Another day passed, and another. She threw herself into planning menus, but got distracted petting the cats in the kitchen because she felt so lonely. When she walked the halls, she watched out for ghosts, but they seemed as anxious to avoid her as her husband.
What was he up to in London? Dining at his clubs? Engaging in swordplay with his friends to impress all the women who’d wanted to marry him before he was saddled with her? She tried not to think how dashing someone like Wescott would look in a sword fight. According to Elizabeth, there was a secret armory somewhere in the Abbey. Ophelia wanted to find it to irritate her husband. She could disarrange his sword collection, or hide the most lovely, shining ones. She’d do it to punish him for running away from her, probably into the arms of some harlot or mistress.
When would he come home?
When the sixth day arrived with no more letters and no sign of her husband, she searched in earnest for secret panels and hidden corridors, but found nothing. Where would an entire room be hiding in this old pile of rocks? After breakfast the following morning, she sought out a room she’d found early on, one of the largest rooms on the first floor—the Abbey’s library.
She opened the heavy door and walked into the high-ceilinged chamber. She had always loved the smell of books and paper. She’d been scolded at her music academy for sniffing every cantata and opera, but it had been printed on such fine, smooth paper, she couldn’t resist.
She wasn’t looking for music now. She was looking for—
“Good morning, Ophelia.”
She spun at the sound of the deep voice. At first she thought it was her husband, and wondered why she hadn’t been informed of his arrival. But it was her father-in-law, the Duke of Arlington, who looked very much like his son, only older and more refined. He sat at a table amidst a few disordered stacks of books, spectacles perched at the end of his nose.
“Your Grace.” She started to back from the room. “I’m sorry I’ve disturbed you.”
“You haven’t disturbed me, and you mustn’t call me ‘Your Grace’ now that we’re family.”
She blinked at him. “What would I call you, sir?”
“Sir is no better, child. Why not Father or Papa as my own daughters do? You’re my daughter now, since you’ve married my son.”
She’d as soon be able to call the imposing duke “Papa” as she could go up onto the rooftop and fly, but she didn’t say so.
“Come in.” He beckoned her forward. “It’s so quiet in here. Have you come to find a book to read? There are hundreds to choose from.”
“Well, n-no.” She stood frozen in place. “Not a book.”
He must think her an imbecile, standing and stammering. The duke’s eyes were blue, not green like his son’s, and at the moment, those eyes looked patient and somewhat amused, so she screwed up her courage and told him the truth.
“I’ve come to see if there are any house plans here in the library.” She scanned the tall mahogany shelves. “Plans of the Abbey. I suppose there aren’t, since it was built so long ago, but I hoped someone might have made some newer records of the layout…in the ensuing years…”
“House plans.” He pushed the book he was reading away, leaned forward, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Dear Ophelia, you want to find the secret room, don’t you? Wescott’s secret armory?”
Her cheeks heated as she picked at her dress’s sheer organza overlay. “I thought I might attempt it. Elizabeth told me it existed, but she doesn’t know where it is.”
“Few people know.” He raised a brow. “I know, but I won’t tell you where it is.”
“Oh.” She threaded her fingers together in disappointment.
“Because, of course, it would be far more fun for you to try to find it yourself. You might as well amuse yourself, since my son ran off so soon after you were married.” His lips formed an intimidating frown as he shook his head. “It wasn’t well done of him. I’ve sent a letter telling him so.”
This rather shocked her—first, that he would bring it up with her, and second, that he would chide Wescott on her behalf. “Has he written back?”
“Not yet.”
Her throat tightened as she dropped her gaze to the table’s varnished surface. “He probably won’t.” She could feel her father-in-law’s eyes on her, and still perceive his frown in her peripheral vision. “I don’t think he likes me. At all.”
“Why would you say that?”
He left silence for her to fill, though she dreaded to answer. How had things gone so wrong? The more she thought over it, the more she feared it wasn’t his fault, but hers.
“I suppose it’s because I’ve been awful,” she said, and it felt almost a relief to admit it. “I’ve been the most unbearable wife, which is why he left me. I’ve been a shrew and a crosspatch, even when he’s tried to be kind.”