The tempest had broken, but there was still heavy air in Everthorne Manor with unspoken words and bitterness. Amelia woke up the next morning not as a defeated woman, but one who had long shed the shackles that held her back. There was no longer space for heartbreak, no longer space in her heart for Claude's abandonment. If he would not look at her, then she would no longer waste her time looking at him. She got out of bed slowly, her muscles aching from her experience. Grace was there in an instant, assisting her into a new gown, her usual nervous manner tinged with something else—something akin to pride.
What must be done today?" Amelia inquired as Grace completed buttoning the final one on her sleeve.
The maid paused, taken aback by the inquiry. "My lady?"
Amelia turned to her completely, smoothing the cloth of her dress. "The accounts, the servants, the estate. Certain things must surely be seen to.
Grace blinked and nodded hastily. "Yes, my lady. When the Duke came back, the stewards thought he would take care of the estate's business, but." She blanched and wrung her hands. "Well, things have been left in a mess.
Amelia nodded, having expected as much. Claude had never been interested in the estate's day-to-day business. He had left that to her previously, and now that he was back, he had assumed she would merely relinquish control.
Not any longer.
With Grace's assistance, she made her way down the sweeping staircase, disregarding the heaviness of the staff's observant eyes. There was something different about the manner in which they regarded her now. Where once there had been pity, there was now something else—something akin to reverent admiration.
She did not notice it. She had no use for their feelings, any more than she had use for Claude.
By midmorning, she was sitting in the estate study, studying ledgers and papers, giving orders with the crispness of a woman who had been doing this for years. Servants went in and out, obeying her commands without hesitation. She reorganized the kitchens, organized long-overdue repairs on the tenant farms, and inventoried the household accounts—all chores that had been neglected since Claude's homecoming.
If he would not behave like the Duke of Everthorne, then she would.
Claude, for his part, had observed.
He had been prepared for rage, for resentment, for tears. He had not been prepared for this icy indifference. Amelia would not even glance his way as they crossed in the corridors, would not greet him when he entered a room. She walked with a new dignity, a new kind of pride that made something rankle unpleasantly in his stomach.
And she was not the only one to silently judge him.
The servants, previously split in allegiance, had made their decision. The atmosphere of the manor had altered. Tongues were lowered when Isolde entered a room, stage whispers followed in her wake. The affection that had previously been bestowed on Claude himself was cold now.
It was Amelia who was shown deference now. Amelia who the servants looked to.
Isolde saw too.
"It's shameful," she murmured one night, her voice as soft as silk as she filled Claude with a glass of brandy in his own study. "She humiliates you, Claude. Treating you like you're inferior. That is not the behavior of a wife."
Claude took the glass from her, his face hardening. "She is still my wife," he growled, but it was an empty statement.
"How long?" Isolde whispered, moving forward. "She will never forgive you. Observe the way she approaches you. There is nothing in her eyes except frost now."
Claude kept quiet.
For he knew.