EVERYONE FEARED THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER… BECAUSE NO ONE HAD EVER TOLD HER “NO” UNTIL THIS HAPPENED

Chapter 6

The morning Victoria’s mother could not get out of bed, the world became very quiet.

Victoria woke to an unusual silence. For months, her mother had been the first person awake in the cottage — always moving, always doing, always finding something that needed attention. She managed expenses, planned meals, repaired clothing, and somehow kept their difficult lives from completely falling apart.

That morning, no sounds came from her room.

Victoria knocked on the door. “Mother?”

No answer.

She pushed the door open. Duchess Anne was still lying in bed, her face pale against the white pillow. At first, Victoria thought she was sleeping. Then she noticed the shallow rise and fall of her chest, the way her hands lay motionless on the blanket.

“Mother.”

Anne’s eyes opened slowly. “I’m awake. You should be downstairs.”

A weak smile crossed her lips. “I know.”

Victoria stepped closer. For the first time, she truly looked at her mother. Dark shadows sat beneath her eyes. Her cheeks looked hollow. Even lifting herself into a sitting position appeared to require enormous effort.

A physician arrived from a nearby village a few hours later. He examined Anne in the privacy of her room while Victoria waited in the kitchen, her hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles turned white.

When the doctor emerged, he asked Victoria to step outside.

“Your mother is exhausted,” he said simply.

“Then give her medicine.”

The physician shook his head. “Medicine cannot solve everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“She needs rest. True rest. She has been carrying burdens that no longer belong on her shoulders. The strain has caught up with her.”

“But she will recover?”

“Yes, if she stops working so hard. If she allows herself to recover.”

The doctor’s words hung in the air. Victoria understood what he was not saying. If someone else takes over the work. If someone else carries the burdens.

After he left, Victoria stood alone outside for a long time. The wind was cold. The sky was gray. The manor loomed in the distance, unreachable.

A thought entered her mind, unwelcome and undeniable.

If her mother stopped working, who would do everything?

The answer was obvious. It was also terrifying.

The next morning, Victoria burned breakfast. The bread turned black before she remembered to remove it from the oven. Smoke filled the kitchen, stinging her eyes and throat. She coughed while opening windows, waving a towel at the ceiling.

The meal ended with dry bread, cold butter, and deep embarrassment.

The following day, she attempted soup. She added too much salt. Then too little. Then she burned the bottom of the pot. The end result was barely edible. Even she could barely swallow it.

By the third day, she was arguing with a pile of laundry.

She had never realized how much effort went into keeping clothes clean. Buckets needed carrying. Water needed heating. Fabric needed scrubbing. The work seemed endless. At one point, she accidentally ruined one of her remaining dresses, turning a once-beautiful garment into a stained, wrinkled mess.

She stared at the damaged fabric in disbelief. “I hate this house.”

The words escaped before she could stop them. From her chair near the fireplace, Duchess Anne watched quietly. She said nothing.

Victoria spent the following week battling tasks she had never imagined. Dust appeared everywhere, as if by magic. The floors never stayed clean. Meals required planning — planning, something she had never done in her life. Wood had to be carried inside. Beds needed making. Dishes needed washing.

Everything demanded effort.

One afternoon, she found herself kneeling on the floor, scrubbing a stubborn stain. Her back ached. Her knees hurt. Her hands were raw and red. After nearly an hour, she sat back, frustrated and exhausted.

A memory surfaced. Years earlier, she had shouted at a maid because a drawing room had not been cleaned quickly enough. At the time, she had called the woman lazy. She had threatened to have her dismissed.

Now, staring at the half-cleaned floor, she wondered how the maid had managed.

The rooms were so large. The work was so constant. The expectations were so high. And the thanks — had there ever been any thanks?

Victoria pressed her palm against her forehead. The realization unsettled her. Not because she had become humble — she had not — but because she was beginning to understand things she had never noticed before.

The understanding irritated her almost as much as the work itself.

One evening, Anne attempted to help prepare dinner. She barely reached the kitchen before her legs gave way. Victoria caught her before she hit the floor.

“Mother!”

“I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not.”

Victoria helped her back to bed and sat beside her for hours. Her mother’s breathing was shallow. Her skin was too warm. The fear that surged through Victoria’s chest was unlike anything she had ever felt.

That night, she could not sleep.

Near midnight, she walked into the pantry. The shelves were nearly empty. A few potatoes. Some flour. A small container of dried beans. Very little else.

She stared at the food in silence.

No servants would restock those shelves. No steward would manage expenses. No father would solve their problems. No miracle was coming.

Only reality remained.

And reality was asking a question she had never been forced to answer.

What are you going to do about it?