CHAPTER 51: CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

Beatrice, her face relaxed and her eyes bright, sat in her favorite armchair, a soft smile on her lips. Derek was already there, seated in another chair by the window, his gaze distant as he stared out at the gardens. A maid approached him with a silver tea tray, but he dismissed her with a short, impatient wave of his hand and poured the tea himself, his movements stiff.

He had been replaying the scene in the garden over and over in his mind. The smile. The sound of his own name. He had come here, to the drawing room, to escape the strange, unsettling pull of it.

The door opened, and Marissa entered after changing her dress .

"My dear," Beatrice spoke, her voice full of a warmth that was entirely new.

Marissa curtsied deeply. "Grandmother."

Derek’s head turned. He watched her as she moved into the room. She was back in her formal, composed mask. The serene Duchess. The open, warm woman who had smiled at him by the jasmine trellis was gone, as if she had been a dream.

This isn’t the same smile she gave me, he thought, a familiar, sharp irritation rising in him.

"You made this old woman very happy and very proud today," Beatrice said, standing to greet her. "Thank you, Marissa."

Marissa smiled, a polite, respectful expression that did not quite reach her eyes. "No, Grandmother," she replied. "I just defended my family’s honor. It was my duty."

"I made the right choice, then," Beatrice said, a note of deep satisfaction in her voice. She took Marissa’s hand, her own frail, paper-thin skin warm. "I knew you were the one." She turned Marissa’s hand over, her palm up.

"This," Beatrice said, "is the token of the household." She placed a heavy, intricately carved gold token into Marissa’s palm. It was cool to the touch, its weight a symbol of her new power.

Marissa’s heart, which had been so calm and steady, gave a single, hard thump. This was it. This was the true prize.

"And with this authority," Beatrice continued, "comes its tools." She placed a large, ornate iron key and a heavy, engraved silver seal into Marissa’s hand, on top of the token.

"This is the key to the estate treasury," the Dowager explained, her voice firm and official. "And this is the family’s household seal. Your husband has his own, as the head of the family. This is yours, as the second voice, the mistress of the house. Take charge of the household, my dear. From this day forward, all of its affairs will be yours to handle."

Beatrice’s gaze was sharp, ensuring Marissa understood the full weight of the responsibility. "From allocating the money for everyday expenses in running the household, to paying the wages of every servant, to managing the allowances of all the family members. It is all in your care now."

Marissa’s fingers closed around the items, the cool metal of the key, the heavy weight of the seal and the token. A surge of raw triumph, so strong it was almost dizzying, rushed through her. She had done it. She had secured her position. She had won. She could barely stop the genuine, victorious smile from spreading across her face.

"I won’t let you down, Grandmother," she said, her voice thick with a happiness she could not entirely hide.

Beatrice nodded, her own face wreathed in a satisfied smile. "I know you won’t."

As Marissa carefully secured her new symbols of power in a deep, hidden pocket of her gown, Beatrice walked over to where Derek was silently observing the exchange.

"Marissa," the old woman said, her eyes twinkling with a sudden, new mischief. She looked from her granddaughter-in-law to her grandson. "Now that you run the household, there is only one duty left. You should start a family soon. I am an old woman. I would like to enjoy the joy of a full and happy family before I go."

The words, so unexpected, so intimate, shattered the formal, official atmosphere of the room.

Derek, who had just raised his teacup to his lips, froze. His eyes went wide over the rim of the cup. The tea went down the wrong way.

He erupted in a series of harsh, sputtering coughs, tea splashing from his cup onto his expensive coat and the floor. He shot to his feet, his face turning a deep, humiliated red as he choked.

Marissa’s own eyes had widened in shock. Her mind, which had been triumphantly calculating budgets and servant hierarchies, went completely blank.

"I... I have business," Derek finally managed to gasp, wiping his mouth and his coat with his handkerchief. "Urgent business. To attend to. I’ll be leaving first."

Without another word, or even a bow to his grandmother, he fled the room, his long, quick strides more of a retreat than an exit.

Beatrice watched him go, and then she let out a low, hearty laugh. "He flees when things get serious," she said, shaking her head in amusement.

Marissa, her composure slowly returning, let out a small, dry, awkward chuckle. The situation was too absurd for any other response.

"Grandmother."

The voice from the doorway made them both turn. Ashlyn stood there, her hands clasped, her face a mask of pale, worried duty. She entered the drawing room with a hesitant step.

"Ah, Ashlyn," Beatrice said, her good mood still intact. "Come in, my dear."

"Grandmother," Ashlyn said again, her voice low, as if she were about to deliver terrible news. "The servant who ruined the gift... Nora. I... I did as you permitted, and I questioned her."

"And?" Beatrice asked.

Ashlyn paused, her eyes darting to Marissa, her expression one of deep, feigned reluctance and fear. "She has confessed, Grandmother," she said, her voice a low whisper. "But... it concerns the Grand Duchess."

A new, cold silence fell over the room. The warmth from Marissa’s victory, the humor from Derek’s retreat—it all vanished, replaced by the familiar, heavy chill of a new plot.

Marissa’s smile faded. Here it is, she thought, her mind instantly sharp and on high alert. Seems she has another move up her sleeve.

She looked at her sister, her own face a mask of calm. "Ashlyn," she said, her voice steady. "Please speak freely."

Ashlyn took a shaky, shuddering breath, as if bracing herself. She looked at Marissa, her eyes wide with a perfectly performed sympathy.

"Nora said," Ashlyn began, her voice trembling, "she said that Miss Lorena... is dead."