Page 15

That evening, Eleanor sat at her escritoire, with a single candle casting a flickering halo over her page.

The room was still, save for the soft tick of the mantel clock and the occasional creak of old beams settling into the chill of night.

Her quill hovered above the parchment for what felt an eternity before she finally began to write.

The words came slowly, but with deliberate care, and each one was chosen like a step across uncertain ice.

My Lord,

If we are to share the burden of this arrangement with any measure of civility, and I do not doubt we can, then permit me to ask something of you.

Might I request the favour of your company for a private dinner in the morning room? Just the two of us. No formalities. Just conversation.

I do not seek sentiment or obligation. Only the chance to know the man to whom I am now bound and to allow you the same courtesy.

With respect,

Your wife, Eleanor

She set down her quill with a soft clink and stared at the letter, reading it over twice. The handwriting was steady, but her fingers trembled faintly as she folded the note into crisp thirds and sealed it with a plain wafer of wax. She pressed the seal down a heartbeat longer than necessary.

It was not a grand gesture. It was barely a request. And yet it made her chest feel strangely tight, as though she had cracked open something private and dared someone else to look.

Why am I nervous? she thought bitterly. It is only dinner. Only conversation.

And yet, something in her heart whispered that it was not so simple. Now, all that was left was to leave the letter in his study. It was late in the evening, so she was certain that everyone had fallen asleep.

She moved through the corridors with careful steps, with her dressing gown drawn tight around her and slippers muffling her tread upon the runner.

The sconces along the walls had been extinguished hours ago. Only the faintest hint of light crept through the high windows, casting long, watery shadows on the panelling.

She reached the study door and paused. She hesitated before allowing her hand to rest lightly on the brass handle. The weight of the letter felt immense in her pocket, though it was only folded parchment and wax.

She turned the handle slowly.

The door gave way with a soft creak, and she winced. Suddenly, she became afraid of waking someone, though no one should have been nearby. She pushed it open just enough to peer inside and exhaled with relief.

Empty.

The study was dark, save for the pale blush of dawn beginning to bloom through the tall windows. The fire had long since died, leaving only faint scents of woodsmoke and ink.

Papers lay in tidy stacks upon the desk, and a chair had been drawn slightly away, as though someone had risen from it just an hour before.

Eleanor slipped inside. Even the air here was different. It was all quiet, but not peaceful. It held the presence of its occupant, even in his absence.

She could almost imagine him here still, his coat draped over the chair and his hands clasped behind his back as he read, paced, or thought inscrutable things she would never know unless he told her.

She crossed to the desk and placed the letter just so, atop a blotter and beneath a paperweight of green glass. Her hand lingered there, then pulled away as if afraid to disturb the moment.

It was done.

She stood in the silence for a moment longer, taking in the bookshelves, the orderly ink bottles, the globe that had been spun so many times the gilded continents were faded. It was not a cold room, but it held the presence of someone in control.

Eleanor turned and made her way to the door, closing it behind her with the same care she had opened it. The hallway swallowed her steps once more. The weight in her pocket was now gone, but somehow it was still there, only transferred somewhere else: behind her ribs.

She did not know if he would come. But she had spoken.

***

The morning began as it always did, precise and without indulgence. Nathaniel rose before the bell, as was his habit, and dressed in silence. The valet would arrive shortly, but he preferred to see to certain things himself. Control, after all, was a comfort he understood.

The hallways of Loxley House were still, painted in that pale silver light that arrived just before the servants stirred. The house in its sleeping hours always seemed more honest to him, somehow less occupied by the theatre of it all. He appreciated the quiet.

His study, when he entered, was just as he’d left it the night before, ink capped, books in alignment, fire out. The windows were still veiled in mist. He stepped towards the desk to begin his correspondence, absently reaching for the topmost page, and stopped.

There, beneath the paperweight, lay something unfamiliar: a folded letter. Creamy vellum. Neat handwriting. Sealed in plain wax.

He paused, frowning slightly, not out of displeasure, but surprise. No one left him letters here like this.

Without overthinking, he broke the seal and read the contents. The first few lines surprised him. By the time he reached the final line, his hand lowered to the edge of the writing table, with the letter still hanging loosely between his fingers. His eyes could not leave the page.

Just the two of us.

No formalities.

Only conversation.

There was nothing sentimental in the phrasing.

There was no desperation, no plea. It was dignified, deliberate, and also, oddly unsettling in its directness.

Not because it was inappropriate, though, but because it mattered to her.

And perhaps, he thought wryly, that was the most disarming thing of all.

He imagined her writing this, alone in her chamber, or seated before her little desk, with her hand steady and her eyes careful. He imagined her walking these halls before dawn to leave it here. The thought was unexpectedly vivid.

He folded the letter again and placed it gently back beneath the weight, as though it might vanish if he looked too closely.

Her words were so measured. And yet they had unsettled him more than the most impassioned plea might have. She was not asking for affection, apologies, or declarations of what their marriage might yet become. Only conversation. Only a shared table.

He found himself staring at the fire grate, cold and ashed from the night before. Her presence in the house had been quiet, almost ghost-like at first, but never weak. She was not meek.

That much, he had come to see, even if she’d worn the mask of gentility with skill. She had watched, learned, and waited. And now, she spoke.

He admired her for that.

It could not be easy coming here, to this house still shaped by his mother’s will, filled with strangers, burdened by the weight of a name that had never been hers.

She walked its halls with grace, yes, but also with restraint, as though afraid that too firm a step might rouse some ancient disapproval.

And perhaps, he thought with a flash of rare insight, that was precisely what she feared. He could not imagine what it was to marry into a life that had been prepared without you. To inherit tradition without invitation. To try and make a place yours when it had been someone else’s all along.

She had been here only a matter of days. It was not long enough to claim anything. And yet, here she was, claiming something now.

Nathaniel rose, his decision made. He crossed to the writing desk and took up his pen. His response was not long, but he wrote it with care, not unlike she had.

My Lady,

Your request is both reasonable and well-received. I would be pleased to join you in the morning room this evening at 7 o’clock.

Until this evening,

N.

He did not overthink it. The tone was respectful, perhaps even a shade warmer than his usual reserve allowed. No promises. No implications. But not cold.

Folding the note, he sealed it, then stood with it in hand. He would not leave it for a servant to deliver. She had taken the trouble to reach across the silence. He would do the same. With steady steps, he left the study and turned towards the east wing.

He had expected her to be in her chamber or the sitting room, or perhaps the morning room itself, but they were all empty. Her maid had not seen her that morning. Neither had any of the housemaids nor the steward.

A faint frown tugged at his brow. It wasn’t concern precisely, but a flicker of something else. Curiosity? Puzzlement? And perhaps, if he were honest with himself, a trace of impatience. He was not used to looking for people in his own house.

Then it occurred to him.

The library.

She had been there the day before, hadn’t she? With her friend. He recalled seeing the small mark of her presence, a cushion moved, a volume left askew, a faint scent of lavender in the air.

He turned down the west corridor and approached the door. It was ajar. And from within came a voice, which was low, clear, and very much alive with quiet animation. Nathaniel paused, one hand on the frame, and leaned in just enough to see.

There she was, seated on a faintly faded chaise by the long windows, with a book open in her lap. She was reading aloud. Not performing, not rehearsing, but entirely absorbed in the words.

And there, at her feet, like some lumpy little sphynx, Percival lay curled with his chin resting on the cushion, staring up at her with that slow and deliberate patience of the pampered and wise.

His eyes blinked only once as if he understood every single word she was reading to him and approved of her interpretation of it.

Nathaniel said nothing. He only stood there, hidden by shadow and the angle of the open door, watching a scene he had not expected to find.

Something unnameable unfolded in his chest. Not jealousy, not precisely. Not even longing. But something tight and unfamiliar, laced with wonder and something gentler, deeper. A pang.

Yes, that was the word. A quiet ache, as though he had stumbled upon something that did not belong to him and yet stirred something within him all the same.

It was just like that instance of him running into the bath she was giving Percival. Only this time, he was adamant to intrude.

He lingered one breath longer, then knocked before gently pushing the door open. Eleanor looked up, and Percival gave a singular, traitorous wag of his tail.

“I have my response,” he said, stepping inside and holding the letter visibly in his hand.

She blinked, then set the book aside and rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts with more care than was necessary.

He walked to her without haste, extending the sealed letter in one gloved hand. “I thought it best not to leave it lying about.”

Their fingers brushed briefly as she took it. He withdrew his hand quickly, and yet, not abruptly. Just enough to be polite. He had no idea why it was so hard to talk to her now that she was his wife. When they met the first time, everything was different, everything was simple.

Eleanor looked at the envelope but did not open it. Her eyes lifted to his instead.

He glanced down at Percival, who had shuffled closer to her side again, panting contentedly. Nathaniel bent and gave the pug a small pat behind the ears.

“Traitor,” he murmured under his breath.

Percival blinked slowly in return, entirely unrepentant.

That was when Nathaniel straightened and turned towards the door, already moving with the firm, purposeful stride that usually brooked no hesitation.

“Would you like to stay a while?” Eleanor asked, her voice soft but steady, as though the invitation had been waiting on her tongue.

He stopped, hand on the doorframe. His back remained to her for a beat too long.

“I have work to attend to,” he replied without turning around. “But … thank you.”

He didn’t even know why he said those words. All he knew was that the touch of quiet intimacy he just witnessed stirred him more than he was willing to admit.