Chapter 11
For a brief moment, Madam Ritz’s features turned stony. She wore a look of sharp vigilance, resembling a cat sensing an intruder in its territory.
These frictions were not uncommon—situations where a newly hired governess of noble birth attempted to usurp the domestic authority of the manor.
In the rigid hierarchy of such households, governesses were typically ladies of the nobility, while housekeepers rose from the ranks of commoners. This inherent class difference often sparked quiet, simmering power struggles.
It was a classic tug-of-war for influence, a staple of life in any grand estate.
Madam Ritz narrowed her eyes, her gaze hardening. She had held the mantle of housekeeper for only two years; she could not risk being eclipsed by a governess so early in her tenure.
She wondered how Mrs. Norwood would have managed this.
Mrs. Norwood had been the backbone of Preston Manor for decades, only retiring the year Jeffrey Preston passed away. Madam Ritz had been handpicked as her successor. Though the older woman had encouraged her, saying, “There is no one more capable than you, Ritz,” the younger woman frequently wrestled with self-doubt.
She lacked the seasoned confidence of her predecessor. At times, the sheer weight of managing the estate felt like an anchor dragging her down.
Yet, she dared not let the mask slip. That burden was hers to carry in silence.
Madam Ritz strove for perfection, wanting the maids to look to her with the same unwavering trust they had afforded Mrs. Norwood. Consequently, she could not back down before Jacqueline—not with the staff watching.
With a surge of resolve, she pressed her lips into a thin line. Jacqueline, after a flicker of initial surprise, seemed to read the housekeeper’s mind instantly. Her tone turned disarmingly soft.
“Countess Bernstein suffers from a chrysanthemum allergy.”
Madam Ritz blinked, taken aback.
“A few years ago, during a gala at Lord Hanson’s, she inhaled pollen from the chrysanthemums in the ballroom and collapsed on the spot. Since then, it has become an unwritten rule to avoid those flowers at any event she attends. I happened to notice both the Count and Countess on the guest list. Since cornflowers belong to the same family, it might be wise to exercise caution, Madam.”
“…Is that so?”
Madam Ritz murmured, the information clearly new to her. Flushed with a touch of embarrassment for her earlier prickliness, she lowered her gaze.
Jacqueline had no desire for a confrontation. Her life was complicated enough without making an enemy of the woman who ran the house.
“I understand the Countess spent some time away at her country estate due to poor health, but she has recently returned to the capital. It will be lovely to see her again.”
With that graceful exit, Jacqueline continued her climb up the stairs. Madam Ritz watched her go, lost in thought.
If the Countess were to faint at a Preston banquet—and because of a lapse in her own oversight—the scandal would be catastrophic.
Madam Ritz squeezed her hand into a tight fist. She was her own harshest critic. At times, the weight of a mistake could feel so heavy she imagined herself fleeing the manor in shame.
“…Thank you for the warning, Miss Jacqueline.”
The housekeeper offered a stiff but sincere bow. Jacqueline paused, turning back from the landing to look down at her.
The use of “Miss Jacqueline” rather than the formal “Miss Somerset” was a subtle but significant shift. The chasm between them had narrowed by a single, definitive step.
Jacqueline’s expression melted into a warm, genuine smile.
“Think nothing of it, Madam Ritz. Please, call me Jackie.”
She gave a playful wave with the spectacles she carried before disappearing up the staircase. As she walked, she remembered William mentioning that Lord Preston had a distaste for banquets.
It was a famous piece of gossip. Indeed, the ton was full of stories regarding Windsor Preston.
Rumors claimed he had never once danced with a lady at a ball, or that he shunned the social circuit entirely. Most of these tales painted him as a man of insufferable arrogance.
In many ways, he was the most scrutinized figure in high society—a cocktail of striking beauty, a scandalous past, and a cold demeanor. He commanded the room’s attention, whether he invited it or not.
He didn’t strike me as particularly arrogant, Jacqueline mused, tilting her head.
To her, Windsor seemed detached and perhaps a bit dry, but never cruel or condescending. If anything, he appeared remarkably pragmatic. Deciding the rumors were likely exaggerations, she reached the study and knocked.
“It is Somerset, Lord Preston.”
“Enter.”
She stepped into the room, which felt perpetually draped in a scholarly austerity. Windsor looked up, his silent gaze inquiring after her business. She walked to his desk and set the glasses down.
“You left these in the drawing room. I assumed you might need them for your work.”
One of Windsor’s brows twitched upward. He let out a soft, disgruntled huff. “You could have simply sent a maid.”
“I was coming upstairs regardless.”
“My thanks for your… thoughtfulness, Miss Somerset.”
“It was no trouble.”
Jacqueline found herself privately amused that a man of such clinical precision could be so forgetful. Even the great Lord Preston has his moments, she thought.
A faint, involuntary smile touched her lips. Looking at the daunting towers of paperwork on his desk, she gave a small sympathetic shake of her head.
“I will leave you to it, then.”
Leaving the study, Jacqueline made her way to the nursery. She gave a soft tap on the door before peering inside.
“How would you like to go for a walk, Benjamin?”
The boy looked up from his text, his expression guarded. His dark, soulful eyes seemed to be calculating the risk; he likely remembered the lectures he’d received from his uncle after previous outings with her.
His legs dangled from his chair, swinging as he weighed his options. Jacqueline’s voice took on a tempting, honeyed quality.
“The sky is perfectly clear today, and there is a lovely breeze. It would do you wonders to get some air. Perhaps we could have some lemonade when we return?”
A slight flush crept into the boy’s cheeks. No matter how much he enjoyed his books, he was still a child, and the call of the outdoors was hard to ignore. Yet, he possessed a gravity beyond his years and refused to act on impulse. Jacqueline adopted a mock-serious tone.
“You know, the great philosophers were famous for their walks. It isn’t just exercise—it is a time to look inward, to reflect on the soul and the nature of existence. It is a very scholarly pursuit.”
Won over by her logic, Benjamin finally closed his book and stood. Jacqueline felt a surge of triumph. No matter how much of a little gentleman you are, you’re still only six.
They set out together, wandering through the meticulously manicured gardens. The air was filled with the first rhythmic buzz of cicadas. Jacqueline breathed in deeply, her shoulders relaxing.
“Summer is truly on its way. The cicadas are already singing.”
“Yes.”
Benjamin was a boy of few words. Jacqueline nodded, privately thinking that silence was the Preston family’s primary inheritance, given Windsor’s similar brevity. It didn’t bother her; she had enough conversation for the both of them.
She slowed her stride to match his small steps. They passed under the deep shade of leafy trees, surrounded by vibrant greens. Dappled sunlight fell through the canopy, tracing golden patterns across her skin.
It was profoundly peaceful—the scent of damp earth and the warmth of the sun creating a quiet sanctuary.
Maaaah-maaaah-maaaah.
The cicadas were loud, yet the noise only seemed to deepen the surrounding stillness.
Suddenly, Benjamin stopped. He was staring intensely at a cicada clinging to the bark of a nearby tree. For a fleeting moment, his eyes lost their practiced maturity, replaced by a spark of raw, boyish wonder.
It was like watching a flower bloom in fast motion.
Jacqueline knew that look well. She remembered being six, when the world was a treasure map and every hour felt like an eternity of discovery. Back then, she hadn’t worried about her future or her duties.
She had been a princess, a knight, and a master chef all in one afternoon. Happiness was the taste of a sugar cookie or the safety of her father’s arms.
Leaning down, she whispered with a conspiratorial grin, “Why don’t you try to catch it?”
“What?”
Benjamin jumped, looking at her with wide eyes. He looked caught between the thrill of the idea and the scandal of it. His face, which had been bright with temptation, quickly masked itself in Preston decorum.
“The heir to the Marquess of Preston does not catch insects with his bare hands, Miss Somerset.”
Jacqueline suppressed a smile at the reversal of their roles. It saddened her that at six, Benjamin already had a long list of prohibitions that he viewed as law. Once he reached school age, the walls of expectation would only close in tighter.
She wanted him to feel that this house was a home, not just a monument to his title. To her, home was a refuge—a place of warmth that one yearned for when the world grew cold. She wanted him to have memories of joy to carry into his adulthood.
Narrowing her eyes like a friendly devil, she whispered, “It’s quite alright. There is no one here but us, and I am excellent at keeping secrets.”
She made a theatrical gesture of locking her lips. Benjamin wavered, his resolve crumbling.
“But…”
“You may be the heir, but you are also six years old. No one will fault you for having a little fun.”
“The future Marquess of Preston does not catch cicadas,” he repeated, though his voice had lost its conviction and dropped to a tiny murmur.
Jacqueline pressed her advantage with a soft laugh.
“There is no law against it. When I was your age, I used to hunt for ladybugs with the housemaids because I loved their bright red shells. I used to jump into every mud puddle after a storm, too.”
She chose to omit the part about the scolding she received from her mother afterward.
“…Truly?”
“Indeed. And as you can see, I grew up to be a perfectly respectable lady.”
She also neglected to mention that she was currently the “impoverished lady” of society gossip, but that wasn’t relevant to the moment.
“You’re sure no one will find out?”
The boy cast a nervous glance around the clearing. Jacqueline immediately stood tall, scanning the horizon with exaggerated vigilance.
“I’ll be the lookout. Go on—catch as many as you like.”
After one last look at her, Benjamin gave in. The temptation was simply too great for a six-year-old heart to resist.
