Page 13

Chapter Eleven

S everal days passed in much the same way as the first one: tense, overly polite breakfasts where Eleanor told herself that she had plenty to do. That her life was no longer confined to the endless corridors of Everdawn Hall.

The Duke’s gaze lingered on her during the meals, both thrilling and unsettling. She wanted him to look away, yet she felt oddly adrift when he did. He looked at her as though he truly saw her, but also as though she were a riddle he couldn’t quite solve.

She didn’t know if that said more about him or her.

Each afternoon, she would return to what she had begun to think of as the Lotus Garden—her patch of neglected green at the far edge of the estate.

There, she would plant daffodils and lilies, and above all, a generous number of lotuses.

It was small and quiet, and for a little while, she could breathe.

But she kept noticing birds flitting above a distant, steepled roof, just visible from where she crouched in the dirt. It was tucked away in a forgotten section of the garden, half-swallowed by ivy. At first, it had looked like the remains of a chapel or a crypt. Something ruined and secretive.

Her curiosity got the better of her.

She followed the path one afternoon and found it—an old greenhouse, its frame worn and the glass fogged with age and dirt. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp earth and decay. Rubbish lay piled in the corners, the remnants of something once beautiful now lost to time.

Eleanor stared at the forgotten space, her heart suddenly alight with the first flicker of purpose she’d felt since her arrival.

An idea began to form in her mind.

She took off back the way she had come, seeking Mrs. Winters. She was breathless and smiling by the time she found the housekeeper in the kitchen.

The older woman started at her sudden arrival. “Your Grace, are you looking for His Grace?”

“May I have some cleaning supplies?” Eleanor asked instead.

Mrs. Winters’ expression shifted immediately. She straightened, the lines on her face tightening with concern. “I can see to whatever task has been left undone. I’ll also find out who allowed such a state?—”

“No,” Eleanor cut in, holding up her hands. “No one is at fault. I… I found an old greenhouse tucked away in the garden. I’d like to restore it.”

A beat of silence followed.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Winters said gently, “you shouldn’t trouble yourself with that sort of work. I can arrange?—”

“I want to do it,” Eleanor insisted, her voice firm now. “Please. I’ve spent too long with nothing to care for, nothing to make with my hands. This is something I can fix. Something that can belong to me.”

Mrs. Winters studied her for a moment and then gave a small nod. “Very well. But I’ll have someone check in on you from time to time. Just in case.”

Eleanor smiled. “Agreed.”

The housekeeper moved to gather rags, a broom, a pail, and a few tools, muttering something about strong-willed young women under her breath, though not unkindly.

Within the hour, Eleanor was in the greenhouse, the door half hanging off its hinges, the air thick with dust and the sweet breath of damp leaves.

And that was how her husband found her: barefoot, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, brushing years of grime from the twisted branches of a forgotten fig tree.

He peered down at her. She was always struck by how tall he was.

“What do you think you are doing?”

While he had been amused when he found her kneeling by the flowerbed, now he looked angry.

“I am dusting,” she said. “What else does it look like?”

“You are debasing yourself. This is beneath you, Duchess.”

“Is it, really?” she countered, not realizing how serious this was until his face hardened.

Her joy at losing herself in weeding and dusting deflated.

“Idleness is far more humiliating than labor, no? You have asked me to stop asking you about Charlotte, so I have found a way to remain distracted.”

“I told you to be a duchess,” he growled.

Eleanor’s temper flared, always finding its opponent in his. “Which I am being.”

“You look more like one of the servants, barefoot, with dirt on your face and your sleeves rolled up.”

“Would you prefer a docile, silent duchess who sits in a room embroidering, going half out of her mind with worry?” Eleanor snapped.

“I will not be idle. My mind can be a dark place when I’m left without something to cling to.

This is one small thing I like to do to escape my own thoughts. It is not evasion; it is survival .”

The Duke flinched. A shadow crossed his face, his mouth twitching with displeasure as he looked at her. Eleanor stood her ground, folding her arms over her chest stubbornly.

“I do not wish to deprive you of whatever it is you want to occupy your thoughts with,” he hissed, “but must all your ways of survival involve dirt, or do you just wish to vex me?”

Eleanor almost told him what other pastimes settled her racing mind, but she bit her tongue.

“You have no right to dictate what I do.”

Anger flashed in his eyes, and he shook his head. He took a step back and looked away from her as if exasperated. Then, his eyes flicked to hers, and she held them, her mouth set in a grimace, daring him to press the issue.

Eventually, he let out a low growl that sent shivers through her and stormed out of the greenhouse.

She watched him for a moment, a tall, dark figure striding through the bright garden.

Against the red forest in the distance, he looked striking. She swallowed, her eyes lingering on him a little too long. He paused at the end of the garden path, as if he sensed her gaze.

Eleanor whirled back to the fig tree. She did not know whether he looked back at her.

As the afternoon grew hotter, Mr. Fulton came and went with other servants, presenting her with new tools, giving her smiles and nods of acknowledgment.

“From His Grace,” he said as he offered her fresh soil and a garden brush.

“Thank you,” Eleanor murmured, noticing how the Duke looked quite lost in his thoughts. “For the soil and the tools. It was unexpected but lovely.”

She thought of him leaving the greenhouse, of his anger turning into reluctant acceptance. By the time she sat across from him at dinner, she still could not understand why he would extend that kindness to her.

At first, she thought he would argue with her again, but his expression softened slightly and he merely nodded.

The candlelight reflected in his eyes, making the honey flecks within the brown look like sunbursts.

For a moment, she could not look away. Not as the light danced in his hair, turning the russet brown strands into gleaming copper and accentuating the scar on his face.

Neither of them looked away. Eleanor’s hands trembled.

Quickly, she rose from her chair and left the dining room.

“You are sunburned, Your Grace,” Frances noted the following morning after Eleanor had taken a quiet breakfast on the terrace of her bedroom.

She was told that the Duke had left Everdawn Hall early that morning, and she had thought she would lose her wits if she was once again forced to sit in a large room alone.

She peered down at the red kiss of the sun on her skin. “Ah, it seems I am.”

“Perhaps a break from the sun today would be wise,” Frances suggested gently.

Despite her reluctance to stay inside the quiet but beautiful estate, Eleanor nodded.

“I am sure there are rooms you have not discovered. The library, perhaps?”

She scowled. “I am well enough acquainted with it.”

“The music room, then?”

Eleanor considered that suggestion as Frances finished styling her hair, fluffing out the natural curls.

In the end, she decided to explore the music room and then find her way from there.

After thanking Frances for her suggestion, she set out for the morning. She did not think the manor could get any quieter, but it did. For a master who was so reclusive anyway, the Duke’s absence could be felt.

She stepped into the music room to find it covered in sheets, dust motes flying around as if no servants had ever come there to clean.

Immediately, Eleanor was curious. Her music room at Quinley House was usually spotless, and she had once hosted musical evenings for her suitors before her father rejected them for one reason or another.

Now, she brushed her fingers along a white sheet that she realized covered a harp. It was strange how the room had not been emptied yet remained frozen in time.

And then she saw it, surprising enough to make her breath catch.

A portrait was half-covered by another sheet as if it had slipped off the corner of the frame. In the painting, a girl gazed back at her, a mirror image of the Duke. She looked as though she had not yet reached adulthood, but those eyes…

Eleanor took in the honey-toned irises, the hair that looked brandished with copper, and the ghost of a smile, as if the girl had been trying to stifle her amusement.

She could only stare for a moment.

Why would a portrait be hidden away in a room covered with sheets?

A creak of floorboards behind her had her whirling around, an excuse hanging on the tip of her tongue. But she found not the Duke and his anger at her being where she might not be permitted, but Mrs. Winters.

The housekeeper’s eyes darted from Eleanor to the portrait. They softened slightly even as she grimaced, as if she knew that a barrage of questions was inevitable.

“Who is she?” Eleanor asked outright, her voice gentle. “She looks exactly like the Duke.”

Mrs. Winters entered the music room and closed the door behind her. “That is because she is Lady Anna Vanserton.”

“Who?”

“You do not know?” When she was only met with silence, she sighed. “She was His Grace’s twin sister.”

Twin sister?

Eleanor looked back at the portrait, startled. There was no denying the resemblance, but…

“I did not know there was another Vanserton sibling.”

The housekeeper nodded. “Hmm, yes. Three of them in total. For a very long time, it was just His Grace and Lady Anna. Lady Charlotte was not born until the twins were two-and-ten.”

“She looks very different from them,” Eleanor noted. “He… he has never mentioned Lady Anna.”

“That is to be expected. Lady Anna died fifteen years ago.” The housekeeper winced.

If the Duke was two-and-thirty, and his twin sister died fifteen years ago, that meant that Lady Anna was barely a debutante when she passed.

Eleanor frowned. She had no idea. Charlotte had never mentioned another sister.

“Was it… bad?” she heard herself ask.

“Terrible,” Mrs. Winters admitted. “It was a tragic day, and His Grace… Well, he witnessed such awful things before he even became a man.” She sighed and slowly shook her head. “It is not my story to tell.”

“And… the late Duke. His Grace’s father,” Eleanor murmured, thinking about the father Charlotte rarely mentioned except with great discontent. “And the late Duchess… What happened to them?”

“His Grace’s mother passed away several hours after Lady Charlotte’s birth. And His Grace’s father passed last year from intoxication.” Mrs. Winters did not elaborate, but she brushed a hand over her mouth.

So much loss…

The Duke’s insistence on control made much more sense now.

“The family must have been devastated,” Eleanor commented, turning back to the portrait. “To lose a daughter at such a young age…”

The atmosphere grew heavy, and she was left wondering what story Mrs. Winters refused to tell.

“Indeed,” the housekeeper said.

“It is peculiar. There is a small smile on her face, but her eyes… they look somewhat haunted, don’t you think?”

Again, all Mrs. Winters said was, “Indeed.”

After a pause, she ushered Eleanor out of the music room, mumbling to herself about righting the sheet lest the Duke see it.

Eleanor slowly wandered down the hall after Mrs. Winters bid her farewell with deep sadness on her face. She wondered what secrets lay in the house. What secrets these walls carried.

Would she ever be allowed to find out?