“Your Grace, you needn’t—” the maid began, looking scandalised.
“I’m perfectly capable of beating dust from a cushion, Annie.” Penelope had learned the girl’s name within the first hour. “And I’d rather help than simply stand about issuing orders.”
Annie ducked her head, but Penelope caught the small smile. “Yes, Your Grace.”
They worked in companionable silence for several minutes. The physical labour felt good—purposeful in a way that sitting decorously in the drawing room never had. At home, her mother would have been horrified to see her daughter performing such tasks. But this wasn’t home. This was Blackmere. And if she was to be Duchess here, she would do it her own way.
“There.” Penelope sat back on her heels, examining their work. “Much better. Now it simply needs recovering. Do you sew, Annie?”
“A bit, Your Grace. Nothing fancy.”
“Neither do I, particularly. But between us, I’m certain we can manage new cushions.” Penelope stood, brushing dust from her skirts. “We’ll need to see what fabric Mrs. Keating mentioned. Something durable but soft. Perhaps a blue to match?—”
A wail pierced the air.
Penelope was moving before she’d consciously decided to, crossing to the cradle where Rose had woken from her nap withobvious displeasure. She lifted the baby carefully, checking for any signs of distress beyond simple hunger or a soiled nappy.
“Hush, sweetheart. You’re all right.”
The wet nurse, whose name Penelope had learnt was Lottie, appeared in the doorway. “I’ll take her, Your Grace.”
“In a moment.” Penelope swayed gently, her hand supporting Rose’s head. The baby’s cries softened to whimpers. “There now. Not so terrible, is it?”
She felt Lottie watching her with poorly concealed surprise. Well. Let the servants think what they wished. She was not the sort of mother—guardian, she corrected herself—who would hand a distressed infant off to someone else without a second thought.
“She’ll be wanting to feed soon,” Lottie said. “If you’d like to give her over?—”
“Of course.” Penelope transferred Rose with reluctance. The baby immediately began rooting for the wet nurse’s breast, her distress forgotten in favour of more pressing needs.
Penelope moved to the window, giving them privacy. Outside, the estate stretched in all directions—manicured gardens giving way to parkland, then the darker shapes of forest beyond. Beautiful. Remote. Utterly unlike the London townhouse where she’d spent her life.
Alastair was in London now. Probably at his club, surrounded by friends who’d congratulate him on escaping his new wife so quickly. Or perhaps with one of his mistresses, proving that marriage had changed nothing about his habits.
The thought made her jaw clench.
She would not think about him. Would not wonder what he was doing or whether he regretted this marriage even more than she did. He’d made his choice. She would make hers.
“Annie.” She turned from the window with renewed determination. “After we finish with the chair, I’d like to rearrange the furniture in here. The cradle should be closer to where I’ll be sitting. And that wardrobe is far too large for a nursery. Perhaps we might move it to the dressing room and bring in something smaller?”
“We could ask the footmen to help, Your Grace.”
“Excellent.” Penelope rolled up her sleeves—literally—and smiled. “Let’s make a list of everything that needs doing. If I’m to spend my nights in here, I want it properly organised.”
Annie’s eyes widened. “You’ll be sleeping in the nursery, Your Grace?”
“For the first few weeks, yes. Until Rose is settled into a routine.” She saw the maid’s shock and added gently, “I knowit’s unconventional. But then, everything about this situation is unconventional, isn’t it?”
Annie ducked her head. “I suppose so, Your Grace.”
They set to work. And if Penelope threw herself into the tasks with perhaps more vigour than strictly necessary, if she redirected every thought of her absent husband into choosing fabric and rearranging furniture and learning the names of every servant who worked in the nursery wing—well. That was no one’s concern but her own.
By evening, the room had been transformed. The heavy darkness had been replaced with light and air. The rocking chair sat in pride of place, awaiting only its new cushions. A smaller wardrobe had been procured from one of the guest chambers. Fresh flowers from the hothouse brightened the windowsill.
Penelope stood in the centre of the room, her dress dusty and her hair escaping its pins, and felt something close to satisfaction.
This was hers. Not because Alastair had given it to her, but because she’d created it. She’d made decisions, moved furniture, worked alongside servants who were beginning to look at her with cautious respect rather than confusion.
She could do this. Build a life here. Raise Rose. Manage a household.