Chapter 44
“Mmm, delicious.”
I relished the tender, juicy chicken leg amid the bustling eatery.
The picture menu had sparked far more interest than I’d anticipated.
I’d hoped it would draw crowds, but learning the place was jammed at midday just two days after installing the board left me too thrilled to sit idle.
So I pulled Norton along for a discreet outing.
I even had Leta fetch me some simple attire, and when I arrived in it, Norton shed his armor to join me.
He did carry a long, dubious parcel, though—likely his blade.
“Sir Norton, nobody here recognizes me as the duchess. Unwind and savor your meal.”
“I’m dining just fine.”
“I noticed your hand jerk when that lady spoke to me earlier.”
“My regrets.”
Once I’d polished off my milk pudding, Norton slid his pristine apple pie my way.
“That’s yours, Sir Norton.”
“I don’t want it.”
“The pudding filled me up too.”
“…”
“I wasn’t eyeing it because I’m hungry.”
After some gentle prodding, Norton at last tucked into the pie with his trademark stoic expression, as I surveyed the now-vibrant dining room.
The oversized food illustrations lent the space a cheerful glow.
Even the scene at the inn’s doorway bustled more than usual.
Regardless of the dishes listed, the pictorial board itself captivated passersby, halting them in their tracks.
Pleased, I shifted my leg—only to nudge something solid.
Peering beneath the tablecloth revealed a slender periodical on the floor.
News from the North.
“A weekly rag? Straightforward title—purely northern flair.”
Intrigued, I snatched it up and leafed through. Norton coughed.
“Oh dear, Sir Norton—are you okay?”
“I’m all right,” he replied, stealing a peek at the publication while muffling his mouth.
“Must’ve gone down the wrong pipe.”
It brimmed with regional tidbits: sheep competitions, literary critiques, chats with thriving entrepreneurs—plenty of Blenheim buzz.
As I paged onward, a certain section caught my eye.
“Capital style updates?”
Cough! Norton emitted another uneasy sound.
“Here, water.”
I nudged a glass his way and resumed scanning the piece.
“Capital noblewomen are locked in a frenzy for crescent moon gems to adorn their summer corsets. The renowned atelier Sharide has apparently hoarded gems and trims, outpacing major traders…”
I glanced at Norton.
“Do folks around here actually peruse this?”
He cleared his throat once more, his neck flushing crimson.
“Wh-who’d bother with drivel like that…”
His vehement protest left me faintly discomfited.
“It’s merely a periodical. Why the fuss?”
“…My apologies. No idea.”
His typically composed features flushed in shades of scarlet and pallor.
What’s gotten into him?
Something scandalous inside?
Puzzled by his odd behavior, I pondered—until
“Every home stocks at least one,” Marie interjected, materializing to set a fresh apple pie before me.
“The territory’s vast—news from distant villages travels slow.”
“Many such publications around?”
I queried, sinking my teeth into the flaky delight.
“More cropping up these days. Some gratis, stuffed with pitches.”
Marie gave a nonchalant shrug.
“But News from the North remains the gold standard.”
I nodded, the sweet apple filling bursting on my tongue.
“These society bits are surprisingly entertaining.”
Marie departed, and as Norton sipped water, I proffered the page his way—he sneezed explosively.
“…”
“My regrets.”
Looks like my escort’s got a severe case of… periodical phobia.
Knock, knock.
That morning, as Loic donned his attire, he glanced up.
The duchess had begged off their usual visit, citing tea setup duties.
“Your Grace, permission to enter?”
His devoted butler’s tone.
“Enter.”
Loic cleared his throat, chagrined at mistaking the voice.
“What’s the matter?”
Whitley glided in, a soft smile gracing his features.
“Here to assist with your dressing.”
“You are?”
Loic arched a brow, perplexed.
He handled his own wardrobe save for grand events demanding the butler’s expertise.
“Anything pressing on the docket?”
He racked his brain for overlooked engagements.
“Nothing of the sort,”
Whitley assured, lips quirking faintly.
“I’ll fetch your garments.”
Bypassing any query, Whitley produced a black jacket and crisp white shirt.
Loic deemed the butler’s conduct peculiar yet submitted, sliding into the shirt as offered.
The fabric felt oddly novel.
Sleeves draped with unaccustomed ease, yet supremely cozy.
“New threads?”
“Indeed.”
Utterly peculiar.
Whitley customarily detailed quantities tailored and alterations made, yet today he held his tongue.
He seemed poised for Loic to discern the shift unaided.
“You’re dressed. Care for a mirror glance?”
A mirror?
This deviated sharply from routine.
Harboring unease, Loic positioned himself before the glass. And then…
“This… it’s changed.”
After prolonged scrutiny, he voiced it.
Changed it was.
Indescribably so, yet unmistakably altered.
Bewildered, Loic pivoted toward Whitley.
The ever-staid butler’s eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Did… she…?”
Loic faltered, gaze widening.
He dreaded voicing folly aloud.
Whitley nodded, delighted.
“The Grand Duchess commissioned these personally for you.”
“The Grand Duchess…”
Loic fell mute momentarily, fingers grazing the light spring coat’s collar.
“She selected the cloth, oversaw every stitch. Measured sleeves for perfect fit during your duties.”
The material screamed luxury, the cut impeccable—clear evidence of meticulous craft.
“It… fits well.”
“She fussed over the aesthetics too. The boutique madam noted such refined menswear is scarce even in the Capital.”
Loic peered up anew: a strikingly handsome figure stared back.
Self-conscious, he tousled his hair. Whitley beamed gently.
“It becomes you splendidly, Your Grace.”
“Does it?”
Loic’s mind drifted to their tea soirée, when his wife summoned the seamstress.
—“A gift from my husband.”
Her radiant grin showcasing the gown.
That evening illuminated noblemen’s auction extravagances—envisioning her joy spurred him to lavish her with finery.
That mere smile had gladdened him.
Now, she’d gifted him garb.
‘Clothes from my wife…’
The notion warmed his neck.
Today’s knight captains’ briefing loomed. Too ostentatious for an in-house affair?
‘Am I peacocking?’
Flaunting spousal favor?
Heat crept to his cheeks.
The garments bore no “Grand Duchess original” label.
‘I’m overthinking…’
Had staff or knights ever critiqued his attire?
Never. Apparel merited no notice.
Still toying with his cuffs, Loic caught Whitley’s affectionate gaze. Mortified, he bolted from the chamber.
Perhaps crisp hallway air would temper his flush.
Traversing the passage, a voice hailed him.
“Commander!”
First Knight Captain Demiche crossed the garden: red locks, red beard, red cape—a blaze incarnate.
His First Knights hastened to form ranks astern.
“We salute you, Commander!”
Their chorus boomed like drill-yard cadence. Loic inclined his head.
“Training?”
“Aye, sir. Gates swing open today, so we shifted drills to dawn—crowd dodge.”
Demiche beamed.
“Bound for the briefing room? Shall we?”
“Very well.”
Loic assented curtly and strode forth, but—
Snnf. Demiche inhaled sharply.
“Hold on, Commander—you’ve a different air today.”
