She Thought She Took My Place as the Duchess… But She Only Inherited My Nightmare

Chapter 5

Only one other person learned the secret.

The old housekeeper who had served Blackwood Estate for more than thirty years, the woman who had stood in the corridor the night the necklace broke, the woman who had heard every slap and shut every door. When Theodosia finally trusted her with the news, tears filled the old woman’s eyes.

“This time,” she whispered, taking both of Theodosia’s hands, “we will protect this little one.”

Theodosia smiled faintly. “I don’t need anything else. I only want this child to survive.”

The housekeeper promised that the secret would remain between them. And for the first time in months, Theodosia allowed herself to dream again. She dug out the tiny blanket — the one from the bedside table, the one she had never stopped holding — and she began to sew again, late at night, by candlelight, with her door locked.

Around that same period, another familiar face became a regular visitor to Blackwood Estate.

Lady Lettuce Fairmont. Her childhood best friend.

Lettuce arrived almost every week. Sometimes she brought freshly picked flowers from the family gardens. Other days she carried books, pastries from the capital, rare teas she insisted Theodosia try. She never arrived empty-handed.

“I can’t bear the thought of you feeling lonely in this enormous estate,” Lettuce would say, with a smile so bright it made the candlelight look dull.

Theodosia welcomed every visit with genuine gratitude. After the disappointment of her own family, having someone who willingly spent time with her felt like a blessing. The afternoons they spent together became the brightest moments of her week. They embroidered together by the fire. They read novels and gossiped about the court. They walked through the gardens, remembering their childhood — the two village girls who had once climbed the same trees, chased the same geese, sworn to be sisters forever.

For a little while, Theodosia almost remembered what happiness felt like.

She never noticed what everyone else quietly observed.

Whenever Lettuce complimented Ambrose, her voice softened. Whenever he entered the room, she straightened her posture and smiled a little wider. She laughed more freely at his jokes than anyone else. She praised his intelligence during political discussions. She admired his leadership whenever estate matters were mentioned.

“His grace has remarkable judgment,” she would say. “The tenants are fortunate to have such a wise duke.”

Theodosia simply smiled. She felt relieved to hear laughter inside Blackwood Estate again. She foolishly believed that Lettuce’s cheerful company was easing the tension between her and her husband.

She never imagined there was another reason for Ambrose’s improving mood.

Then everything collapsed.

One afternoon, while organizing clothing for the coming season, Ambrose entered Theodosia’s dressing room unexpectedly. His eyes fell immediately on an open chest — a chest she had forgotten to lock — inside which lay several tiny garments. A knitted blanket. A pair of miniature socks. A delicate baby gown.

He slowly lifted one of them.

His face darkened.

“What is this?”

Theodosia froze. Her mouth opened. “I wanted to tell you—”

“You plan to hide this from me?” His voice rose with every word. “You plan to keep my own child a secret?”

“I was afraid—”

She never finished. Ambrose interpreted those two words as an accusation rather than a confession, and something in him snapped. He shoved her violently away from him. She stumbled backward, her foot catching the edge of the staircase outside the dressing room.

She lost her balance.

Theodosia tumbled down the long marble staircase, her body striking each step with a sickening sound, before collapsing motionless at the bottom.

The old housekeeper rushed into the hallway and screamed for the physician. Servants came running from every direction. Hours later, the physician emerged from the bedroom with sorrow written across his face. He looked directly at Theodosia.

“I’m deeply sorry. The child is gone again.”

The room became unbearably quiet.

The physician gathered his courage and turned to Ambrose. “Your Grace,” he said firmly, “her Grace’s body has endured severe trauma. If this violence continues, I’m afraid she may never carry another child.”

Ambrose’s expression never changed.

“Then she has no purpose as my duchess.”

Theodosia heard every word through the slightly open bedroom door. She closed her eyes.

This time, she did not cry.

That evening, unable to sleep, she stood beside the bedroom window overlooking the entrance to Blackwood Estate. A carriage rolled through the gates. Lady Lettuce Fairmont stepped out, carrying a bouquet of fresh white roses.

To Theodosia’s surprise, Ambrose walked outside personally to greet her. He accepted the flowers with a warm smile — a smile so gentle, so effortless, that Theodosia could not remember ever receiving it herself.

As she watched them disappear into the gardens together, she rested one hand against the cold windowpane.

“Kindness,” she whispered.

“So that’s where your kindness went.”