Page 10

The carriage wheels turned with relentless rhythm, each rotation a quiet drumbeat in the hush that filled the narrow space. Eleanor sat opposite her husband, her spine straight despite the jostling of the road, as her gloved hands nestled tightly in her lap.

The weight of the gold band on her finger pressed against her skin. She could hardly imagine how something so small and so unassuming could be more binding than any chain.

It glittered faintly in the shifting light, and she could not help glancing at it again and again, as if she might forget, even for a moment, the vow it represented.

Nathaniel did not speak. Even now, his gaze rested somewhere beyond the window, fixed on a distant point in the passing countryside, something only he could see.

The set of his jaw was unreadable, carved as it was in stone, but Eleanor imagined she could feel the weight of his thoughts pressing down upon them both.

She did not dare ask what he thought. She did not think she wished to know.

Outside, the world blurred past: the soft greens of spring meadows shifting into the dappled shade of the forest road, where branches laced overhead like the bars of a great, natural cage.

The trees grew denser as they progressed, their tall and still trunks bearing silent witness to her journey. A deer paused at the edge of the path, watching them with wide, unblinking eyes. Then it vanished into the trees.

It was not unlike her own vanishing, Eleanor thought. One moment in motion, the next, lost inside something larger than herself.

Eventually, the woods gave way to something more controlled. The land around them straightened, shaped by generations of Loxley hands.

Stone walls lined the road in neat, authoritative rows, and topiary dotted the lawns with almost military precision. Even the air changed. It smelled of clipped hedges and horsehair, of stone and old money.

Loxley House appeared at last. Everything about it was vast, grey, and severe. Not beautiful, but rather imposing. Its windows, tall and narrow, stared down like judgemental eyes.

Ivy crept in lines so disciplined they seemed arranged, as though even nature had been instructed to behave. The stonework bore no ornamentation, no flights of architectural fancy. There were only clean lines and sharp angles.

Only one conclusion offered itself. This was not a house built for joy. It was a house built for legacy.

As the carriage shuddered to a halt, Eleanor’s breath caught. She had imagined this moment often in recent weeks, though never quite like this. Her fingers ached from holding themselves still.

Nathaniel stepped down first. She watched his movements, efficient and practised. He turned back, extending his hand.

She hesitated, just for a moment. Then, with equally practised serenity that belied the knots in her chest, she placed her fingers in his.

His grip was firm, but she felt no comfort in it. She only felt the cold formality of expectation. She descended without stumbling and let go the moment both feet touched the ground.

A gust of spring wind teased the veil from her bonnet and lifted the scent of damp stone and polished brass.

Before them, the staff stood assembled in two perfect rows: footmen in livery, maids in dark uniforms with white caps starched to perfection, the butler near the front like a pillar of solemn tradition. Not one smiled. Not one looked at her directly.

They bowed and curtsied in stiff silence, their expressions blank, their posture impeccable. Eleanor wondered how many of them had been instructed in what manner a new mistress must be received. She felt more like a visitor to a cathedral than a bride returning to her new home.

At the top of the wide, grey stone steps, framed by the double doors, stood the Duchess of Wycombe.

Her presence was as striking as the house itself. Dressed in uncompromising black silk, she might have been carved from the same granite as Loxley’s facade. Her silver hair was drawn back into a style so precise it looked painful. The only softness about her was the gleam of her pearl brooch.

The woman’s gaze was cold. She did not descend the steps. She did not open her arms. She simply looked at Eleanor as if assessing the fit of a new painting on an old wall.

“Welcome to Loxley, Lady Loxley,” she said, in a voice devoid of any warmth. There was not even a hint of affection in it, only the clipped certainty of a woman who had once done her duty, and now expected to have someone else do the same.

Eleanor curtsied. Low, graceful, controlled.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied. She kept her voice steady, though her mouth tasted of iron. She did offer a smile in return, the kind a lady might wear at a tedious musicale. Polite, pleasant, practised.

Nathaniel, still standing at her side, gave a slight incline of his head towards his mother. “Well, now that we’ve settled everything, I must excuse myself,” he said. “There are matters I must attend to urgently.”

And just like that, no touch to her arm, no parting glance, no assurance of when he might return, he turned and vanished into the depths of the house that Eleanor was now to call home.

She remained where she stood, alone on the cold stone step beneath the weight of a hundred watchful eyes. The staff said nothing.

The Duchess of Wycombe did not move. A breeze stirred the hem of Eleanor’s gown, but she did not flinch. She only drew a quiet breath and turned her gaze to the front doors, where Mrs Lytton, the housekeeper, now stood waiting.

She was a severe-looking woman, trim and tall, her greying hair pinned beneath a plain white cap. Her expression was neither warm nor unkind, only grave with the solemnity of duty. She curtsied, which Eleanor suspected was a shallow dip of formality, then gestured politely.

“If you would come this way, My Lady.”

Eleanor followed as they passed through high-ceilinged halls smelling faintly of lavender polish and old stone. The marble floors gleamed beneath their steps.

Along the walls, oil portraits of lords and ladies of Wycombe lineage loomed, their gazes austere and their clothing centuries out of fashion but their expressions ever unchanging. The house seemed to hum with their presence symbolizing a silent mausoleum of ambition.

At last, they arrived at a set of double doors. Mrs Lytton pushed one open with quiet efficiency and stepped aside.

“Your chambers, My Lady.”

Eleanor crossed the threshold. She had to admit that the room was beautiful.

In fact, it was impeccably so. A suite of pale blue damask and ivory trim, with gilded mirrors placed to catch the light in soft reflections.

The bed was massive, its frame carved and lacquered, the coverlet embroidered in a pattern of vines and birds that felt almost too delicate to touch.

A marble hearth stood cold and waiting. The furniture gleamed, arranged with perfect symmetry.

But there were no flowers. No books. No trace of comfort. There was just sheer, useless elegance. And the silence that accompanied it.

Lucy stood by the wardrobe, already unpacking. Her hands moved with gentle care, smoothing out gowns, and arranging gloves by colour. At the sight of Eleanor, she turned and curtsied, her face soft with concern.

“My Lady.” Her voice was low, steady, something grounding in it.

Eleanor managed another smile, thinner this time.

“Thank you, Lucy.” She crossed to the window, touching the velvet curtain absently. Outside, the sky had turned a flat shade of grey.

“I should like tea,” she said after a moment. “Alone.”

Lucy nodded. “Of course, My Lady.”

As the door closed gently behind her, Eleanor sank into the nearest chair. The silence returned, vast and consuming. She had been alone before, but this was a completely different sort of solitude.

She stared at her hands, at the ring gleaming on her finger, and thought that the ceremony had felt less like a wedding and more like a coronation. Or a sentence.

This was her life now.

This house of stone and silence.

This marriage, born of duty and transaction.

These endless, echoing corridors and the legacy she had been conscripted to bear.

But she would not wither away.

She had learned the art of stillness long ago.

She had learned how to survive beneath watchful eyes and whispered expectations of her parents.

She had learned how to endure without yielding.

Her father had taught her well, though never in kindness.

Society had reinforced the lesson, cloaking its demands in lace and compliments.

Be obedient. Be gracious. Be quiet.

But she had not forgotten herself.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted the hush. Eleanor rose smoothly. She had just enough time to compose her expression before the door opened and the duchess entered, without waiting for permission.

The woman moved with the confidence of someone who had never once considered being unwelcome. Her gaze swept the room, then settled on Eleanor with unblinking calm.

“Ah, you are settling in already. Good. Because there are expectations, Lady Loxley,” she said, each word clipped and polished. “As marchioness, you are now the face of this house. Respect must be maintained. Routine followed. No disruption.”

She said it not as a suggestion, but decree.

Eleanor did not flinch. She offered no apology, no protest. Only a pleasant, composed smile … her armour.

“I understand,” she said and even managed a smile. “I shall conduct myself accordingly.”

It was exactly the right thing to say. It was not, however, submissive.

Lady Wycombe’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. Perhaps she recognized the performance. Perhaps she, too, remembered what it was to smile while resisting.

“Good,” she said simply.

She did not stay for tea. She did not look back. A single nod, then the duchess turned and swept from the room, but the doors did not entirely shut behind her. Eleanor didn’t bother to close them. Why, when there was not a semblance of privacy in this house?

She sat again, slower this time, her back still straight but her limbs no longer tense with resistance. Her pulse had steadied, as if her body, too, had remembered what her mind already knew: she would not be cowed.

Not by the house, not by the title, not by the duchess and her iron manners.

She would bend when it served her. Smile when it disarmed. Endure, always. But she would not yield.

The silence settled again, this time less oppressive, and more like a held breath.

Then, a sound. Small. Wet. Snuffling.

Her brow creased.

The door left slightly ajar in the dowager’s wake, creaked open a few inches more. And through it waddled a creature entirely out of place amidst the cold grandeur of Loxley.

Percival.

Eleanor blinked, almost disbelieving. Then frowned. It took her a moment to remember his name.

“Percival,” she said with surprise.

He paused at the sound of his name, looked up at her with bulbous, adoring eyes, and without any respect for her dignity as a marchioness, proceeded to sneeze directly onto the damask rug.

She made a sound in her throat, halfway between outrage and disbelief.

“You impossible creature,” she muttered. “But knowing who your master is, I probably should have expected something like this.”

Percival, entirely unmoved by rebuke or grandeur, waddled over, turned in a slow, clumsy circle, then collapsed on top of her slippered foot, ending the scene in a contented grunt.

His absurd weight was oddly comforting. Eleanor stared at him for a long moment. Then, quite unexpectedly, she laughed.

It started as a quiet huff, then built, soft and surprised, until her shoulders shook with it. A proper lady’s laugh, yes, but real. More real than anything else she’d done all day.

She reached down and stroked his warm, round side, her fingers sinking into his velvet-soft fur.

“Maybe I’m not entirely alone after all,” she murmured.

Percival gave a sigh, the kind only pugs can manage … dramatic and nasal and thoroughly pleased with himself.

Eleanor leaned back, letting her head rest for a moment against the tall, carved headboard behind her.

Outside the window, the clouds had begun to part.