Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~15 min read
Chapter 10: Her Father’s Health Declines
Emmeline
Emmy wakes two days after Lady Cordelia’s unwelcome visit to urgent knocking at her chamber door and Sarah’s frightened voice calling that the Reverend Shaw has taken a turn for the worse, and Emmy throws on her dressing gown without bothering with proper clothing because if her father is dying then propriety can wait while she gets to him as quickly as possible.
She finds her father in his comfortable chambers—the rooms the Duke insisted he have with their view of the gardens and massive fireplace and all the luxuries her father never had when they were poor—and he looks terrible in the pale morning light, his face grey and drawn, his breathing labored and wet-sounding in a way that makes Emmy’s chest tighten with fear.
The doctor is already there—Dr. Pembroke, the Duke’s personal physician who’s been attending her father since they moved to Ashford Hall—and he looks up when Emmy enters with an expression of professional sympathy that tells her everything she needs to know before he even speaks.
“Your Grace,” Dr. Pembroke says quietly, gesturing for Emmy to step into the corridor where her father can’t hear them. “I’m afraid the consumption has progressed significantly. His lungs are failing. I’ve made him as comfortable as possible, but there’s nothing more I can do medically.”
Emmy’s hands are shaking—she can feel them trembling at her sides while she tries to process what the doctor is telling her, tries to accept that her father is dying, that saving him from debtor’s prison just means he gets to die in comfort instead of in a cold cell but he’s still dying and there’s nothing Emmy can do to stop it.
“How long?” Emmy manages to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Days,” Dr. Pembroke says gently. “Perhaps a week if he’s strong. But Your Grace, you should prepare yourself. He’s asking for you. He wants to talk while he still can.”
Emmy nods because what else can she do, and she returns to her father’s bedside trying to hold back tears because crying won’t help him and he needs her to be strong right now even though she feels like she’s breaking apart.
“Emmy,” her father says, and his voice is weak but still recognizably his—still the gentle voice that read her stories when she was a child, still the patient voice that taught her Latin and Greek in his study, still her father even though he’s dying. “Come sit with me.”
She settles into the chair beside his bed and takes his hand—so thin now, all bones and papery skin where he used to be robust and healthy—and she tries to smile even though her face feels like it might crack from the effort.
“I’m here, Papa,” Emmy says. “I’m right here.”
“I ruined your chances for love,” her father says, and there are tears in his eyes that make Emmy’s chest ache. “I’m so sorry, my darling girl. I ruined everything with my foolishness and my debts, and now you’re trapped in a loveless marriage with that cold duke because of my mistakes.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Emmy lies, because what good does it do to agree with him when he’s dying, when nothing can be changed now anyway. “I’m fine, Papa. The Duke is… he’s kind in his way.”
Her father manages a weak smile that suggests he doesn’t believe her attempts at reassurance.
“He looks at you when you don’t notice,” her father observes, and his voice has taken on that dreamy quality that suggests the laudanum Dr. Pembroke gave him for pain is affecting his clarity. “I see it. At dinner sometimes, when you’re reading or speaking with the servants. He watches you like he’s trying to understand something that confuses him.”
“You’re imagining things,” Emmy says, because the idea that the Duke watches her when she’s not looking seems impossible when he can barely tolerate being in the same room with her for more than an hour at a time.
“Maybe,” her father concedes. “But I don’t think so. I think he feels something for you, even if he doesn’t know how to show it. Even if he’s too damaged to acknowledge it.”
Emmy doesn’t know how to respond to that—doesn’t know if her father is being genuinely perceptive or if the illness and medication are making him see connections that don’t exist—so she just squeezes his hand and changes the subject to safer topics, and they talk about her childhood and her mother and all the happy memories from before her father’s gambling debts destroyed their peaceful life.
The Duke appears around noon—Emmy doesn’t hear him enter, just suddenly notices he’s standing in the doorway of her father’s chambers watching them with an unreadable expression—and when their eyes meet across the room Emmy sees something complicated flash through his ice-blue gaze before the familiar emptiness returns.
“Your Grace,” Emmy’s father says, noticing the Duke’s presence and attempting to sit up straighter despite his obvious weakness. “Thank you for allowing the doctor to attend me. For ensuring I’m comfortable. For everything you’ve done for Emmy and me.”
“It’s no trouble,” the Duke says, moving into the room with that careful controlled grace he always maintains. “Dr. Pembroke is the best physician in the county. If there’s anything else you need—anything that would make you more comfortable—you only have to ask.”
“You’ve already given me everything,” Emmy’s father says. “Comfort, safety, the knowledge that my daughter will be provided for after I’m gone. I couldn’t have asked for more.”
The Duke looks uncomfortable with the gratitude—he always does when people thank him for things, like kindness is something foreign that he doesn’t know how to accept—and he glances at Emmy with an expression that might be asking permission or offering support or both.
“I’ll leave you to rest,” the Duke says to Emmy’s father. “But if you need anything—if Emmy needs anything—send for me immediately.”
He leaves before either of them can respond, and Emmy’s father watches him go with that same knowing smile that suggests he sees things Emmy doesn’t.
“He cares about you,” her father says quietly. “He just doesn’t know how to show it.”
“He cares about fulfilling his obligations,” Emmy corrects. “That’s different from actually caring about me as a person.”
“Is it?” her father challenges. “He could fulfill his obligations by providing a doctor and nothing else. But he came himself to check on you. To offer help. That’s not obligation, Emmy. That’s concern.”
Emmy doesn’t argue because her father is dying and disagreeing with him about the nature of her marriage seems cruel, so she just holds his hand and reads to him from his favorite books, and when he falls asleep from exhaustion and pain medication she sits beside his bed watching him breathe and trying to prepare herself for losing the last person who’s loved her unconditionally her entire life.
The Duke finds her there hours later—still sitting in the same chair, her father asleep, the room dark except for firelight—and he approaches quietly enough that Emmy doesn’t notice his presence until he speaks.
“You should eat something,” the Duke says, and his voice is gentler than Emmy has heard it before. “And rest. Exhausting yourself won’t help him.”
“I can’t leave him,” Emmy responds without looking away from her father’s sleeping face. “What if he wakes and I’m not here? What if he needs me?”
“Then the servants will fetch you immediately,” the Duke points out. “Emmy, you haven’t eaten since breakfast. You’ve been sitting in this chair for over eight hours. At least take a break. Walk with me to the dining room, have some dinner, and then you can return if you want.”
Emmy wants to refuse—wants to stay exactly where she is until her father either recovers or dies because leaving feels like abandoning him—but the Duke is right that she needs to eat, and her father is sleeping so peacefully from the laudanum that he probably won’t wake for hours anyway.
“Fine,” Emmy agrees reluctantly, standing on legs that have gone stiff from sitting so long. “But just a quick meal. I’m coming right back.”
The Duke nods and offers his arm with surprising formality, and Emmy takes it because walking suddenly seems more difficult than it should be after the emotional exhaustion of watching her father deteriorate all day.
They walk in silence through corridors that Emmy is starting to recognize—she’s been living at Ashford Hall for nearly three weeks now, long enough that the geography is becoming familiar even if the house still feels cold and unwelcoming—and when they reach the dining room Emmy is surprised to find it set for just two people instead of the formal settings the staff usually prepare.
“I asked Mrs. Winters to arrange something simple,” the Duke explains, pulling out Emmy’s chair with surprising courtesy. “I thought you wouldn’t want a formal dinner after the day you’ve had.”
“Thank you,” Emmy says, and she means it because the thoughtfulness of arranging a quiet meal instead of forcing her through proper dinner protocols is more consideration than she expected from her emotionally distant husband.
They eat in silence for several minutes—simple food that Emmy barely tastes, the Duke maintaining his usual careful distance—and Emmy is contemplating excusing herself to return to her father when the Duke speaks with what sounds like genuine concern.
“How are you managing?” the Duke asks. “Truly. Not the polite answer you’d give in company. The real answer.”
Emmy looks at him across the table—at his scarred face that she’s starting to find almost handsome in its harsh lines and ice-blue eyes, at the careful controlled expression that hides whatever he’s actually feeling—and she decides that honesty is the only response that makes sense when her father is dying and pretending everything is fine seems exhausting.
“I’m devastated,” Emmy admits. “He’s the only family I have left. The only person who’s ever loved me unconditionally. And I’m watching him die slowly and there’s nothing I can do to stop it except sit beside his bed and hold his hand and pretend I’m not falling apart inside.”
The Duke is quiet for a moment, and Emmy sees something complicated flash through his expression—pain or sympathy or recognition of grief he understands too well.
“I’m sorry,” the Duke says quietly. “I know that doesn’t help. I know words don’t fix anything when you’re losing someone. But I am sorry you’re going through this.”
“At least he’s comfortable,” Emmy says, trying to find something positive in the terrible situation. “At least he’s not dying in debtor’s prison like he would have been if you hadn’t married me. At least he has warmth and medicine and dignity in his final days. That’s something.”
“It’s not enough though,” the Duke observes. “Is it? Comfort doesn’t make losing him less painful.”
“No,” Emmy agrees. “It doesn’t. But it’s still better than the alternative.”
They’re quiet again—both of them focused on food neither seems particularly interested in eating—and Emmy is surprised when the Duke speaks again with what sounds like actual vulnerability beneath his usual careful control.
“My son lived for an hour,” the Duke says abruptly, and Emmy’s attention snaps to him because he’s never mentioned his son before, never acknowledged the child who died with Caroline. “Just one hour. I held him while he died. Watched him struggle to breathe and then just… stop. And there was nothing I could do. No money or power or desperate pleading that could save him. He was just gone.”
Emmy’s chest aches at the raw pain in his voice, at the image of the Duke holding his dying infant son and being completely helpless to prevent it.
“I’m so sorry,” Emmy says, because what else is there to say when someone shares that kind of devastating loss.
“The point is,” the Duke continues, looking at Emmy with eyes that are less empty than usual, “I understand what it’s like to watch someone you love die while feeling completely powerless to stop it. And I know nothing I say will make it easier. But you’re not alone in this, Emmy. If you need anything—if there’s any way I can make this less unbearable—tell me.”
It’s the most open he’s been since they married—the most vulnerable, the most present, the most like an actual partner instead of just a distant landlord who happens to share Emmy’s last name—and Emmy feels something shift in her chest at this glimpse of the man he might be underneath all the defensive coldness.
“Thank you,” Emmy says, and her voice breaks slightly because the combination of grief over her father and unexpected kindness from her emotionally distant husband is more than she can handle without crying. “That means more than you know.”
The Duke looks uncomfortable with her gratitude—like he doesn’t know what to do with genuine emotion—but he doesn’t retreat or shut down, just nods and returns to his meal while Emmy tries to compose herself.
They finish dinner in silence, and when Emmy stands to return to her father’s chambers the Duke surprises her by standing as well.
“I’ll walk with you,” the Duke says. “Make sure everything is arranged properly for the night.”
Emmy doesn’t argue because having company—even the company of her cold distant husband—feels better than walking alone through empty corridors while her father is dying, and when they reach her father’s chambers the Duke checks with Dr. Pembroke and ensures there are servants available to fetch Emmy if anything changes during the night.
“Thank you,” Emmy says again, because the Duke is showing more care and consideration tonight than he has in their entire marriage. “For everything. For the doctors and the comfort and… and for understanding.”
The Duke looks at her with an expression Emmy can’t read—something complicated and maybe almost tender beneath his usual careful blankness.
“Get some rest,” the Duke says quietly. “Even if it’s just a few hours. You need to maintain your strength.”
He leaves before Emmy can respond, and she settles back into the chair beside her father’s bed feeling fractionally less alone than she did before dinner because maybe—just maybe—the Duke is capable of actual human connection when circumstances force him to engage instead of retreat.
Her father wakes around midnight—groggy from medication but lucid enough to recognize Emmy—and he smiles when he sees her still sitting vigil beside his bed.
“You should be sleeping,” her father chides gently. “Not watching over an old man who’s already lived his life.”
“You’re not that old,” Emmy argues. “And I want to be here. In case you need anything.”
“What I need,” her father says with surprising clarity given his condition, “is for you to promise me something.”
“Anything,” Emmy agrees without hesitation.
“Give him a chance,” her father says, and Emmy knows immediately he’s talking about the Duke. “I know he’s difficult. I know he’s cold and distant and nothing like what you deserved in a husband. But there’s something good in him, Emmy. Something worth finding if you’re patient enough. Promise me you won’t give up on him.”
Emmy wants to argue that she can’t give up on someone who won’t let her close in the first place, that the Duke has made it clear their marriage is purely transactional and expecting more is futile—but her dying father is asking for a promise and Emmy can’t refuse him.
“I promise,” Emmy says quietly. “I’ll try. However long it takes.”
Her father smiles—genuinely smiles like he’s relieved or hopeful or both—and he squeezes Emmy’s hand with what little strength he has left.
“That’s my girl,” her father says. “Stubborn and patient and kind. You’ll reach him eventually. I know you will.”
He falls asleep again after that, and Emmy sits in the firelight thinking about promises made to dying fathers and impossible husbands who show occasional glimpses of humanity before retreating behind their walls, and she wonders if she’s strong enough to keep fighting for a marriage that sometimes feels already lost.
But she promised.
And Emmy doesn’t break promises.
Especially not to her father.
So she’ll keep trying to reach the Duke however she can—through patience and stubbornness and refusing to be driven away by his distance or Lady Cordelia’s interference or the ghosts of his past that haunt their present.
However long it takes.
However much it costs her.
Because that’s what she promised.
And promises to dying fathers are sacred.
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