## The Escape
Hannah pulled Madame Marcel from the bedroom with impressive speed.
"His Lordship and Lady need privacy. I'll prepare dinner," she said smoothly to the guards, smoothly covering Madame Marcel's indignant expression.
Once in the hallway, Madame Marcel exploded. "How long does he intend to behave like that? The Duke destroys in one sentence what takes months to build!"
Hannah sighed. "But somehow it worked out."
"If the Duchess is upset with me tomorrow—" Madame Marcel began, only to have Hannah interrupt.
"We survive by eating. Let's go raid the kitchen before our resentment consumes us."
---
## Claudel's Realization
The small sock sat in her palm, its embroidery admittedly crooked, the chalk lines messy despite Madame Marcel's instructions.
When Kaian had said "fried egg," she'd frozen in shock and disappointment.
Then he'd laughed—a genuine, delighted laugh that made his vocal cords vibrate—and said:
"Margaret flowers. How did you manage something like this?"
All her disappointment evaporated. He'd recognized it. He'd understood.
She clung to his arm. "You recognized it?"
"Of course. It's quite well done."
He settled her into a chair, then pulled something from his jacket pocket with uncharacteristic shyness. A fresh Margaret flower.
"I heard you liked this flower."
Her heart swelled. These flowers only bloomed seasonally under the patron tree at Rowen. She'd mentioned to him once, during a walk, how disappointed she was that they'd stopped blooming. She never expected him to remember.
"Did you come back early just to give me this?"
"We couldn't have lunch together. Did you eat properly?"
His concern was touching, though she found it amusing that he worried about her starving when she was constantly eating due to pregnancy cravings.
When he lifted her, she felt the familiar rush of affection. She wanted to kiss him, wanted more than the brief, almost dismissive kiss he gave her before mentioning his hunger.
"Kiss me," she demanded.
"Alright," he agreed lightly, and kissed her again—still perfunctory.
A knock interrupted them. Madame Marcel's voice from beyond the door: "Lady, I left my tape measure."
Claudel gestured permission, and Madame Marcel quickly gathered her supplies.
But something odd happened.
For just a moment, Madame Marcel's gaze lingered on Kaian's face. And Kaian met her eyes directly—a deliberate, acknowledged moment before Madame Marcel looked away.
*What was that?*
When Madame Marcel left and the butler entered with dinner, Claudel tried to shake off the strange feeling.
*It was nothing. Just imagination.*
---
## Growing Shadows
Over the following days, Claudel found herself noticing things.
Madame Marcel stared at her constantly. When Claudel asked why, she offered a vague excuse about considering what styles would suit her. But Claudel had known her for months now. These intense stares were new.
And then came the eye contact between Madame Marcel and Kaian.
Claudel's mind spiraled into dangerous territory.
*Kaian was known as an energetic man who enjoyed nightlife. That women came and went from his bedroom was common knowledge even in Vermont.*
But he hadn't taken another lover since she'd asked him to stay with her during her insomnia. That much was clear.
*Wasn't it?*
The early pregnancy hormones made everything feel heavy and suspicious. The doctor had warned that anxiety was common in early pregnancy, that it would improve once she reached the stabilization phase. But what if this wasn't hormones? What if something was genuinely wrong?
*Why do they exchange glances?*
Claudel decided to visit the third-floor study while Hannah was at the telegraph office. She'd never been up there before, but she needed space to think, new books to distract herself.
The study was magnificent—nearly as impressive as Castle Valmonde's library. She'd just closed the door behind her when she heard voices from the hallway.
Female servants gossiping.
"Did you hear? I saw Madame Marcel coming out of the Lord's office late at night."
Another voice responded: "So the rumors are true? The Duke is having an affair?"
Claudel's breath stopped.
She pressed herself against the door, listening to servants speculate about her husband and her seamstress. The conversation moved on, but the damage was done.
*Late at night. Office visits. Eye contact. Constant staring.*
The pieces fit themselves together in her mind, creating a picture she didn't want to see.
*Is he...?*
Her hand moved instinctively to her stomach, where her secret still remained hidden.
What if he'd grown bored with her? What if Madame Marcel was the reason he'd come home early, insisted on checking her wardrobe, wanted to know what she ate?
What if none of it was about care at all?
---