Chapter 4
Eileen's POV
The stillroom in the west wing smelled of dried herbs and copper. I stood before the worktable, watching Dr. Crawford measure dark roots onto brass scales with practiced precision.
"The valerian must steep precisely twelve minutes," he said, his silver-streaked hair catching the light. "Too long, and it becomes toxic. Too short, and it's useless."
I nodded, committing each movement to memory. Steam rose from the pot on the small stove, carrying the bitter scent of angelica.
"Now you try." He gestured toward the ingredients. "Measure the burdock root. Three drams."
My hands trembled as I reached for the jar. The scales tipped unevenly. I adjusted, overcorrected. A root tumbled to the floor.
"Steady." Dr. Crawford's patience sounded worn thin. "Lord Lucien's life depends on precision."
I tried again. This time the measurement held. I tipped it into the pot, stirring carefully. Too fast—the liquid splashed. Hot droplets hit my hand.
Pain flared across my knuckles. I gasped and pulled back.
"Careful!" Dr. Crawford examined my hand, then sighed. "Why did you volunteer for this? The other servants won't even enter Lucien's rooms."
I flexed my burned fingers, watching red welts bloom. "I couldn't bear my previous life. I needed to escape it."
He studied my face with eyes that had seen too much. "You don't understand what you've signed up for, child."
"I understand well enough."
"Do you?" He turned back to the pot. "Lucien has suffered more than anyone should. What you're running from might be gentler than what awaits you here."
Nothing could be worse than Edmund's bed. Nothing.
We walked through the west wing corridor, our footsteps echoing against stone. Afternoon light slanted through narrow windows, casting bars of shadow that felt too much like prison cells.
"Lucien's illness has changed him," Dr. Crawford said quietly. "Before, he was one of the kindest young men I knew. Now..." He paused. "His words can be cold. Cutting. Don't take them personally—it's pain speaking, not his true nature."
"I understand."
"Several servants left after their first day. They couldn't bear his moods." He glanced at me. "If you need to leave, tell me. I won't judge you."
But where would I go? Back to Edmund's bed? Back to being Cecilia's shadow?
"I won't leave," I said firmly.
We stopped before a heavy oak door. Dr. Crawford's hand rested on the handle, and something in his expression made my chest tighten.
"Remember—he's not cruel. He's dying." His eyes held deep sadness. "There's a difference."
The room was darker than I expected. Heavy curtains blocked most of the daylight. The air tasted of herbs and dampness, underlaid with something sweeter—sickness.
Lucien Ashford lay propped against pillows, a book resting in his lap. Even wasted by illness, he maintained aristocratic bearing—the elegant line of his throat, the careful arrangement of his nightshirt. Only the hollow shadows beneath his cheekbones betrayed his condition.
"My lord," Dr. Crawford said. "Miss Sawyer will be caring for you now."
Lucien's gaze lifted from his book. Gray eyes, sharp despite his weakness, fixed on me. I felt the weight of his scrutiny like a physical touch.
"Leave us," he told the doctor.
"My lord—"
"Now."
Dr. Crawford hesitated, then withdrew. The door clicked shut with finality.
I knelt beside the bed, offering the bowl of medicine I'd prepared. My hands were steadier than I felt. The liquid gleamed dark in the dim light.
"Your afternoon dose, my lord."
"So you're the woman who'll inherit my widow's title." His voice carried bitter amusement. "Tell me—how does it feel, waiting for a man to die?"
I kept my eyes lowered. "I'm here to help you recover, my Lord."
"Recover." He laughed, the sound turning into a cough that made me want to reach out. When it subsided, he pushed the bowl toward the windowsill. "I don't want your bitter herbs. What will you do? Force them down my throat?"
The bowl teetered. I caught it, medicine sloshing over my already-burned hand. The sting made me gasp, but I held on.
"Please, my lord." I set the bowl down carefully. "Dr. Crawford spent hours preparing this. The herbs are rare—"
"Then let him drink it."
I drew a breath and extended my hands. In the faint light, the burns were visible—fresh welts from the stillroom, layered over older scars Edmund had left.
"I prepared this myself," I said quietly. "I'm still learning. But if it helps you, the pain means nothing."
Lucien stared at my hands. Something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps guilt.
"You burned yourself?"
"Yes, my lord."
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he reached for the bowl. His hand shook as he drank, his jaw tight against the taste.
When he finished, he set the bowl aside and picked up his book again. The gesture dismissed me.
But I didn't leave. "What are you reading?"
He glanced up, clearly surprised. "Cicero. De Officiis."
"I don't..." I hesitated. "I don't know what that is."
"Of course you don't." But his tone lacked its earlier edge. "It's philosophy. Roman. About duty and moral conduct."
Edmund never let the maids read. Said education was wasted on someone like us.
"Could you..." The words felt dangerous. "Could you teach me?"
Lucien studied my face. "Why would you want to learn?"
Because learning means I'm human. Because books don't hurt me.
"Because I want to understand," I said.
He was silent for so long I thought he'd refuse. Then he shifted, making space beside him on the bed.
"Sit. But don't touch anything."
I obeyed, perching carefully on the edge. He opened the book, his finger tracing the Latin text.
"This passage discusses the nature of justice," he began. His voice, when teaching, lost its coldness. "Cicero argues that true justice must be consistent..."
I listened, absorbing every word like water after drought.
That evening, Rose slipped into my small room, her face flushed.
"Have you heard?" She set down fresh linens. "There was a terrible scene in the main house."
I looked up from folding my clothes, my stomach already tightening. "What happened?"
"Miss Cecilia hired a woman—a prostitute from town—to take your place in the Duke's bed." Rose's voice dropped to a whisper. "The Duke discovered it. Beat her senseless and threw her at Miss Cecilia's feet."
Horror washed through me. "Is she alive?"
"Barely. The Duke paid her off and had her removed. But now he and Miss Cecilia sleep in separate rooms. They don't speak at all."
I sat slowly on the bed. Years of silently enduring Edmund's visits, of being his shadow—he'd permitted it all. But a hired substitute provoked his rage?
What does he want from me?
Dusk painted the garden in shades of gray. I watched from the corridor window as Lucien walked slowly beside his grandmother, feeding the swans. He'd dressed properly today—dark coat, pressed trousers—though he leaned heavily on his cane.
Isabella's voice drifted up. "How do you think about Eileen?"
"She's attentive," Lucien replied. "More than I expected."
My chest warmed at the words.
The sky darkened. I turned to fetch Lucien's wool shawl from his room. I hurried through the stone colonnade, my shoes clicking against marble.
A hand shot out, slamming me against the wall.
Edmund's palm covered my mouth before I could scream. His body pressed close, trapping me. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would break through my ribs.
I tried to push away, but his grip tightened. Terror flooded every nerve.
"Are you the woman who's been in my bed these past years?" His eyes searched my face. "Tell me the truth."
I shook my head frantically against his palm.
"You're lying." His other hand caught my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Did you think taking care of my dying brother would get you away from me? You belong to me."
He knew. When had he found out? And what was he planning to do to me?
His thumb traced my jaw, and I wanted to vomit.
"You still won't admit it, huh?" His grip tightened. "Eileen… one night on my bed and I'll find out if you’re the one who pretended to be Cecilia."
"No. Please—please don't," I begged.
