Chapters (46)
- Front Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Epilogue
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- Back Cover
Rowles answered, “As am I. But what’s done is done.” Two nurses and a footman bowed and curtsied as they approached a wooden door.
“Your Grace,” the footman said, echoed by the nurses.
Rowles nodded. “Has there been any change?”
“No, Your Grace,” the older of the two nurses replied, her expression sad. They were good people, Joan noted. No hint of malice in their eyes or demeanor that made her suspicious; rather, they cared deeply for the duke. It reassured her.
“She’s still asleep, if you’d wish to see her, Your Grace,” the other nurse added, hand on the doorknob to open the room for them.
“Yes, thank you,” he said sadly as he made his way through the door.
Joan followed behind, the aroma of cinnamon and clove, sweet and bitter all at once, intensifying as she entered the darkened room. The warmth of the room made the scent overpowering, and she fought to breath steadily. It was choking, as if death hovered above them, weighing down the air.
As her eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight, she made out the furnishings of the room as well as the bed where Rowles led them.
Joan’s heart ached at the sight of the duchess. Small, frail, and still; it was hard to imagine this woman had fought anyone, let alone two nurses and a footman. Under the bedcovers, her chest rose slowly. Each breath held a long pause between. Joan was no stranger to death. Her mother had died when she was ten, and her father five years after; most recently, her brother. No, death was a companion at this point, an unwanted but very real one. However, this was different. Rather than the ripping of a loved one’s life from a family’s hands and heart, this was a slow, methodical descent into the grave. As if the duchess was taking one step with each breath, bringing herself closer and closer.
Joan had seen the result of death, but never the process, and it was a sobering experience.
“Mother?” Rowles whispered softly. Gently, he traced the line of her forehead, swiping a wayward gray curl from her mobcap. “Can you hear me?”
Joan silently counted his efforts as futile, only to be surprised by the stirring of the woman’s hand as her fingers twitched. Joan looked to her face, but saw no change in the woman’s expression. More than anything, she wished to see the duchess open her eyes. So much could be read there.