The moon, a sliver of polished silver in the velvet sky, cast a serene glow over the Duke's opulent chambers, its light filtering through the heavy brocade drapes that flanked the windows. The time had come for his secret nightly journey—a silent venture to gaze upon his son, to watch him breathe in the tranquil hours of darkness.
With the softest of footsteps, he crossed the Persian rugs that adorned the floor, the intricate patterns barely visible in the dimness. The air was still, holding its breath along with him as he approached the crib where his child should have been slumbering. But the ornate cradle, carved from mahogany and draped with gossamer lace, lay empty. A chill that had nothing to do with the night air ran up his spine, a primal fear seizing his heart in an iron grip.
He stilled, listening intently for any sign of disturbance, any whisper that would explain his son's absence. Yet, the silence was absolute, broken only by the distant echo of the guards' measured tread outside the manor walls. He knew then that this was no ordinary oversight; such a matter would have sent the household into disarray, and word would have reached him posthaste.
His eyes, growing accustomed to the dark, scanned the chamber. Not a soul was to be seen—the nurse, who customarily slept within arm's reach of the child, had vanished as well. Her place on the chaise, usually indented by her form, remained undisturbed, the cushions plump and untouched. Where, then, could his son be at this late hour if not nestled securely in his bed?
The Duke's mind raced with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. His paternal instincts, fiercely protective, propelled him toward action. He mustered his composure, casting aside the most harrowing thoughts, for panic served no one, least of all his heir.
Quiet as a shadow, he moved through the corridors, the flicker of wall sconces throwing dancing figures upon the walls. The house was asleep, wrapped in the elegance and grandeur that belied the turmoil now stirring within its master's breast. Silk wallpaper brushed his fingertips, the raised patterns a testament to the wealth and status he wielded—an empire, it seemed, save for the knowledge of his own son's whereabouts.
As he traversed the length of his opulent home, the shadows cast by the flickering wall sconces seemed to whisper secrets of centuries past, but none so urgent as the mystery of his absent son. Each corner turned revealed another stretch of corridor adorned intricate moldings, yet no comforting sign of his child.
The Duke's mind raced as he recalled the arrival of the wet nurse. Ulrich had been efficient as always, presenting the contract with a bow, but in the flurry of estate matters, the Duke gave it little more than a cursory glance. His negligence gnawed at him now—had he inadvertently invited danger into his home? A shiver tore through his body at the thought; a fiend or a fool, she held the fate of his heir in her hands.
His pace quickened with each passing second until he reached the servants' quarters, where the world of finery gave way to the humbler abodes of those who kept his household running. Here, the walls were simpler, the furnishings functional rather than ornamental, but no less cared for.
"Anna!" he called out, his voice thundering against the narrow confines of the hallway. The name pierced the stillness.The pounding of his fist on the oak door echoed through the quiet corridor, and within moments, it creaked open. There stood Anna, hastily clad in her nightdress, her hair a tangle of brown curls escaping from her nightcap. Her eyes blinked rapidly, adjusting to both wakefulness and the sight of the Duke, an imposing figure framed by the dim glow of the hallway's lanterns.
"Where is my son?" he demanded, each word edged with the cold steel of fear and anger. "Where is the wet nurse?"
Anna, ever the pillar in times of uncertainty, steadied herself before him. She knew the weight of her next words would either fan the flames of his worry or soothe the tempest in his heart.
"Your Grace," Anna replied, her voice steady despite the ungodly hour, "the child rests safely with the wet nurse in her chambers." She watched as the lines of his forehead softened slightly—a sign she had tempered some of his fears. "She has journeyed far today, and we thought it prudent for them to have uninterrupted rest to foster a bond. A crib has been set up beside her bed for your son."
His gaze narrowed, not entirely calm. "I was unaware we were hosting dignitaries that required such concessions," the Duke remarked sharply, his words carrying both rebuke and a veiled demand for more thorough communication.
A flush crept over Anna's cheeks, recognizing the lapse in protocol. "Forgive me, my lord. The events unfolded rather—miraculously. The wet nurse, Miss Huber, she embraced the infant and within mere moments, she was nursing him. There was such relief amongst us that perhaps... we acted hastily."
"Miracles do little to comfort a father concerned for his heir," the Duke countered, though the edge in his voice had dulled, replaced by a begrudging relief at this unexpected turn of events.
"Indeed, Your Grace," Anna conceded with a nod, hoping her assurance would bridge the gap of misunderstanding.
The Duke's voice, a whisper torn from worry and authority, broke the silence once more. "I want to check on my child."
Anna pressed her ear against the modest wooden door of the wet nurse's chamber, her heart drumming a cautious rhythm. The stillness from within was thick, weighted with the deep breaths of slumber. She withdrew the master key—a skeleton key of intricate design, cold and solid—from the pocket of her nightgown and slid it into the lock with practiced care. The latch yielded silently under her deft touch.
"Please, Your Grace," she murmured, her gaze imploring as she pushed the door open just a hair, enough for them both to peer inside. The golden glow of the moon bathed the room in an ethereal light, casting shadows that danced upon the walls like delicate lace.
The Duke followed, his presence commanding yet tempered by the solemnity of the hour. They stood together, two specters at the threshold of the intimate scene that unfolded before them.
His eyes, accustomed now to the dimness, sought out the crib—a simple structure of dark wood stationed beside the maid's modest bed. There, wrapped in blankets as white as the roses in the garden, lay his son, an angelic figure of peace. The infant's tiny hand reached through the bars, clasped firmly by fingers far more slender and fair.
With the reverence of a man entering a sacred space, the Duke stepped closer, his leather soles making no sound upon the plush carpet. The flicker of the candle he carried painted the scene in warm hues, revealing the contours of the wet nurse's face.
Amelie Huber—her name came to him then, spoken with admiration by his staff, a young woman whose tomboyish spirit had been tamed only by the pages of books and the wildness of nature. Yet here she was, holding his heir with a gentleness that belied her lack of years. Her chest rose and fell in the easy rhythm of sleep, her own child nestled within her, sharing this cocoon of tranquility.
His look lingered, tracing the line of her jaw, the soft parting of her lips, and the faint flutter beneath her closed eyelids as dreams held her in their grasp. In this unguarded moment, the Duke saw not just a servant in his employ but a mother, fierce in her protective embrace, just as his wife had been with their firstborn.
A swell of something unfamiliar rose within him—a blend of gratitude and a poignant ache for the family bonds that seemed ever threatened by duty and distance. The flame from the candle quivered as if echoing his inner turmoil, but he steadied his hand, careful not to disturb the sanctity of this maternal tableau.
In the quietude of the night, surrounded by the grandeur of his estate, the Duke felt an unexpected kinship with the young Amelie Huber. Here, in her gentle hold, his legacy and her future were inexplicably intertwined.