by Fanny Finch
It was not simply for saying's sake. He genuinely saw her as his family, in some sense.
He had already insisted that was the case a thousand times, but Agnes had a hard time believing it. After all, people said all sorts of things they did not mean, did they not? People said that a woman's dress looked lovely when it was ghastly. People said they were good people when they'd rather kick a beggar than give to charity. People said they were your friend when they only wanted to use you. People said they loved a little girl, when really they despised her simply for existing.
Agnes worried about the duke and his sister. She cared about them greatly. And, in many ways, in all the wrong ways, she felt deep affection for her employer. But could she see them as family also? She was not so sure. Her own love was much more selfish, much less innocent.
She desired the duke as a woman desires a man. She desired his body and his hand in marriage. She desired his love day and night. And, try though she might, she could not see him as a brother, or a cousin. She only saw him as the most wonderful man she had ever met.
As for Georgia... Agnes was not sure. She felt affection for the girl. Agnes cared about her deeply, and saw her as her own child, in a sense. But what about the child? What did she think?
The girl laughed and wrapped her arms around Agnes's neck, the way a baby does to its mother, planting a warm kiss on her cheek. "What animals mama like?"
Agnes caressed Georgia's hair. "I like birds, for they fly."
Georgia nodded with a serious expression on her face. "Birds are good."
"They are," Agnes agreed.
The girl loved her and looked for her. Longed for her company and shared with her. Hugged her, then teased her, kissed her, then tormented her, looked up to her and followed her everywhere. What was more, Georgia called Agnes "mama". There was no doubt that Georgia most definitely saw her as family. Looking up as Georgia continued kissing her cheek, Agnes saw warmth in the duke's eyes.
It was probably something quite magical for him to see.
Agnes had never had a sibling. None of her friends had siblings either. She had seen some children with siblings of a similar age, always fighting and causing trouble, and had been glad she did not have any. But now, seeing that bond between the duke and Georgia, she realized how beautiful the connection between a protective older sibling and their baby sibling could be.
She was not jealous. After all, how could she know for certain that, had she had a brother, he would have been as protective and caring to her as the duke was to Georgia? But Agnes felt glad for Georgia. Having such a wonderful older sibling would certainly make her life easier.
As Agnes pondered this, staring intently at the duke, their eyes met and he blushed, smiling nervously, and walked away down the hallway. It was almost as though he had been so entranced watching Agnes and Georgia playing that he had not even noticed that he had been caught. He enjoyed seeing Georgia so happy. If she were honest with herself, so did Agnes.
She loved seeing the girl laughing and playing, talking and singing. It was one of the most beautiful things in the whole world. Everything about this child was beautiful. And Agnes did not want to leave. She felt almost as though Georgia were her own child, she loved her so much. Agnes could not bear the thought of abandoning her own child.
"I want ga-den," Georgia said, pointing at the window for emphasis and waving her little hand. "Let's go ga-den, mama."
Agnes nodded and picked Georgia up, but the girl resisted and insisted on being put down, so she could walk herself out to the garden, holding Agnes's hand instead. She was getting bolder and bolder, reaching for that first taste of independence where she would not be carried everywhere by an adult, but rather would want to go on her own, prove how strong and healthy and clever she was.
Agnes walked out into the sunshine. It seemed that the regimented schooling she endured as a child was not what Georgia needed. The child learned more out in the open air, exploring and acting. When Georgia was allowed to explore life in a more relaxed sense, she blossomed, with her ability to speak, to understand complex matters, and to perform various tasks growing much, much faster than it had until then.
Agnes herself had never imagined anyone would do well under that sort of a routine, of choosing their own activities, of playing their way through lessons and taking extended breaks to walk the garden, to nap, and to play make-believe. It was not how she had been raised. She had been raised with constant lessons and plans, constant hard work. She had thought it was the only way.
Then it struck her.
Perhaps she had never needed that strict schooling either. Perhaps it did not do her any good. She had never known anything else, and every time she had even attempted to do anything on her own, to explore and discover, to be creative, there had always been someone to stop her. Either her father, or a maid, or a tutor had always picked her up, or seized her hand, and taken her back into the library to read a book, play piano, or practice some arithmetic.
She had been expected to study hard and do well, not because she wanted to, or because she was gifted, but because she was forced to. She had never been allowed to do anything else. She had never gone for dinner with friends. She had never played at knights and princesses. She had never gone outside in the garden for no reason at all. She had never even had the chance to be bored.
Agnes realized suddenly why her father ensured she was schooled so strictly, kept so busy day and night. It was so she would never miss him. Never long for a mother. Never realize how much her relatives hated her, how few friends she had.
She was not studying so many subjects, for so many hours, for her future. She was doing it for her present, for the childhood she deserved. Had she been bored, or spent enough time with her relatives, she might have noticed how absent her father was when he went on business, or how most other girls had a loving mother. But as she sat, poring over her books, making notes, reading, playing music, and practicing languages, she never had a second spare to worry about what might have been.
She had been expected to never question it. And, her whole childhood, she never had. It was only now, as an adult witnessing how wonderful a close family was, that she realized what she had missed out on. She realized that there was a gap in her life that a mother should have filled, not simply in terms of showing her how to be a lady, but in terms of being a mother, of giving her that love which only family could.
Although she had been alone her whole life, Agnes had never felt quite so lonely as this before. She had never had a mother. She had never had relatives besides her father who loved her. She had only had three friends, and now they were split up, in different corners of the country. Her life had always been so solitary, so empty. And, looking back, it was as though two decades of loneliness struck her all at once.
Looking up the garden, she saw the duke watching again. She understood why he was so intent on watching her, on keeping her around, why he was so afraid of losing his family. She had not understood it before, because, in context, she had never had a family to lose. And now she did. And she too could not imagine losing the family she had just gained.
Chapter 23
Agnes knew what she had to do, even though it hurt. On her way to the duke's office she second-guessed herself a thousand times, stopping to wonder if there was another way, or if she was being too rash. But eventually she got there, and feeling courage growing in her heart, knocked on the door.
"Come in," came his voice.
"I must resign," she said flatly as soon as she had opened the door, avoiding eye contact and handing him her resignation letter.
"Must you?" the duke asked, taking the letter and skim-reading it as he stood and began to pace.
"I have already said so, and even if Your Grace refuses to acknowledge my demands, I am a free woman, with the right to leave if I believe it is not in my best interests," she said.
"Why do you keep insisting on leaving?" he asked, dropping her letter in the fire. "We need you her
e. You are the only one who can help us all."
"Sir!" Agnes exclaimed. "You cannot keep me prisoner here. I am a servant, not a slave, and I wish to leave."
He turned and his eyes bored through her skull. "Why? What is it that my home lacks? What is it that I lack? I can give you anything and everything that you need."
"I am not a good fit for your home, that is all," she said, trying to evade his question.
He laughed a little. "In what sense are you not a good fit?"
Agnes stepped back a single pace, putting some more distance between them. "It just seems to me that I am not a good fit." She was not sure what else to do or to say. She could not tell him the truth. Although that would be the right thing to do.
As she had stepped back and paused, he, in two great strides, had moved across the small gap between the fireplace and the door and was right before her, looking down into her eyes, smiling still.
"Sir?" she asked a little nervously.
But he did not move from where he stood before her, and she felt in awe of how tall he was, how broad his shoulders and chest, what a towering monster of a man. Were it not for his face, she would have said he was much older. He had the powerful aura of a man twice his age, and the physical build of a man of much lower status. He was everything she had ever desired, right there before her.
If she were willing to act like a woman of her natural station, more like her mother, perhaps, she could close the door behind her, step in closer to him and...
Her breath hitched a little and she felt her cheeks grow warm. No. She had been raised better than that.
"You are not a bad fit. You are a perfect fit because you fit perfectly," he said with a vague shrug. "What else is there?"
Agnes hesitated. She was so distracted by how lovely he looked to her that she could not, for a moment, work out what he was saying. He was so handsome and so perfect. Such a gentleman. So kind. She felt herself in awe of him.
But as his words finally broke through into her mind, she realized their significance. She was a perfect fit? She fit perfectly? If only he knew! If only he knew what a horrible person she was. Not only had she come from the background she did, but as time passed, that very background was driving her to lies and deceit, to continuing working for him, to his own detriment and for her own gain.
Slowly her prophecy was fulfilled, and she needed to leave before she dragged him down too.
"I am not a perfect fit," she said, feeling her heart ache as she said so.
She nearly jumped out of her skin as she felt his hand on her arm.
"You are. My sister needs you. My home needs you," his grip on her wrist was firm but gentle. "You must stay."
He was holding her just tight enough to stop her from leaving the room, but not so much as to hurt her. It was the same as when he held her in the mansion: just enough to keep her there, but not enough to hurt her.
Agnes feigned fear. It was the only way to persuade this man to release her. She tugged feebly, looking up into his eyes, pleading with him. He released her instantly and stepped back.
"I am so sorry, Agnes, I do not know what I was doing. I was not thinking... I did not mean to hurt you," he said.
Agnes shook her head. "You did not hurt me, sir, but you cannot hold me against my will like that."
"I do that a lot," he admitted, stepping back again and beginning to pace. "I cannot stand to let people go, you understand?"
He seemed a little in shock with himself as he paced about the room, but still did not give her permission to leave. He stared at his feet as he marched round and round. He would not look at her.
Agnes wondered if perhaps pretending to be afraid was going too far. After all, this man respected her and, whether he loved her as a friend, as family, or as a woman, he did love her. And she had feigned fear for what? It was not as though his hand on her wrist had hurt her. It was not as though she had any dignity left to lose. It was not as though she had left as soon as he released her. She simply stood there, waiting for him to begin speaking once again.
"I have already had to ask you to stay twice," he said, not looking up. "I know I can be a brute of a man, but I can change. I will change if I must. It is no trouble for me to be kinder to you."
Agnes bit her cheek, realizing what she had done. She had made this gentle, loving man believe he was not gentle or loving enough, that he was not kind or good enough. Rather than let him know that she was the one who was damaged, she had given him the impression that she despised him, was afraid of him, or otherwise believed him lacking.
The right thing to do would be to tell him. But then he would know her most shameful secret and cast her out. But was that not what she wanted? No, not like that. She did not want him to hate her. But she did not want him to believe he was at fault either.
"Sir, you are more than kind enough," she replied.
"Then do you wish for an increased salary?" he asked, stopping pacing and looking up at her with brows furrowed.
"I do not, sir," she said. "I do not wish for any more than you already give me."
"Then why must you leave? What is there that you need that I cannot provide?" he continued, still watching her intently.
"There is nothing, but I cannot stay, sir. Do you not understand? There is nothing you lack, there is nothing wrong with your person or this household, I simply cannot stay," she said, praying deep in her heart that he would realize she was speaking of a matter of pride, of something she could not tell him directly.
He did not realize.
"What can I offer you?" he asked, walking back up to her and resting his hands on her shoulders.
Agnes felt frustrated. How could he be so clueless? How could he be such a wonderful man, and yet still have absolutely no idea about propriety, or manners? He was demanding to know her most intimate secrets, he had laid his hands on her twice already, and yet he seemed oblivious to her every effort to be subtle and polite.
His hands on her felt so wonderful though. Such a familiar touch would be insulting from any other man. But from him, it was more than that. It felt like the pleasant warmth that radiated from a fire, emerging from his palms and entering her body through her shoulders, filling her with energy and happiness.
No wonder she could not bear to leave. She was addicted to this man. Like a troubled person in an opium den, she was coming back, again and again, for her next fix of the duke. She loved everything about him. She loved his touch. She loved his kindness. She loved his beauty. She loved his strength. And, however much it pained her to admit, she loved his cluelessness as well.
She wanted to push his hands away to break the habit, but feeling her fingers wrap around his, her stomach clenched. She wanted to hold his hands like this forever. Rather than remove his hand from her shoulder, or remove her hand from the top of his at least, she gripped his hand tighter and, feeling herself blushing, looked up into his eyes.
It was so magical to stand there before him, holding his hand and looking up into his beautiful eyes, feeling the heat from his body mere inches from hers, his touch, so wrong and yet so wonderful, on her shoulder and her palm. She wanted to kiss him. But she never could.
Then again, she had always told herself she never could do any of this, and she was already there. Would a kiss be so bad?
"I want you to stay with me. You asked me at one point to consider a matter overnight, my sister's education. I would like you to consider staying," he said, still gazing into her eyes passionately. Although his words were so mild, they bore a weight she could not begin to make sense of. "Please, consider staying with me. I shall give you time."
Agnes paused. "I am not sure that I can," she replied. "I am not sure that there is a way I could ever stay here."
"But consider it," he insisted, gripping her shoulder a little harder. "That is all I am asking of you, Agnes. I did for you, you must do so for me. Is that not a matter of honor?"
"I suppose it is. But you did not agree with me after spending al
l night considering," Agnes said with a faint smile. "What if I do not agree with you after spending a night considering?"
He froze. "I would ask you to consider another night. Maybe a week."
"And then?" she asked. "Sir, you cannot simply keep asking me to consider, forcing me to remain here for the interim. Clever though that may be, it is incredibly dishonorable. You must set a time."
"One week," he said instantly. "Consider it for one week."
"And if after then I have not changed my mind?" she asked.
"If you at least give it some thought, and give me some time to think of how to reward you, then I would be pleased," he replied, already sounding a little disheartened. "I suppose that even if you choose to leave, if you do so after I have had time to try and persuade you otherwise, I cannot complain too much. I would accept it with good grace. Or as close to good grace as I could manage."
