Page 11

Nathaniel rose early, just as he did every morning.

The sun had barely crested the tree line beyond the east field, but already the house stirred in its silent rhythm. The clink of hearth grates being cleared, the muted footsteps of the scullery maids filled the corridors, and the first sharp scent of coal and soap was in the air.

He washed, dressed, and descended to the steward’s room with the same precision he had adopted since his school days. At seven o’clock precisely, Mr Halford was waiting, spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, ledgers laid out in neat rows like soldiers awaiting inspection.

“Good morning, My Lord,” he said, bowing slightly.

“Halford,” Nathaniel replied with a nod, taking his seat. “Let’s begin.”

They moved through the tenant reports first. There were some concerns about a collapsing stone wall near Windmere Lane, several ewes due to lamb early, and a dispute over the north boundary hedge that would likely require arbitration.

Nathaniel’s pen scratched cleanly across the parchment.

“Have Cuthbert see to the stonework,” he said. “And send word to Squire Alden about the hedge. He’ll want to posture, but he’ll yield.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Grain tallies, receipts from the market in Derby, and the forecast for late frosts. Nathaniel initialled each sheet in turn, the steady rhythm of numbers and signatures drawing him into that familiar calm. Here, in the quiet logic of ledgers, everything made sense. Here, nothing was unspoken.

Until it was.

Halford hesitated over the final page. “One more item, sir. Lady Loxley has requested that the old garden room be opened.”

Nathaniel looked up. “The garden room?”

“Yes, My Lord. It has not been used since … well, since before.”

Nathaniel’s fingers paused against the edge of the page.

“I see.”

There was a silence. Not uncomfortable, but rather expectant.

“Send someone to see it aired,” he said, finally. “Nothing more.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

He dismissed Halford with a nod but remained seated after the steward departed. The fire in the grate had burned low, leaving only the smell of scorched ash and ink. He stared at the open ledger before him but did not turn the page.

It was her.

Eleanor.

Moving through the house with quiet civility and impeccable manners yet never settling into it. Not quite. She had done nothing wrong. She had said all the right things, in all the right ways.

And yet—he remembered it too clearly, the soft, genuine sound of her laughter on the first day of her arrival. It was not the performative kind. Not the kind women gave in drawing rooms and over sherry.

This one had been real.

He had been walking past her chambers, not meaning to linger, only to pass, but the door had been ajar, and the sound had slipped through. Light. Surprised. Unfettered.

He had stopped.

Then turned quickly away as if burned.

The routine was still there. The house still moved like clockwork. And yet, something had shifted.

He stood, closed the ledger with more force than necessary, and crossed to the tall window. The east lawn stretched beyond, crisp and damp in the morning light. Spring was coming. The trees knew it, even if he refused to.

“Control,” he muttered. “That is what matters.”

A knock on the door came soft and unexpected.

“Enter,” he called out, still facing the window.

Mrs Lytton stepped inside with her usual quiet grace, balancing a polished tray of tea and something warm beneath a linen cover. She moved without hesitation, setting the tray on the low table near the hearth.

“I thought you might take something, My Lord,” she said. “You’ve not been down to breakfast all week.”

“You know I never take breakfast,” he replied absently, then glanced at the tray. “But thank you.”

She did not comment on the contradiction. She never did. That was part of why he trusted her.

Nathaniel turned and sat, drawing the cup towards him. The tea was strong and dark, just as he preferred it. Beneath the cover: poached eggs, toast, a rasher of bacon … it was simple but well-executed.

Mrs Lytton remained standing, hands folded in front of her apron.

“Anything else, My Lord?”

He looked up at her, studying her lined face, the mild intelligence in her eyes. She had been with the house longer than he had been alive.

She had served through his father’s slow health decline and his mother’s reign of frost and fine manners. Her loyalty was not sentimental. It was earned.

“Mrs Lytton,” he said slowly. “What do the servants say of her?”

The housekeeper didn’t ask who her referred to.

There was a pause. Brief, but thoughtful.

“They’re cautious, sir,” she said at last. “Not wary. Curious.”

He arched a brow. “Curious?”

“She isn’t what they expected.” A faint smile touched her lips, but it was as gone as quickly as it came. “Nor what I expected, if I’m honest.”

Nathaniel said nothing, but something in him tightened. Mrs Lytton continued.

“She pays attention. Not in the way some ladies do, for gossip or superiority. She notices things.” She paused.

“When the bishop’s wife sent word she was arriving early for the garden luncheon next week, it was her ladyship who saw to the seating arrangements.

The cook hadn’t even been informed yet.”

“She handled it?” he asked, surprised to hear it aloud, though not truly shocked.

“She did,” Mrs Lytton said. “Spoke with the cook directly. Even adjusted the menu herself. She’s not above details. She doesn’t seem to think they’re beneath her.”

Nathaniel looked down at the tea in his hand, the surface still rippling faintly.

“No,” he murmured. “I don’t imagine she would.”

Mrs Lytton inclined her head, calm as ever. “She’s quiet, but there’s steel in her. The staff are already adjusting to her way of things.”

He nodded, once.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

She understood dismissal when it came, and left without another word, soft footsteps fading into the hush of the hall.

Nathaniel remained seated, the scent of toast cooling, his thoughts circling a quiet truth: Eleanor was not what he had expected, either.

Just as he was occupied with that thought, a faint murmur of voices caught his ear. He looked at the window, and without thinking, headed over to it. He hesitated just before the heavy drapery. Pulling the curtain back just enough to peer out, he caught sight of them.

Eleanor and Charlotte.

They were walking slowly along the gravel path that curved around the south garden, heads inclined towards one another, their conversation lost to the glass. Charlotte’s bonnet tilted as she laughed, one hand gesturing with animation.

Eleanor, more reserved, smiled in that quiet, composed way of hers but there was ease in her posture, a softness Nathaniel hadn’t seen in the drawing rooms.

And bounding between them, overgrown, snuffling, and utterly absurd was Percival.

The pug charged ahead on stubby legs, paused, circled back, leapt inelegantly at Charlotte’s skirts, then made a jubilant dash towards the rose arbour. Eleanor crouched for a moment to collect him, and even through the glass, Nathaniel could see the fondness in her eyes.

“The little traitor,” he muttered, unable to stop the slight smile that pulled at his mouth. “So much for loyalty.”

He let the curtain fall back into place and returned to his chair. The breakfast was now lukewarm. Still, he ate it slowly and thoughtfully.

Something was unsettling about the ease with which she moved through the garden. As if she belonged there. As if the stone and ivy and hedgerows were slowly beginning to bend to her rhythm, not the other way around.

Nathaniel set down his fork and stared at the empty space before him.

He had built this house on control, rules, restraint, and careful management. And now, without fanfare, something was shifting beneath the surface.

Still, there was not a crack. Not yet.

But something warm lingered where there was no warmth to begin with. Something unaccounted for in any of his ledgers.