And so, plans for the Tea Party have continued between Lady Whitman and Grand Duke Chambers. The entire menu was selected, and reselected. Tea party program drafted and redrafted. Elegant parchment was chosen, the ink a deep green that shimmered with gold under candlelight. The wording was carefully measured:
-----000-----
Her Ladyship, Bettina Anne Whitman, The Right Honorable Countess of Whitman
and
His Grace, Edward Matthew Chambers, Grand Duke of Synthos,
cordially invite you and your little ones to a private afternoon tea
at Whitman Manor
to preview a curious invention sure to delight the young and young-at-heart.
Come with open minds and leave with entertained hearts.
Date: The Twelfth Day of Highsun
Location: Whitman Manor Garden Pavilion, Boleus Capital
-----000-----
Invitations were penned that very afternoon, hand-delivered by Whitman footmen clad in livery. They reached the hands of select noble families—some allies, some skeptics—each with influence or reputation worthy of their audience.
Lady Margella read hers twice, brow arching. "She dares host a tea party under her name?" she mused aloud, the invitation trembling ever so slightly between her fingers.
Baroness Cosgrove almost choked on her tea. "A tea? With the Grand Duke? Oh, this I must see."
The Marchioness of Gainsbridge, who just sat down in her study, narrowed her eyes, turning the envelope over. "With the Grand Duke?" she said. "Not with the Earl himself? This is no whim. Something's afoot."
And far in the country, Lady Eliza Whitman, the Earl's cousin, let out a light scoff. "The reformed countess. I wonder if she'll remember the proper use of fans and cutlery this time."
Even within the Whitman Manor itself, some people's objections could not be silenced.
The study was dimly lit, the hour growing late. A silver-edged lamp flickered on the Earl's desk, casting shadows across a stack of correspondence yet to be read. Anthony James Whitman, The Right Honorable Earl of Whitman, rubbed the bridge of his nose as Steward Ferguson cleared his throat quietly at the threshold.
"Yes, Ferguson?"
The steward stepped in, straight-backed, composed. But the slight tightening at the corner of his mouth belied the unease threading his words.
"My lord, I thought it best to inform you directly… Her Ladyship has made arrangements with His Grace, the Grand Duke, to host a tea party here at the manor in three days' time."
Anthony's pen paused mid-scratch. "A tea party?"
"Yes, my lord," Ferguson confirmed. "To showcase a wooden game—something of her own design, with children in mind. Nobles have already begun accepting the invitation." His voice lowered a fraction. "I beg your pardon for speaking plainly, but I feel compelled to bring to your attention certain… concerns regarding the upcoming gathering planned by Her Ladyship."
Anthony didn't look up right away. "Concerns?" he echoed, voice quiet and unreadable.
"The staff are working diligently, of course. The manor is in order, the tea menu appropriately refined. Yet…" Ferguson hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to the tall windows. "There has been gossip. Whispers among the servants. And beyond. That Her Ladyship's change in temperament, though commendable, is... sudden. Unfamiliar. Some of the nobility may attend out of sheer curiosity, but not without a measure of skepticism. I fear they will come just to watch — not to support."
Anthony's brow ticked up. "You believe she will embarrass herself?"
Ferguson's gaze never wavered. "I believe Her Ladyship has taken bold steps to reform both her conduct and her influence. But society's memory is long, my lord. Particularly when it clings to scandal. I merely question whether it is… wise to allow her to place herself — and this household — beneath such a magnifying glass so soon."
Anthony leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. He did not look at Ferguson, but beyond him—toward memory.
He recalled the way Jason laughed now, full-bellied and bright, with a confidence he hadn't shown in years. He remembered the afternoon in the drawing room—Jason and George collapsing in giggles over a wooden tower of blocks, while the countess—no, Bettina—watched with a spark of protectiveness that would be quite hard to fake.
"She knows what they think of her," he said at last, voice low and even. "Every whisper. Every sidelong glance. I have seen her endure them with more dignity than I gave her credit for."
Ferguson gave a shallow nod. "Yes, my lord. Her conduct of late has been… admirable."
Anthony stood up and took a step closer to the hearth, setting his glass down with a soft clink. His gaze sharpened — not harshly, but with an intensity that suggested something deeper than duty.
"When I asked her why she was doing all this," he said quietly, "she didn't speak of reputation. Or vanity. She told me once that she didn't want to waste her life. She spoke of purpose. Of wanting to be useful. To build something. For herself. For Jason."
His jaw clenched, the little cracks in the armor of his detachment widening ever so slightly.
There was a beat of silence.
"Do we still believe that she's pretending, Ferguson? I wonder."
Ferguson's brow furrowed, just slightly.
The Earl continued, his voice more clipped now. "She's inviting noblewomen into this house — yes, perhaps too soon for comfort. But I'd rather they see the truth for themselves than cling to the memory of a woman who may no longer exist. If they intend to gawk, let them. The Whitman Earldom is not so flimsy that it could easily be toppled by whatever scandal they could dream up because of this party."
"I understand, my lord."
"Let her show them who she is now. Let them gossip. Let them speculate. Just make certain that the staff is prepared, the silver polished, and the guest rooms spotless."
Ferguson's brows lifted. "Understood."
The steward turned to go but paused at the door.
"My lord," he said softly. "You said 'let her show them.' But she won't be alone. She has the Grand Duke to host with her."
A muscle twitched in Anthony's cheek.
"Yes," he said. "She does."
His gaze met Ferguson's, steady and firm. "She is the Countess of Whitman. And this is her home. The household will support her. That includes you."
Ferguson gave a slow bow of his head. "Of course, my lord. Forgive me if I spoke out of turn."
"You didn't," the Earl replied. "But let's not mistake caution for progress. It's been months. The lady has changed. And perhaps… so should we."
*****No force shall break this sacred sign*****
The day of Lady Whitman's first ever Tea Party arrived under a clear sky, the gardens of Whitman Manor meticulously manicured. The garden pavilion was breathtaking. Sconces hung from blooming rose arches along the path leading to the glass veranda where the tea would be served. Polished tables draped in ivory lace, china patterned in delicate violets, and crisp linens bespoke wealth and precision.
Just beyond the formal gathering of tables, a section of the garden had been set aside for the younger guests—a charming nook where picnic blankets lay spread across the grass in a cheerful mosaic. Wooden toys and puzzle sets were neatly arranged on low trays, enticing the children to sprawl and play — a gentle contrast to the adult conversation that were expected to happen at the tea tables.
Guests stepped down from carriages with idle curiosity and veiled expectations. They were greeted with a poised smile from Lady Whitman, her gown a subdued lilac that drew attention without ostentation. The Grand Duke, regal and approachable, played host at her side.
Children lingered behind mothers' skirts until Jason, bright-eyed, ran forward and began inviting them to play with his toys in the picnic blankets. Laughter followed.
Tea was poured, laughter coaxed, children played, and conversation delicately steered. Of course, beneath all the adult talks, about their children or their latest exploits, there were the expected whispers and avid looks at the tea party's host. What new scandal would they witness today? They were all waiting for the ball to drop.
But, throughout the party, all they could see was a Lady Whitman who spoke gently, smiled vaguely at cloaked barbs, and responded at direct baits with self-deprecation. It was quite disconcerting for many of those who saw the formerly fiery countess for the first time prior to her seclusion. And then came the moment of introduction. Lady Whitman rose and, with grace unmarred by nervousness, gestured to the finely crafted wooden blocks that was arranged in neat towers on low tables in the center of the garden.
Yet, underneath her practiced poise, she could still feel the trembling of nerves.
Mary Jane, you can do this. You've practiced with his grace and in front of the mirror so many times!
She drew a deep breath. "My dear friends and honored guests, we have invited you all today, not only to strengthen our bonds and forge new ties, but also to share with you our newest invention."
Grand Duke Chambers stepped forward and stood on the other side of the low table. "As parents," he gestured to Lady Whitman. "And as a beloved uncle myself, we have wondered whether the current toys in the market are helpful enough to the development of our children's minds and hearts."
"And so, we came up with this… It's called the Wobble-Tumble," she announced. "A toy meant for hands and hearts alike. For learning of structure, balance, and coordination, for shared laughter, for bonding… and perhaps a little competition."
Polite claps followed. Curious eyes narrowed.
She held out her hand to her stepson. Jason ran up to the table, stood beside her, and raised his hand. "I named this toy for Mother!" He announced proudly. "I'll show you how to play this!"
Then, he waved to George who was standing in the sidelines. Together, they began playing with one stack of the Wobble-Tumble, as Jason explained to everyone the simple rules on how to play with the toy.
A few beats later, the other children joined in—stacking, giggling, toppling the wooden pieces with delighted shrieks. The adults, as if they couldn't help themselves, moved closer and began coaching their children to win. Soon, the rest of the adults requested and were given their own sets of Wobble-Tumble so they could play on their own tables.
And in no time at all, the Whitman gardens were filled with laughter, groans, and whoops of triumph.
Lady Eliza's voice cut through the gaiety with theatrical sweetness. "It's lovely, of course. Remarkable, really. To think—only last winter Lady Whitman threw a silver tray at a footman. Now she hosts teas and invents toys. How... inspiring."
A beat of silence.
Everyone turned to their host, waiting for her response to the obvious bait with bated breath.
Ah yes, a veiled but loaded remark. Mary Jane realized that she had indeed come a long way in understanding the intricacies of polite conversation that she can now somehow detect when one is being lured to attack. And what she learned was, when one attempts to set fire, it is best to throw water on it.
Lady Whitman turned, smile unwavering. "I've learned it takes far more strength to build something than to break it. Thankfully, I've found new pursuits more deserving of my energy than silver trays."
The crowd chuckled in unison. Lady Margella looked over, lips twitching into reluctant amusement.
"Change does become you," the Marchioness added, watching the Grand Duke speak to a small boy engrossed in the game. "If this is your doing, Your Grace, you've been quite the influence."
"Ah," he looked up with a warm chuckle, "all I did was get out of her way."
"Is this toy as sturdy as your reputation?" Lady Eugenia murmured.
Lady Whitman placed a block with delicate precision. "Even better. We have chosen only the finest materials for our toys. But even if it tumbles, we rebuild stronger. Like reputations."
"Most importantly," Edward added. "Its design, manufacturing, and distribution is patented and protected by the Imperial Guild of Inventors. You won't be able to purchase it anywhere else but through our company, the Ministry of Merriment. Feel free to send us your requests."
As sunlight softened to dusk, guests lingered, reluctant to finish their games.
"She's not at all what I expected," whispered one noblewoman.
"If this toy is made available," another said, "I should like to order two. My twins will adore it."
"It will make the whole family bond closer if we can all play this during teatime or after dinner."
Lady Margella, watching from the edge, frowned. She hadn't expected to be impressed. Yet, she was. Perhaps Anthony's distraction was…she couldn't bear to finish her thought.
Meanwhile, the Grand Duke raised his teacup toward Lady Whitman. She returned the gesture. Their silent unity said more than words.
By the tea's end, the guests had lingered long past the final course, their parting conversations soft with surprise and admiration. But it was getting late, and so the guests slowly bid their goodbyes.
Lady Eliza Whitman could not help but add one more jab in her farewell to her. "My dear cousin, hosting without catastrophe? My, how the stars have aligned."
Lady Whitman offered a serene smile. "They have, haven't they? Setting the right tone takes more finesse than setting fires."
"From theatrics to woodwork—what an inspired turn."
"We all evolve, cousin. Some of us into creators. Others into… observers."
Those who heard the exchange marveled once again at the grace and elegance that the countess had been showing for the entire event. And as their carriages rolled away, they took more than biscuits and pleasantries—they carried new stories. About a Countess reborn. About a toy with promise. And about a tea that had, quite literally, changed everything.
And far behind the closing doors of Whitman Manor, Lady Whitman stood watching from the veranda, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the table. The Grand Duke joined her, eyes scanning the retreating guests.
"You've won them," he said.
She smiled. "Not yet. But today, I think I made them listen."
*****Two souls clash, yet share one fire*****
While the tea party was going on, The Right Honorable Earl of Whitman stood behind the drapes of his study's slightly open high window, partially concealed from view, though there was no one there to see him. From this vantage point, he could see the gathering below in the south garden, where tables dressed in white lace were dotted with floral arrangements, and laughter drifted like perfume through the spring air.
He hadn't intended to watch. In truth, he had retreated to his study to escape it—the sight of the Grand Duke standing beside his wife, smiling at her as if they shared some long-established camaraderie. I wasn't even invited…
Wait a minute. Why was he feeling left out all of a sudden? He quickly erased the petty thought from his mind. But her carefree laughter had reached his ears, insistent and unfamiliar. It had drawn him here.
She was radiant.
Lady Whitman, his wife—once the tempest of every scandal sheet in the Empire—moved with calm elegance among their guests. Not a trace of the fury that once defined her. Her gown, the color of lilacs in bloom, framed her figure with effortless grace. She stopped beside a table with a group of children, bending to adjust a tower of blocks, and whispering a gentle suggestion at the child's ear. Jason's laughter, bright and genuine, rang out above the rest.
The sound made his heart skip.
Below, the guests sipped tea and watched the demonstration of the toy—"Wobble-Tumble," she had called it. Ingenious in its simplicity. Clever in its aim. The children were enthralled.
And then—
From the nearby hedge just below him, he heard voices.
"Charming, certainly. But let's not forget the garden maze incident in the palace. She once threatened to exile the head gardener because he trimmed the wrong hedge."
A woman laughed, brittle and sharp. "You'd think a game and a polite smile could erase years of infamy. She hasn't changed. She's just... polished her performance."
He stiffened.
They weren't wrong—not entirely. The woman he married had been volatile, reckless, and often cruel. But these whispers missed something crucial—something he had only begun to recognize. The woman below had clawed her way back from grief, madness, and guilt. He had watched her from afar, unsure, unwilling to trust. But months have already passed since she woke up from her coma. He could no longer claim with certainty that her change of behavior was all an act.
He turned to leave, but paused again when another pair of voices floated closer.
"I must say, she surprised me," said a lady with a familiar lilt. "That child of hers—Jason? I've never seen him so... at ease. She kept him close. Protective. As if she truly cared."
"She does," replied another. "And the Grand Duke seemed to enjoy the company. They made quite the team."
Anthony felt the stab of something unwelcome—jealousy, sharp and bitter. Not at the Duke, but at himself. For being too slow. For not asking her earlier. For not seeing the real her.
He returned to his study and closed the door behind him. The fire crackled in the hearth; its warmth lost on him. He stood by the mantel; one hand braced against the stone.
He remembered her trembling hands when she had tried to explain her motives to him—the day he found her playing happily with others with her little wooden toys. He had questioned her then, demanded to know why she bothered. And she had answered: Because wasting one's life is a far greater tragedy than losing one's fortune.
And now here she was, proving it to the world.
He bowed his head, jaw tight.
Maybe he had already lost her. Not to the Grand Duke. Not to scandal or gossip. But to the version of herself she had become without him.
And damn it all—he missed his chance. All those times he could have talked honestly to her. Asked her where her anger was coming from. He should have listened to her more closely, and tried to understand her motivations, find out the root of it all, instead of dismissing her altogether.
Maybe I lost her the moment I stopped believing she could change. Or worse—when I stopped caring if she did.
It was all his fault. And he missed it all.
Not the woman she had been.
But the woman she was becoming…
The hour grew late and the two moons became pale coins resting in the velvet sky, one half superimposed on the other, their light weaving silver threads through the garden hedges. The air was still, thick with the scent of late-blooming roses and quiet triumph.
Mary Jane moved slowly along the stone path, her fingertips grazing the tops of lavender sprigs. In the solitude, the events of the day replayed with gentle pride — the laughter of children, the soft praise from women who once whispered behind fans, the Grand Duke's support. And that moment — that sharp, perfect moment — when she'd met some of the ladies' sarcasm with poise.
She looked up at the moons with a happy smile.
I did it, Ethan!
I was able to do what you've always believed I could.
You would have been so proud of me, my sweet.
She was no longer the woman who hid in shadows of fear. She had stood in sunlight today, and she didn't shrink.
A faint rustle on the gravel made her turn. A figure emerged from the darkened arch near the hedges — tall, composed. Familiar.
The Earl.
He paused, seeing her alone, the surprise flickering briefly in his expression before he inclined his head. "I didn't mean to intrude."
"You're not," she said quietly. "It's your garden."
He studied her for a moment, then stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. "I couldn't sleep," he said. "Too much chatter still ringing in my head."
"I know the feeling. Sorry about that."
He shook his head with a rueful smile. He let out a soft breath. "It was… a success. Your tea party."
She turned away from him, but not out of dismissal — more from vulnerability. "I wasn't sure it would be. But they came. And they stayed."
"You handled them well," he said, and his voice was low, not begrudging. "Better than I would have."
A soft smile tugged at her lips. "You're not fond of tea parties?"
"I'm not fond of presentations," he replied. "But I suppose today proved they have their place."
There was silence again, but no longer an uncomfortable one. The kind that breathed with possibility.
"You overheard things," she said after a beat. "Didn't you?"
He nodded once. "Some of it was… unkind. But not untrue."
She met his eyes then. "I didn't host this to erase who I was, my lord. I hosted it to prove who I'm trying to become."
His title on her lips sounded different this time. Not as a challenge, not with fire, not even with fear. But soft. Honest. Perhaps if she called his name…
"Anthony," he said before he could stop himself.
"Sorry?"
"Perhaps you could also call me the same way you call Chambers."
Her breath caught, just slightly.
He stepped closer, then paused. "Jason… looked so proud. He told everyone which pieces he helped paint."
She laughed softly. "He did paint the red ones crooked."
"They were the first to topple," he said, a smile in his voice. "He was delighted."
She looked at him, this man she had once feared and now… now couldn't quite read. "I didn't expect your support," she admitted. "Not even from a distance."
"I didn't expect to give it," he said. "But you surprised me."
They stood like that for a moment — the moons above them, the scent of roses between — something shifting between them. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But understanding.
"Goodnight, A-Anthony," she said at last, and though her tongue tripped over saying his name for the first time, her voice was no longer stiff with old wounds.
"Goodnight, Bettina."
He watched her walk back toward the house, her silhouette framed by moonlight. And for the first time in years, he didn't feel like the papers and documents were his only companions.