before entering Ashford House had described the lady in much the same fashion.
Cold.
Proud.
Unyielding.
A woman whose beauty had rendered her vain and whose title had rendered her insufferable.
Helen herself had believed every word.
How could she not?
When the whole of society repeated the very same tale, one naturally supposed there must be some truth within it.
And yet…
As she reflected upon the previous day, she found those carefully cultivated stories beginning, ever so slightly, to unravel.
The Duchess had not been pleasant.
Helen would not insult her own judgement by pretending otherwise.
Her Grace had possessed little patience for carelessness and less still for mediocrity.
She had spoken with a composure so perfect that one scarcely knew whether to admire it or fear it.
Her gaze alone had been sufficient to make Helen question every movement of her own hands.
Yet…
She had not been cruel.
Not once.
She had not sought to humiliate.
She had not raised her voice.
She had not uttered a single word merely for the purpose of causing pain.
No.
Everything she had said had served some purpose.
Every correction.
Every observation.
Every silence.
Helen frowned thoughtfully.
It was strange.
She had served ladies who had smiled sweetly whilst speaking with remarkable unkindness.
Others had lavished their servants with compliments one moment, only to dismiss them the next over some trifling offence.
The Duchess had done neither.
There had been no pretence.
No unnecessary severity.
Only expectation.
As though excellence were not something to be applauded, but simply assumed.
Helen turned upon her side, drawing the blankets a little closer about herself.
Why should that trouble her so?
She scarcely knew.
Perhaps because she found herself wanting, above all things, to satisfy those expectations.
The thought was absurd.
She had spent but a single morning in the Duchess's service.
Why should Her Grace's opinion signify more than that of any mistress she had previously served?
And yet…
It did.
She could still hear that measured voice as plainly as though the Duchess stood beside her.
"Better."
One solitary word.
No more.
Yet Helen had carried it with her for the remainder the day.
She had never imagined so little praise might afford such disproportionate satisfaction.
Her thoughts wandered then to Viola.
The memory of the previous afternoon returned with curious clarity.
"No Lady enters this world possessed of so cold a heart."
"The world has a singular talent for making one so."
Helen smiled when the words were spoken.
She had dismissed them as little more the affectionate imaginings of an old housekeeper.
Yet lying there, in the quiet solitude of her chamber, she found herself wondering whether there might not be some measure of truth within them after all.
No one, surely, was born a legend.
No child first opened her eyes upon the world already bearing the title of The Ice Duchess.
Such names were earned.
Or bestowed.
She wondered, quite against her own inclination, what manner of young lady Madeline Ashton had once been.
Had she laughed?
Or had she always possessed that remarkable composure - that almost unnatural command over herself?
Helen could not picture it.
Indeed, she found it difficult to imagine the Duchess as anything other than she was now.
Perfectly poised.
Perfectly spoken.
Perfectly alone.
The last though came unbidden.
Helen frowned.
Alone?
The Duchess was married.
She presided over one of the grandest estates in England.
Her drawing rooms were forever occupied by ladies of rank, politicians, artists and members of the highest society.
How, then, could she possibly be alone?
And yet…
As Helen recalled the previous morning, she could remember a single occasion upon which Her Grace had appeared…at ease.
She smiled because society expected it.
she conversed because duty required it.
She dressed impeccably because anything less would be unthinkable.
But nowhere within those carefully measured hours had Helen glimpsed a woman permitted simply to exist.
Perhaps she imagined it.
Perhaps Viola's words had coloured her judgement more than she cared to admit.
Whatever the truth, Helen resolved upon one thing as she threw back the covers and rose from her bed.
Not the newspapers.
Not the servants.
Not even Viola.
If she were to form an opinion of Madeline Ashton, Duchess of Ashford…
She would do so by her own observation.
And observation, she reflected as she begun fastening the buttons of her gown, appeared to be a quality Her Grace valued above almost every other.
By the time Helen quitted the servants' wing, Ashford House had already awakened.
The house possessed a rhythm of all its own.
One might almost have believed it a living thing.
Below stairs, maids hastened from one passage to the next baskets of fresh linen balanced upon their hips, whilst footman crossed the entrance hall bearing polished sliver trays that caught the morning light. From somewhere deep within the kitchens drifted the comforting scent of newly baked bread, accompanied by the distant clatter of copper pans and the muffed voices of the cook and her assistants.
No one appeared idle.
No one lingered.
Each servant moved with such quiet certainly that Helen felt herself the only soul within the house who did not yet belong.
What in Heaven's name am I doing here?
The thought came so suddenly that she almost laughed at herself.
Ashford House.
The grandest estate she had ever set foot within.
Home to the most celebrated Duchess in England.
And somehow…
She had been entrusted with the care of that very woman.
The notion remained no less extraordinary this morning then it had the day before.
Helen lowered her gaze to the marble floor as she descended the staircase.
It gleamed so brilliantly beneath the morning sun that she feared she might leave some mark upon it merely by walking across it.
Take care.
Do not stumble.
Do not drop anything.
All above…do not disappoint her.
She caught herself.
Her.
Not the Duchess.
Not Her Grace.
Merely…
Her.
Helen frowned ever so slightly.
How curious.
Only yesterday morning she had dreaded the very thought of entering the Duchess's chambers.
Now her greatest apprehension was not that Madeline Ashton might dismiss her.
It was that she might prove unequal to the position she had been so fortunate to receive.
Why should such a thing concern her so greatly?
She could not have said.
She had served ladies before.
Mistresses whose temper were as unpredictable as the English weather.
Others who scarcely acknowledged the existence of those employed beneath their roof.
Yet never had she found herself so anxious to earn another person's approval.
It was absurd.
She scarcely knew the woman.
Perhaps it is because she expects so much.
Or perhaps..
The thought arrived before she could prevent it.
…because I should very much like to prove I am equal to those expectations.
Helen shook her head almost imperceptibly.
What nonsense.
The Duchess had corrected her but yesterday.
She had offered little in the way of praise.
Indeed, she had scarcely offered praise at all.
Yet that single quiet "Better" had lingered in Helen's thoughts far longer than she cared to admit.
It was ridiculous.
And still…
She found herself hoping she might hear it again.
"Miss Sharp."
Helen looked up at once.
Mrs Hawthorne stood near the foot of the grand staircase, a leather-bound ledger resting beneath one arm.
"You are punctual."
"I endeavoured to be, Madam."
"So I perceive."
The housekeeper regarded her with her customary composure before consulting the page before her.
"His Grace shall breakfast at the eighth hour. Her Grace will receive you shortly beforehand."
Helen inclined her head.
"Very good, Madam."
Mrs Hawthorne closed the ledger with quiet finality.
"A word of advice, Miss Sharp."
Helen waited attentively.
"It is a simple matter to observe."
A pause.
"It is a far more dangerous one to presume."
Helen considered the words.
"I shall remember that."
"I trust that you shall."
With that, the housekeeper departed, already calling instructions to a pair of footman waiting in the entrance hall.
Helen remained where she was for a brief moment.
Observe.
Do not presume.
The advice sounded remarkably like something the Duchess herself might have said.
Perhaps that was why Mrs Hawthorne had remained in her service for so many years.
The great staircase curved gratefully towards the upper gallery, where portraits of former Dukes and Duchesses lined the walls in magnificent gilt frames. Their painted expressions remained solemn, almost watchful, as though they still regared Ashford House as their own.
Helen slowed her pace.
She wondered how many generations had walked these corridors.
How many servants had climbed these very steps with the same fluttering apprehension now stirring within her breast.
You are only going to dress a lady.
She smiled faintly.
Only the most formidable lady in England.
Her hand came instinctively to rest upon the smooth oak banister.
She drew one slow, steadying breath.
Compose yourself, Helen.
You survived yesterday.
You shall survive today.
Yet, as the familiar double doors leading to the Duchess's apartment came into view, she felt her pulse quicken all the same.
Not from fear alone.
But from a curiosity she could no longer deny.
Who, she wondered….
Would she meet this morning?
The Ice Duchess spoken of by the newspapers—
Or the woman who existed when no one else was looking?
Helen raised her hand and knocked softly upon the door.
Three measured taps.
"Enter."
The Duchess's voice carried through the oak with the same composed authority it had possessed the morning before.
Helen steadied herself before opening the door.
The apartment were already bathed in the pale light of early morning. Heavy curtains had been drawn back to admit the sun, while spilled across the polished floor in broad bands of gold. A maid had evidently been before her to light the fire, for the room was pleasantly warm despite the lingering chill beyond the window.
Madeline Ashton stood before one of the tall casements overlooking the eastern gardens.
She had not yet dressed for the day.
A silk wrapper of ivory, embroidered delicately at the cuffs and collar, fell elegantly about her figure, whilst her golden hair rested in loose waves down her back, untouched by pins or ribbon.
She did not turn immediately.
For several moments, she remained where she was, her gaze fixed upon the gardens below, one hand resting lightly against the window frame.
Only when Helen quietly closed the door behind her did she speak.
"You shall accompany me throughout the day."
Helen inclined her head at once.
"Very good, Your Grace."
"We are expected by half the country before the afternoon is out."
There was the faintest trace of weariness beneath her words, though her countenance beyond none of it.
"Lady Von-Rhuman is to call at the eleventh hour. Thereafter, I have business with Mr Blackwood concerning the estate, and before luncheon there remains a distressing quantity of correspondence demanding my attention."
She turned then, her pale gaze settling calmly upon Helen.
"It is as well you begin to acquaint yourself with the rhythm of this household."
"I shall endearvour to do so, Your Grace."
"I should hope you do."
Madeline crossed the chamber with her customary measured grace before taking her seat before the dressing table.
"A lady's maid is seldom confined to ribbons and hairpins alone."
Helen moved quietly to stand behind the chair.
"No, Your Grace."
"You will hear conversations not intended for your ears."
The Duchess regarded her own reflection.
"You will witness disagreements that are not your concern."
Helen reached for the silver-backed brush.
"You will observe much."
She began carefully drawing the brush through Madeline's golden hair.
"But observations, Miss Sharp, is not an invitation for judgement."
The words gave Helen pause.
Mrs Hawthorne had spoken much the same only moments before.
"I understand, Your Grace."
"I trust that, in time, you shall."
The Duchess fell silent, permitting Helen to continue her work.
The only sounds within the chamber were the steady strokes of the brush through silken hair and the faint birdsong drifting through the open casement.
After some moments, Madeline spoke again.
"This morning shall prove…instructive."
Helen looked up, meeting the Duchess's eyes in the looking-glass.
"You have thus far seen Ashford House."
A pause.
"Today, you shall see Ashford."
By the eleventh hour, Ashford House had assumed an altogether different character.
The stillness of the morning had given way to quiet industry. Footmen stood at their appointed stations throughout the entrance hall, fresh flowers adorned every drawing room, and the silver tea service gleamed upon the polished walnut table as though it had never before been touched by human hand.
Helen stood discreetly behind the Duchess, her hands folded before her apron, as Mrs Hawthorne made one final inspection of the morning room.
"Everything is in readiness, Your Grace."
Madeline gave the slightest inclination of there head.
"So I perceive."
No sooner had the housekeeper withdrawn than the distant sound of carriage wheels echoed across the gravel before the house.
A footman opened the great front doors.
Moments later, another announced.
"Lady Von-Rhuman, Your Grace."
Helen instinctively lowered her eyes.
She heard the rustle of silk as the Countess entered the room.
"My dearest Duchess."
Helen looked up only when propriety permitted.
Lady Von-Rhuman was perhaps twenty years the Duchess's senior, dressed in elegant black silk befitting her widowhood, though a string of diamonds rested around her throat.
Madeline crossed the room with effortless grace.
"My Lady."
She extended both hands.
"It is a pleasure to receive you."
The smile that accompanied the greeting startled Helen.
It was warm.
Not extravagant.
Merely…genuine enough to convince anyone who witnessed it.
"I trust the journey from Rhuman Hall was not overly fatiguing?"
"Mercifully not."
Lady Von-Rhuman returned her smile.
"Though London grows more impossible with every passing season."
Madeline gave the softest laugh.
"I believe that has been said of London every season since the Romans departed."
The Countess laughed heartily.
"Oh, Duchess, you shall never persuade me otherwise."
As the ladies took their seats, conversations flowed with astonishing ease.
They spoke of the latest concert at Covent Garden, of the Prince's forthcoming garden féte, of charitable subscriptions and parliamentary whispers.
Madeline appeared entirely transformed.
She smiled with measured elegance.
She listened with flattering attentiveness.
From time to time she offered some observation so quietly amusing that Lady Von-Rhuman laughed aloud.
Had Helen not attended the Duchess that very morning, she might scarcely have believed this gracious society hostess and the reserved lady of the dressing room were one and the same.
It was…a performance.
Not false.
Never false.
Rather…
Perfectly practised.
Every smile arrived precisely when required.
Every compliment was delivered without excess.
Every silence possessed purpose.
Helen found herself watching the Duchess rather more closely than she watched the Countess.
Not the words.
The moments between them.
Whenever Lady Von-Rhuman turned to accept another of tea.
The smile faded.
Not entirely.
Only enough for Helen to perceive the effort required to maintain it.
The instant the Countess looked back…
It returned.
Flawless.
As though it had never vanished at all.
Helen's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
How exhausting such a life must surely be.
To measure every word.
Every smile.
Every glance.
Never permitting the world to glimpse anything less than perfection.
The visit continued for nearly an hour.
When at last Lady Von-Rhuman rose to depart, Madeline accompanied her as far as the entrance hall.
"My compliments to your daughter."
"I shall convey them."
"And do not neglect your physician's advice."
Lady Von-Rhuman smiled fondly.
"You remember everything."
"It is my habit."
The Countess laughed once more before taking her leave.
The great doors closed.
The carriage rolled slowly away.
Silence settled once again over Ashford House.
For several moments Madeline remained where she stood, watching through the tall windows until the carriage disappeared beyond the iron gates.
Then…
Without a word…
The smile vanished.
Not dramatically.
Not sadly.
Simply…
Gone.
She drew the smallest of breaths, scarcely audible, before turning towards the staircase.
"Miss Sharp."
"Your Grace."
"We have lost sufficient time."
Nothing more was said.
Helen followed her respectful distance behind.
Yet she found herself wondering which lady she had just accompanied.
The Duchess whom all England adored.
Or the woman who had smiled only because the world expected her to.
The remainder of the morning was devoted to the business of the estate.
Helen had imagined, upon entering the Duchess's service, that the greater part of Her Grace's days would be occupied by callers, musicales assemblies and all the other diversions so eagerly chronicled by the London newspaper.
She had not anticipated ledgers.
Nor maps.
Nor lengthy discussions concerning drainage, tenant leases and the price of winter feed.
Yet scarcely had Lady Von-Rhuman's carriage disappeared beyond the iron gates when Mr Blackwood, the estate steward, was announced.
He was a gentleman of advancing years, broad of shoulder and sober of countenance, his coat still bearing the faint scent of damp earth despite its respectable cut.
"Your Grace."
"Mr Blackwood.:
Madeline inclined her head.
"I trust you have brought the accounts."
"They are here, Your Grace."
He presented a leather portfolio, which the Duchess accepted without ceremony.
She opened it immediately.
For several moments she read in silence.
The room itself seemed to grow quieter.
Helen, standing a respectful distance behind, watched the quiet curiosity.
Madeline's eyes moved swiftly over each pase.
Now and again she paused, making a small notation in the margin with a silver pencil she carried for the purpose.
At length, she closed the portfolio.
"The eastern tenant cottages."
Mr Blackwood looked up.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"The repairs upon the chimneys remain unfinished."
The steward hesitated.
"The masons were delayed by—"
"The weather."
Madeline spoke before he had finished.
"So your previous letter informed me."
Mr Blackwood inclined his head.
"Indeed, Your Grace."
"And yet we have enjoyed en consecutive days without rain."
Silence.
Madeline regarded him calmly.
"I should be most interested to learn what excuse the weather had provided during the past fortnight."
Helen lowered her eyes.
She expected embarrassment.
Perhaps even displeasure.
Instead, Mr Blackwood gave the smallest of smiles.
"It had provided none, Your Grace."
"So I imagined."
Madeline adjusted her silk gloves slightly.
"The work shall be completed before the week's end."
"It shall."
"Not because I have requested it."
"No, Your Grace."
"But because those families ought not pass another winter beneath damaged roofs."
Mr Blackwood bowed his head.
"Quite right, Your Grace."
Madeline rose.
"We shall inspect them."
Helen looked up in a mild surprise.
Mr Blackwood appeared rather less surprised.
"At once, Your Grace?"
"Unless the cottages have elected to repair themselves."
"No, Your Grace."
"Then there is little advantage in postponing the matter."
Within a quarter of an hour, they had quitted the house.
The morning air carried the fragrance of roses and freshly cut grass, whilst the gravel paths wound gracefully through gardens that seemed almost too perfect to have been fashioned by mortal hands.
Helen followed several paces behind the Duchess, accompanied by Mr Blackwood and two footmen.
She had never before walked the grounds in daylight.
The estate extended farther than she had imagined.
Beyond the formal gardens lay orchards, stables, glasshouses and fields stretching towards the distant woodland.
Everywhere she looked, there was labourers already hard at work.
Madeline acknowledged each with the slightest inclination of her head.
Never grandly.
Never theatrically.
Simply enough that every man knew he had been seen.
"The roses require deadheading."
The remark came without warning.
Mr Blackwood turned immediately.
"I beg your pardon, Your Grace."
"The southern border."
Madeline gestured towards a bed of pale blush roses.
"Three blooms have already withered."
Mr Blackwood followed her gaze.
Sure enough..
There they were.
Three faded blossoms amongst hundreds.
"I shall have them removed directly."
"I should hope so."
They continued walking.
Presently they reached one of the tenant cottages.
It was modest, though well maintained, save for the chimney, where several loose stones threatened to fall.
Madeline studied it in silence.
"How many reside here?"
"A widowed mother and her two daughters."
"The eldest?"
"Eight years of age."
Madeline nodded almost imperceptibly.
"The repairs are to commence tomorrow."
"They shall."
"No."
She turned towards Mr Blackwood.
"They shall commence this afternoon."
The steward offered no protest.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Before they could proceed further, the cottage door creaked softly open.
A little girl emerged, no older than eight, clutching a rag doll beneath one arm.
The instant she recognised the Duchess, she exited an earnest, if somewhat clumsy, curtsy.
"Good morning, Your Grace."
Madeline's expressions altered so subtly that Helen wondered whether she had imagined it.
The severity remained.
Yet something gentler softened her eyes.
"Good morning, Miss Ellis."
The child looked positively astonished.
"You… remembered my name."
"I endeavour to remember many things."
The little girl smiled shyly.
"How is your mother?"
"Much improve, Your Grace."
"I am pleased to hear it."
Madeline's gaze shifted briefly toward the cottage roof before turning to the child.
"You are keeping your sisters out of mischief. I trust?"
The girl giggled.
"I try."
"A commendable occupation."
The faintest suggestion of amusement touched the Duchess's lips.
She inclined her head.
"You may return to you morning."
"Yes, Your Grace."
The child curtsied once more before disappearing inside.
Only when the door had closed did Madeline address Mr Blackwood.
"See that Mrs Ellis receives an additional cart of coal before Michaelmas."
The steward made a note.
"As you wish."
"No mention of the its source."
He nodded.
"I understand."
Nothing further was said.
Madeline resumed her walk as though the matter required no additional consideration.
Helen followed in silence.
She had expected authority.
She had expected intelligence.
She had expected perfection.
She had not expected remembrance.
Nor had she expected the Duchess to know the names of children who lived in cottages at the furthest reaches of her estate.
For the first time since entering Ashford House, Helen found herself wondering whether England had mistaken admiration for understanding.
Perhaps the newspaper had praised the Duchess's gowns because they were easier to comprehend the woman who worse them.
Evening descended quietly upon Ashford House.
The bustle that had animated the estate throughout the day had given way to a welcome stillness. Candles had been lit every corridor, their gentle glow reflected in the polished floors, whilst beyond the tall windows the last remnants of daylight surrendered themselves to the encroaching dusk.
Helen entered the Duchess apartments carrying a single silver candlestick.
Madeline was seated before the fire, a volume resting upon upon her lap, though from the stillness of her gaze it appeared she had not turned a page for some considerable time.
Without looking up, she spoke.
"You are later than yesterday."
Helen inclined her head.
"My apologies, Your Grace. Mrs Hawthorne required assistance below stairs."
"So I was informed."
There was no reproach in her voice.
Only acknowledgement.
Madeline closed the book and placed it upon the small table beside her chair.
"We may begin."
Helen crossed the chamber and laid out the Duchess's night attire before moving behind her mistress to remove the jewelled pins that held her golden hair in place.
One by one they fell into the velvet-lined tray.
Freed of its careful arrangement, Madeline's hair tumbled over her shoulders in soft waves, catching the candlelight like threads of spun gold.
Neither lady spoke for several minutes.
Helen had already come to understand that Her Grace did not consider silence an inconvenience.
Indeed, she seemed to value it.
It was whilst unfastening the delicate clasp of the Duchess's necklace that Helen found her thoughts returning to the little girl they have encountered upon her estate.
She hesitated.
Then, before she could persuade herself otherwise, she spoke.
"May I say something, Your Grace."
Madeline's eyes met hers in the looking-glass.
"You have already done so."
Helen coloured faintly.
"My pardon."
A pause.
"I merely wished to observe…"
She searched for words worthy of the sentiment.
"…you appeared remarkably kind with Miss Ellis."
For the briefest instant, Madeline's hands ceased their movement.
"So you noticed."
"I could scarce have failed to."
Helen lowered the necklace carefully into its case.
"She seemed greatly comforted by your presence."
Madeline regarded her reflection for a long moment before speaking.
"The children upon this estate deserve to know that they are seen."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"They are very often overlooked."
Helen could think of no reply.
Madeline rose, allowing Helen to help her from her gown with practised care before slipping into the ivory nightdress laid waiting upon the bed.
As Helen folded the discarded silk with meticulous precision, the Duchess spoke once more.
"There was a time…"
Her voice quieter now.
"…when I imagined the nursery of Ashford House would not remain empty for long."
Helen's hand stilled.
Madeline continued to look towards the fire rather than at her.
"His Grace and I were married with every expectation that an heir would soon follow."
she smiled then.
It was not the polished smile reserved for callers.
Nor the courteous smiled bestowed upon acquaintances.
It was a smile touched with something infinity sadder.
"The expectation, alas, has remained precisely that."
The room fell silent.
Helen scarcely dared to breathe.
"We have been…unfortunate."
The words were spoken with remarkable composure.
Yet Helen thought she detected the faintest weariness beneath them.
After a moment, Madeline folded her hands before her.
"I have long since learnt that there are certain disappointments which neither rank nor fortune can remedy."
Helen lowered her eyes.
"I am very sorry, Your Grace."
Madeline inclined her head in quiet acknowledgement.
"It is not a subject upon which I ordinarily dwell."
Another pause settled between them.
Then, almost absently, she said,
"Perhaps that is why I know the names of every child upon the estate."
Helen looked up.
"They are not mine."
Madeline's gaze drifted towards the darkened gardens beyond the window.
"They never shall be."
A faint breath escaped her.
"But whilst they remain beneath my care, I shall endeavour to see that none of them want for kindness…or for coal when winter comes."
Helen's heart tightened.
She thought again of little Miss Ellis, whose face had brightened merely because the Duchess had remembered her name.
All England knew Madeline Ashton as the Ice Duchess.
Yet none of those grand ladies who filled the drawing rooms each season had spoken of this.
Of the quiet grief carried beneath flawless gowns and flawless composure.
Helen folded the Duchess's gown with renewed the care.
For the first time since entering Ashford House, she found herself looking not upon the Duchess of Ashford…
But upon a woman who loved something she had never been permitted to hold.
Neither lady spoke again.
The silence that followed was no longer one of formality.
It was, in its own quiet fashion, one of understanding.