Chapter 15 - Fleeting Distraction
Amelie's gaze lingered on the delicate tracery of her breath casting a transient haze upon the glass. She traced a finger over the cold glass, a momentary distraction from the tumultuous thoughts that weighed heavily upon her mind. The soft rustle of her cotton dress, a dark blue reminiscent of night skies, whispered against the dark wood of the hallway as she walked past the drawing room.
Inside, the voices of her parents were muffled by the thick mahogany door, but their tones spoke volumes. Her father's voice was firm, underscored with concern, while her mother's words quivered like the flame of a candle caught in a draft. Amelie paused, her hand hovering an inch from the brass handle, torn between the desire to enter and the need to preserve the fragile cocoon of contemplation she had woven around herself.
"Amelie has always been independent," her father said, "taking to the woods rather than the parlor, befriending tomes and trees alike. Yet, this...this situation demands a different kind of resolve."
"Indeed," her mother replied, her voice laced with unshed tears. "For many women in her place, becoming a wet nurse is the sole path to a life of contentment. It is an esteemed role in a household, and service under a duke could offer her what we cannot."
"Powerful they may be, wealthy beyond measure, yet the air whispers of shadows within the duke's halls," her father countered, his skepticism a tangible presence in the room.
"Even so," her mother insisted, "the association could mend the tattered edges of our family's honor. But to send her forth, with child and without support..."
The emotion in her mother's voice struck Amelie to the core. A single tear escaped, trailing down her cheek, a silent testament to the empathy blooming within her heart. She felt the stirrings of a fierce protectiveness she had never known before—a maternal instinct that both frightened and emboldened her.
Wiping the moisture from her face with the back of her hand, Amelie's resolve solidified. She would accept the duke's offer. Not for herself, but for her unborn child, for the chance to provide a future untainted by the slanderous rumors that clung to her family like burrs to wool. Tomorrow, before the duke's emissaries crossed the threshold, she would persuade her parents to release her into this unknown chapter of her life.
As she retreated from the drawing room, Amelie's steps grew steadier, each one a silent vow. She would be the architect of her destiny, fashioning a world where her child could thrive. No matter the whispers, no matter the sacrifice, she would rise to the occasion as surely as the dawn dispelled the night's shadows. And with that, Amelie Huber, once a tomboyish girl of the wild meadows, prepared to embrace the mantle of motherhood and all the gravity it entailed.
The morning sun spilled a soft glow across the polished oak of the breakfast table, casting prisms through the crystal water pitcher. Amelie approached her parents with a measured grace that belied the tumult within. She smoothed her skirts—a tapestry of delicate florals on fine muslin—and took a seat opposite them, the very image of composure.
"Mother, Father," she began, her voice clear though her hands lay clasped tightly in her lap. "I have given considerable thought to the duke's offer." She paused, glancing out the window where dew-kissed roses nodded in agreement. "It brings with it benefits that cannot be disregarded."
Her mother's eyes, sharp with worry, met hers. "But, child, the rumors..."
"Are just that—rumors," Amelie interjected softly, yet with certainty. "They hold no more truth than those whispered about our own family. We know the sting of falsehoods all too well." The unspoken accusations of scandal that had plagued their home seemed to echo between the lines of concern etched upon her father's face.
"Besides," Amelie continued, warming to her argument, "the financial advantage is undeniable. It would secure not only my future but that of my...of our child." She touched her still-flat belly, a silent pledge to the life stirring within.
"Amelie," her father said, his voice heavy like the drapes that framed the windows, "we must consider your wellbeing above coin."
"Of course," she assured him, her heart aching at the thought of leaving the safety of their love. "But think of the position it offers me—a respected role in the duke's household, and perhaps, in time, a chance to find new happiness."
"Have you heard from the child's father?" her mother asked, hope threading her words. After finding out about her situation they had a big argument about the child's paternity, and since then, they avoided talking about it.
A momentary shadow crossed Amelie's countenance—the silence from her friend and possible father gnawed at her insides—but she masked it quickly with a gentle shake of her head. "No. And I do not expect to." The acceptance of this abandonment lent weight to her decision.
"Then we shall negotiate the best terms possible," her father declared, resignation lending a tremor to his voice. "For you, and for the little one."