I sat at the writing desk, sleeves pushed up, fingers stained slightly as I reviewed the household accounts. The morning sun filtered through the windows, gliding the ledger with soft light. Numbers danced before my eyes–servants wages,orders for winter preserves, a delay in firewood delivery.
I didn't hear the door open.
"You're overcalculating the kitchen inventory," came Darrell's voice, low–cool but not unkind.
I startled, nearly blotting the page, "I didn't hear you come in."
Darrell crossed the room without hurry, his boots soundless against the rug. He looked, as always, impeccable: coat buttoned, posture crisp, jaw just a little too tense.
"You didn't answer my question," His eyes flicked to the ledger. "You're accounting for more sacks of flour than we received. Ask the head chef to confirm the delivery. She tends to over report when she's worried about shortages."
"I see," I murmured, reaching for the quill again. "I'll make a note."
He lingered beside the desk, and I felt his presence before I saw him move.
"Why are you doing this?" He asked.
I looked up slowly, "Doing what?"
"These ledgers. The staff report. The garden orders. That's the steward's responsibility."
I met his gaze, "it's my job as the lady of the house to oversee such duties. Or am I supposed to sit and embroider my honeymoon days away."
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. "You don't have to prove anything."
"I'm not," I lied, returning my gaze to the ledger.
A silence passed before he spoke again.
"A seamstress will come by this afternoon to take your measurements."
I blinked, "For what? I have more than enough dresses."
"It's for the gathering," he said tone clipped. "You'll be hosting a formal welcome–your first as Lady Storm."
My fingers stilled.
"Coral did mention a gathering for the ladies of polite society."
"A reception," he corrected. "Half the gentry is expecting it. And they're not exactly known for their forgiveness when protocol is ignored."
"I see," I said again, quieter this time. I wasn't sure if I meant it.
He paused at the door then glanced back," If you need help, ask. You don't have to do everything alone."
He hesitated– just long enough to let the words fall more softly.
"I understand you want to help and prove your worth..... but you don't have to prove to me."
Then he left, the room echoing with all the things he didn't say.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I sat perfectly still.
The quill hung suspended between my fingers, ink pooling at the tip. The silence rushed in, louder than his voice, louder than his footsteps, louder than my own breathing.
You don't have to prove it to me.
But I do, don't I?
Not just to him–to everyone. His family, my father who wanted to protect our family, the staff watching my every move, the gentry waiting to whisper how he quickly married a stranger, the portraits on the wall who've worn this name longer than I've been alive. Even the damn steward, who hesitated just long enough when I give instructions to make me feel the cracks in my authority.
Lady Storm.
The title sounded heavier now that reality was steadily settling in.
I pressed the quill down too hard. Ink bled through the corner of the ledger page, staining the margin.
Worth. That was the word he used.
As if I were a coincidence being weighed. Days out in war had made him a cold man. A man whose words pricked and at times hurt.
This man was now my husband. He married me because it was necessary. Our alliance was built with signatures and ceremony, not sentiment. I was not the young girl with pigtails anymore not was he the boy pulling on my pigtails.
I stood suddenly restless, and moved to the window. Below the courtyard bustled with servants preparing for winter–stacking firewood, moving crates, sweeping the stone path clean. Everything in motion. Everything in its place.
Except me.
The door opened behind me. I turned, spine straightening instinctively.
Lady Storm entered with the same quiet authority her son possessed, though hers was sharpened by decades of refinement and calculation. She was dressed in slate grey trimmed with silver, her posture flawless, her expression unreadable.
"I hope am not interrupting," she said smoothly. "I thought I'd see how you're adjusting."
"I'm well," I replied, polite but cautious. "Winter here is a bit warmer than in my hometown. I'm used to gray skies and frost by morning."
Her eyes swept the room, lingering on the open ledger, the ink–stained blotter. A flicker of something crossed her face. Approval? Disapproval? It vanished before I could name it.
"Good," she said at last. "Adaptability is a virtue."
I inclined my head slightly.
She stepped further into the room. "The seamstress has arrived. I told her not to keep you waiting."
"Ofcourse." I said.
Lady storm turned, expecting me to follow, "she's set up in the drawing room. Everyone's waiting."
And just like that, I was moving again. Away from the ink and numbers and doubt–back into the role I was learning to play. The role I was expected to know by heart.