The Duke's Undoing

Sophie Langford woke before the sun, the way she always had. The small bedchamber at the top of Langford Hall was cold, the fire having died to embers in the night. She slipped from beneath the thin quilts, bare feet quiet on the floorboards, and crossed to the window. Outside, the moor was still wrapped in mist, the dark shape of the old oak just visible beyond the kitchen garden. Seventeen years she had woken to this view. Seventeen years of the same soft gray light, the same distant cry of curlews, the same quiet certainty that the day would ask more of her than she sometimes had to give. She dressed quickly in a plain wool gown the color of dried heather, braided her dark hair with practiced fingers, and went downstairs. The kitchen was already warm. Old Mrs. Kemp stood at the long table kneading dough, her gnarled hands dusted white. Tom, who had once been the strongest man on the estate and was now bent with rheumatism, sat by the hearth peeling potatoes with slow care. Both looked up when Sophie entered, faces softening the way they always did. You’re early, miss, Mrs. Kemp said. So are you. Sophie stole a pinch of dough and popped it into her mouth, grinning when the older woman swatted at her. How is Mother this morning? Mrs. Kemp’s smile faded. Restless in the night. The pain was bad again. Sophie nodded, the familiar weight settling behind her ribs. She poured tea, added the last of the honey, and carried the cup upstairs herself. Lady Langford lay propped against the pillows, her once-beautiful face thin and pale. The illness that had stolen her strength over the last three years had left her looking fragile as spun glass, but her eyes were still clear when they found Sophie’s. You look tired, darling. I’m not. Sophie sat on the edge of the bed and helped her mother hold the cup. Tom says the south pasture needs the fence mended before the sheep get out again. I’ll see to it after breakfast. Her mother’s hand covered hers. You should be thinking of dances and pretty dresses, not fences. Sophie laughed softly. I’d rather the fences. Dresses don’t keep the rain out. But later, alone in the small study that had once been her father’s, she allowed herself a single, private moment of longing. She opened the bottom drawer of the desk and took out the sketchbook she kept hidden there. Page after page of charcoal drawings: the moor at sunset, Tom laughing with the dogs, her mother’s hands at rest. And near the back, drawings she never showed anyone, strong male hands, a bare shoulder, the curve of a throat. Imaginary. Safe. She closed the book quickly when Mrs. Kemp called her for breakfast. There was work to do. There was always work to do. And Sophie Langford, who still believed the world held something wonderful if one only waited long enough, went to meet the day.