Chapter 14

Recovery was a brutal, ugly process. March brought a vicious, driving sleet that kept the moors frozen, matching the slow, agonizing pace of Thomas's rehabilitation. He refused a nurse; he allowed only Josephine and his valet to assist him. He was a proud man, and the humiliation of his failing body was a bitter pill he swallowed in silence.By April, he could sit in the armchair by the fire for a few hours a day. By May, he could walk the length of the corridor with his cane, though it left him breathless and gray.The dynamic between them shifted—a subtle, tectonic movement. The vast distance across the dining table was abandoned: Josephine took to eating her meals on a small table drawn up next to his armchair in the sitting room. They discussed the price of grain; they debated the London coal tariffs; they did not speak of affection or romance; they spoke the language of ledgers, yields, and survival. It was an intimacy built entirely on mutual respect.One afternoon in late May, a letter arrived bearing the seal of a cheap London tavern. Josephine recognized the jagged, frantic handwriting immediately. She stood by the window in the study, the bright spring sunlight feeling strangely intrusive. She broke the seal:

Josie,
The Duke must be dead by now, or close to it. The papers say he has not been seen in town for months. I am in a desperate way. They took my coat. They took my boots. Send a draft for £500 to the address below, or I will come to Yorkshire myself and make a scandal. I am your flesh and blood.

She read it twice. The familiar, sickening knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach; the ghost of the terrified girl in the green silk dress whispered in her ear."Who is it from?"Josephine turned. Thomas was standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane—he had walked down the grand staircase himself for the first time in months. He looked at the crumpled paper in her fist; he knew exactly what it was."Charles," she said, her voice hollow.Thomas limped slowly into the room. He did not ask to read it. "What does he want?""£500.""And if you do not pay?""He threatens to come here, to make a scandal." Josephine looked down at the letter; the paper was cheap and thin. "I could have Mrs. Higgins instruct the gatekeeper to turn him away. I could have the footmen throw him off the property."Thomas reached out and took the letter from her hand. He did not look at it; he simply tossed it onto the glowing coals in the grate. The cheap paper curled, blackened, and flared into bright orange flame."You do not pay blackmailers, Josie. It only tells them you have something to hide," Thomas said, watching the paper turn to ash. "Let him come. Let him make a scandal. You are the Duchess of Clydesdale. He is a beggar in the street. You are made of iron now. Do not let him convince you that you are still glass."

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