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Nathaniel was still in his chamber the following morning and his mind, stubbornly uncooperative, kept drifting back to the evening before.

Dinner with Eleanor had been … different. It was not strained, not heavy with the unsaid things that usually clouded their rare conversations.

Somehow, it had felt almost natural to speak to her, as if she were not his wife, tethered to him by duty and expectation, but simply a person. One he might have chosen to know had choice been allowed.

The previous night also reminded him of their first meeting. Before the vows, before the agreements and formalities which had now settled over them like damp wool. Percival, muddy-pawed and shameless, had made the introduction, barrelling towards Eleanor as if he’d known her forever.

And she … how vivid she had been that day. Not meek, not careful. Quick-witted, willful.

He remembered the flash in her eye when she had informed him, without the faintest deference, that his pug was in dire need of a proper education. The faint upward tilt of her chin when he had teased her in return.

He had liked her, then. He liked her spirit, her unwillingness to yield to the situation set before her.

But here, in the halls of Loxley House, that spirit seemed to have thinned. Pressed into something quieter, more careful. A shadow of the girl who had once retorted without a second thought.

He knew why that was so. It wasn’t her nature that had changed.

It was the house itself, its rigid rhythms, his mother’s ever-watchful presence, the suffocating weight of what was expected.

Loxley House demanded perfection, demanded stillness.

It allowed for no untidy emotions, no spirited laughter, no natural defiance.

It had crushed him, too. He had simply been here longer and learned to bear it without showing the strain. But Eleanor … she had been here only weeks. And already the walls were pressing in.

Something in him recoiled at the thought. The house, his obligations, even his own distance, they were doing to her what they had done to him. And he hated it.

He slowly drifted towards the window, his own restless energy pulling him there. His chamber overlooked the southern gardens, and the view over them never failed to soothe him.

That morning was no exception, as the sunlight lay pale across the grounds, catching on the dew-silvered leaves and the last hesitant blooms of late spring.

Suddenly, he noticed Eleanor there, seated near the mossy stone bench beneath the old Linden tree. A book rested open in her lap, though she was not reading.

One hand idly traced the edge of the page, the other folded neatly in her lap. Her gown was a soft grey today, blending almost too easily with the muted garden around her.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, but a sharp movement to her left drew his attention momentarily. He recognized his mother at once, with that effortless authority she wore like a second skin.

Even at a distance, Nathaniel could read the tenor of their meeting. His mother’s posture was rigid, as her gloved hand gestured sharply while she spoke.

Eleanor rose at once, setting the book carefully aside before dipping a shallow, correct curtsy. She said something he could not hear, but her chin lifted subtly. The set of her shoulders, however, refused to shrink beneath the duchess’ scrutiny.

His mother’s lips thinned. Another pointed remark, another tight movement of her hand, almost as if brushing Eleanor aside, who remained composed. Nathaniel had seen that expression before, the way a person masked themselves when enduring something they knew they could not stop.

His mother’s scolding ended as quickly as it had begun. With a dismissive tilt of her head, the duchess turned and made her way back up the path towards the house. Eleanor stood very still even after she was left alone.

She did not reach for her book again. She did not move to stroll among the garden blooms. She simply stood there, staring at nothing, her hands clasped loosely before her.

From this height, Nathaniel could not see the expression on her face, but he didn’t need to. He knew.

A hollow, tight feeling took hold in his chest. He recognized it as fury at his mother’s casual and polite cruelty, guilt at his own failure to shield Eleanor from it, and frustration at his own inaction.

He should do something. He wanted to do something.

***

The idea had struck Nathaniel without warning, unwelcome in its insistence, but once there, it refused to be dislodged. Eleanor had borne his mother’s cutting remarks with a grace that only deepened the unease he had carried all morning.

He had seen it and recognized it, that slight tightening around her mouth, the way her shoulders lifted almost imperceptibly as if bracing against an unseen storm. And he had done nothing.

By midday, he had given orders himself, bypassing the usual layers of household interference. A picnic, he said. Something simple.

He wanted no footmen parading silver trays, no grand pavilion of brocade and velvet. All he needed was a linen cloth, a basket of food, cold roast chicken, tart apples, lemon cake he remembered she had praised one afternoon, and a bottle of wine.

The location was also clear in his mind: under the elms, near the south lawn where the sun filtered green and dappled through the branches.

He would abide by her wishes from her own letter: no audience, no pretence, just space.

Now, standing a little apart from the quiet flurry of preparations, Nathaniel watched as the final touches were laid down.

The grass had been freshly cut just the previous day, and the late morning breeze tugged gently at the cloth’s edges. The basket was already uncorked, and the faint scent of lemon and thyme floated up in the warmth.

He shifted his weight, feeling a rare, uncomfortable tightness in his chest. It was not a grand gesture. It was barely anything at all. And yet, he hoped.

He turned away before any servants could attempt to linger or fuss, crossing the lawn back towards the house. His plan, if it could be called that, was to find Eleanor and suggest … no, invite her to join him.

He would not command or assume. He would invite, for an invitation was freely given and freely accepted, or not.

About fifteen minutes later, he found her in the south parlour, seated in an armchair by the window. The book in her lap was forgotten, as her gaze was turned towards the gardens beyond the tall windows.

The light caught the curve of her cheek, the loosened strands of hair at her temple, and for a moment he simply watched her, as if afraid to break the magic of the moment.

Finally, he cleared his throat softly. “My Lady,” he said, adopting a tone of slightly exaggerated formality that almost masked his nervousness, “if you are not otherwise engaged, there is something outside I should very much like to show you.”

Eleanor looked up, startled. For an instant, she seemed to brace herself, as if expecting a reprimand or some new obligation. Obviously, he had caught her off guard with his request.

Her expression stayed cautious, but she set her book aside and rose with a smooth, deliberate grace. “Very well,” she said lightly. “Lead the way, My Lord.”

He offered no arm, sensing that would make it feel too much like a parade. Instead, they walked side by side through the long corridor and out onto the lawn, the hush of their steps swallowed by the hum of the warm, golden afternoon.

The air smelled sweet of grass and lavender and the faint sharpness of the lemon cake laid out beneath the distant elms.

Bees busied themselves in the flowerbeds, and somewhere a blackbird sang its clear, bell-like song. Neither spoke much as they crossed the lawns. Words seemed unnecessary, even unwelcome against the gentle splendour of the gardens now fully alive around them.

They had almost reached the old elms when Eleanor’s foot caught in a stray root hidden beneath the grass. She stumbled, releasing a soft, surprised sound.

Nathaniel acted without thinking. He reached out and caught her, his hands grasping her waist firmly to steady her before she could fall. It was a brief touch, chaste even, but it immediately made Eleanor’s cheeks flush.

She glanced up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. “Thank you,” she managed to muster.

Nathaniel’s hands withdrew slowly as if he were reluctant to let go and unsure if he had the right to hold her longer. His mouth twisted into something almost like a smile, brief and rueful.

“Best keep your feet, madam,” he said lightly, his voice low but tinged with a warmth he could not quite suppress. “It would be a tragedy to have all my plans ruined by an untimely tumble.”

That unexpected, unscripted moment eased the stiffness between them, yet in its place came a new, more delicate tension, something unspoken but alive.

They walked on, a little closer now, neither speaking of what had just passed. Ahead, under the gentle shade of the elms, the simple scene awaited them: the linen cloth fluttering slightly in the breeze, the bottle of wine catching the sun, the inviting scatter of bread, chicken, apples, and cake.

Nathaniel allowed himself a small, private satisfaction.

It was not a grand gesture. It was not even an apology.

It was simply an offering.

All she needed to do now was accept it.