Chapter 61
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I could swear that even in the chaotic halls of a boarding school, where hundreds of students lived on top of one another, I had never witnessed such utter disorder.
Jacqueline was generally a social creature; she moved through the world with ease, maintaining a pleasant rapport with almost everyone she met. Even if she wasn’t universally adored, she had never found the intricacies of human relationships particularly taxing.
That was, until she met Windsor. He left her completely unmoored, tossing her back and forth until she lost all sense of direction. He had a way of drawing her in only to shove her away, or provoking her for no discernible reason at all.
When he wasn’t around, she was the picture of composure. Yet, the moment she stood before him, her filter vanished, and she would find herself blabbing things she didn’t even mean. It was a cycle that always ended with her turning away in a fit of self-reproach.
Stupid Jacqueline.
It had happened again. The second she saw him, the image of Windsor escorting Miss Wilson flashed in her mind—he had looked so smug, so utterly satisfied with himself.
Driven by a sudden, involuntary impulse, she snapped at him. Even as the words left her mouth, she knew she would regret them.
Windsor met her outburst with a heavy silence. Feeling the weight of his stare pressing against her cheek, Jacqueline slowly forced herself to look up.
He stood there, his features frozen in a mask of icy indifference. As she looked at him, the emotion drained from her own face as well.
Here they were again.
Whenever she was caught in Windsor’s frigid gaze, she felt as though she were sinking into a dark, suffocating mire—a sensation far more repulsive than the sting of being mocked as a “penniless noble.”
She hadn’t felt this level of wretched despair even when reporters hounded her with cruel questions, or when former schoolmates who had been her confidants only the day before suddenly looked right through her as if she were a stranger.
“I imagine it must be a secret reserved for the high-born—something far above my station.”
Windsor’s voice was like frost. Jacqueline’s fingers tightened, bunching the fabric of her skirts.
Every time his words drew blood, a spark of defiance lit within her. Her sorrow was instantaneous, but it transformed into a searing rage just as quickly.
It was a volatile shift of temperament that she couldn’t reign in; she wasn’t even certain if her fury was directed at Windsor or at her own failings.
From Windsor’s perspective, she was simply being temperamental—behaving as if he should be able to read her soul without a single word of explanation, expecting him to intuitively understand the crushing weight of her guilt and grief.
But unspoken emotions are invisible. And so, Jacqueline’s temper flared once more.
“Do not take that tone with me.”
For a fleeting second, a crease appeared between Windsor’s brows. He looked bewildered, perhaps even a little pained.
He nervously brushed a hand over his lips. Jacqueline’s eyes grew dark and stormy, and fearing she might dissolve into tears at any moment, he spoke up with forced haste.
“There are thirteen minutes remaining until your next lecture.”
Jacqueline’s breath hitched. His clinical, detached observation made her heartache swell until it twisted back into anger.
“I am well aware of the time! If Lord Preston hadn’t seen fit to delay me, I would already be at my desk!”
She threw him a sharp, stinging look and swept past him, leaving a wake of cold tension behind her.
Windsor remained in the desolate hallway, watching her walk away in silence.
Every time he saw her in Evan’s company, something dark and visceral coiled in his gut. Since he couldn’t name the feeling, he simply clicked his tongue in annoyance.
Only after Jacqueline had vanished around the bend of the staircase did Windsor finally turn and walk the other way.
Jacqueline cursed her own foolishness.
Why did she always lose her head like that?
Whenever she was near Windsor, she became like a train jumped the tracks—completely unable to steer her own heart or tongue.
She was certain that regardless of her natural sensitivity, she had never been this volatile before. She was a woman who knew how to be patient, how to perform the role of a graceful lady when the situation demanded it.
Her entire upbringing had been a masterclass in the poise and etiquette expected of her class, and she had always found it easy to maintain. Yet, Windsor alone had the power to strip away her control.
“I’ve brought your tea, Miss.”
“Hmm? Oh—thank you, Betty.”
Shaking off her thoughts, Jacqueline offered a polite smile, her mask of elegant refinement perfectly back in place.
Why was it only Lord Preston who could shatter her calm? There was no logic to it. None at all.
She let out a heavy, weary breath without thinking.
“Haaa…”
She blinked in surprise when an identical sigh echoed from across the room. Betty had sighed, too.
“My apologies, Miss.”
Realizing she had been caught, Betty’s face went neutral as she clutched her empty serving tray.
Betty, sighing? That was unusual. Then Jacqueline looked closer.
She noticed that the skin around Betty’s eyes was puffy and red, as if she had recently been crying.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going now.”
“Is it a matter of the heart?”
The question jumped out of Jacqueline’s mouth. Betty’s expression was the exact same one she used to see on the maids at Somerset Manor when they came to her seeking romantic guidance.
Betty froze, looking as though she’d been struck. Seeing her suspicion confirmed, Jacqueline adopted an air of practiced nonchalance.
“You might not think it to look at me, but I used to be quite the authority on romantic troubles. I can spot the signs instantly. So, tell me, what’s the trouble?”
Betty wavered. She looked torn between maintaining professional boundaries and the desperate need to vent. The silence was clearly eating at her.
Jacqueline took a calm, measured sip of her tea, giving the girl space.
“I won’t force you to speak, of course. But you should know that I’ve successfully seen five couples through to marriage.”
She conveniently omitted the fact that her own romantic experience was non-existent. Her theoretical grasp of the subject, however, was impeccable.
After all, she had devoured over a hundred romance novels. Besides, such complications were always easier to solve from the outside.
“Well, it’s just…”
Betty finally gave in, her voice trembling slightly.
“Sit down, Betty. Speak freely. I promise your secrets are safe with me.”
“…Thank you, Miss Somerset.”
Betty took a seat on the opposite sofa and began her story. Her initial hesitation vanished, replaced by a torrent of words that grew more animated by the second.
Jacqueline listened with rapt attention, nodding encouragingly. It was a common enough tale, but for Betty, it was the center of the universe.
“…And that is where things stand,” Betty finished, her shoulders slumping in defeat.
Jacqueline took another sip of her cooling tea, processing the information.
“So, you and Peter the gardener have shared several outings, but now you’re upset because he’s stopped taking the initiative—specifically, he hasn’t asked for your hand?”
“Exactly, Miss Somerset.”
“I see.”
Jacqueline hummed thoughtfully. The golden rule of these situations was to weigh both sides. If she simply fueled Betty’s anger and the couple later made up, she would be the one looking like the villain.
“Peter is likely just being careful. You know as well as I do that fraternization among the staff is strictly against the rules here.”
“…I know.”
“He’s worried about his livelihood. If word got out, he’d be sacked from the Preston estate—and they pay better than anyone else. He’d lose his job and he’d lose the chance to see you entirely.”
Betty looked down at her lap. It was clear she had already considered this. However, her voice was bitter when she finally spoke.
“Then I suppose I’m not worth the risk to him. He isn’t willing to sacrifice a paycheck to be with me.”
“That isn’t necessarily true, Betty,” Jacqueline said softly, projecting a maturity she didn’t quite feel.
“Then what is it?”
“Look at it this way—Peter is trying to protect you. In these scandals, it’s almost always the woman who is dismissed and left without a reference. He’s trying to keep you safe.”
“That isn’t protection, Miss. If he would only ask, I’d leave this job in a heartbeat.”
Jacqueline’s eyebrows shot up. She hadn’t expected such a bold streak in her maid.
“My, Betty, you really are a modern woman of the city.”
Still, she could sympathize with Peter’s dilemma. These things were always so much simpler to judge when you weren’t the one standing in the middle of the fire.
She chose her next words with great care.
“Well… Betty, for some people, making a choice like that is agonizing—especially when they value both things and can’t imagine losing either.”
“And you think it’s easy for me? I love working at Preston Manor; the wages are incredible. But I’m willing to trade something good for something I want more.”
Betty’s voice grew sharp with frustration.
“Peter is just indecisive. He’s like a child standing in a shop with a coin in his pocket and a sweet in each hand, unable to choose until the doors are locked. In the end, he’ll walk away with nothing.”
The color drained from Jacqueline’s face.
Suddenly, Walter’s parting words from the night before she left for the Preston estate echoed in her mind:
“Sometimes, the greatest act of courage is choosing to let go.”
He had meant it as a comfort regarding her father’s passing, but it felt like a direct indictment of her current life.
She sat there, stunned, as if she’d been physically struck.
After a long silence, Jacqueline forced a faint, self-deprecating smile that felt as fragile as dust.
“You’re right, Betty. Letting go is a choice. And it requires courage.”
“Miss…?”
Betty’s anger melted into confusion. Jacqueline met her gaze and smiled gently.
For the first time, she abandoned her objective stance and took a side.
“Yes, Betty, you are absolutely right. This is Peter’s fault. It is selfish to want everything without risking anything. Sometimes… courage means walking away. Don’t you agree?”
“I—yes, I suppose so.”
Betty nodded, though she looked a bit unsettled, as if she sensed Jacqueline wasn’t really talking about the gardener anymore.
Then, a new fire lit in Betty’s eyes. She stood up abruptly.
“Thank you, Miss Somerset. You’ve given me the strength I needed. I’m going to find Peter right now and tell him he has to choose. I won’t be kept waiting any longer!”
With her empty tray held high, Betty marched out of the room with newfound purpose. Jacqueline gave a small, weary wave.
“Good luck, Betty.”
Click.
As the door shut, a cold, mocking glint settled in Jacqueline’s green eyes—a look directed entirely at her own cowardice.
A moment later, the door opened again. It was William. With his usual impeccable grace, he presented a silver tray with an envelope resting upon it.
“A letter has arrived for you, Miss Somerset.”
