Page 19

Eleanor slowed as they reached the little clearing beneath the elms. She turned to Nathaniel with a mixture of astonishment and something warmer stirring inside her.

“Is this … for me?” she asked, almost not trusting her voice.

He gave a small, crooked smile, as his hands casually rested behind his back.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I thought you might enjoy a breath of fresh air. Away from the … stifling atmosphere of Loxley House.”

Eleanor said nothing, but something in her expression, an unguarded softness and silent relief spoke louder than any words could have.

Instead, she inclined her head with careful grace. “Thank you, My Lord. It is most thoughtful.”

She smiled then, a true smile, and lowered herself carefully onto the blanket, smoothing her skirts around her. The grass was cool beneath the linen, and the shade of the great trees danced lightly over them both.

Nathaniel lowered himself opposite her, crossing his legs and reaching for the wine bottle without ceremony. Eleanor, for a moment, closed her eyes, feeling the soft warmth of the sun on her face, the fresh air teasing strands of hair at her temples.

It was peace. Fragile and momentary, but real.

When she opened her eyes again, she found Nathaniel watching her with an expression of rare stillness, as if he were seeing something he could not name.

She shifted slightly, brushing an invisible crease from her skirt to distract herself. “This was a wonderful idea,” she confessed, her voice lighter than she had intended. “It is … lovely to be here.”

Nathaniel’s brows lifted, and there was a glint of something teasing in his words. “Here? Or here … with me?”

Eleanor felt the blood rise unbidden to her cheeks. She ducked her head for a moment, gathering herself, then lifted her gaze to meet his steadily, if shyly.

“Both, My Lord,” she said, with quiet honesty.

Nathaniel leaned back on one hand, stretching his legs out before him in an unguarded sprawl. He tilted his head, studying her with an expression somewhere between amusement and thoughtfulness.

“Tell me, My Lady,” he said in that dry, teasing tone she was beginning to recognize, “is it not a touch absurd that we persist in addressing one another like characters from an overly solemn novel?”

Eleanor gave a soft snort, biting back a smile. “I do not know, My Lord,” she said, lifting her chin with faux primness. “Is it?”

Nathaniel’s grin flickered to life, warm and quick. “You tell me,” he challenged gently.

Eleanor brushed her skirts and tucked her legs neatly beneath her. The playful glint in his eye disarmed her more than all his formal courtesies ever had.

“I suppose,” she replied slowly, “that it is rather strange … considering.”

“Considering that we are, by law and proclamation, husband and wife,” Nathaniel finished her sentence.

She ducked her head, smiling into her lap. “When you put it so plainly, it does seem rather ridiculous,” she admitted.

He shifted, leaning forward slightly. “Then perhaps, Eleanor,” he pronounced her name deliberately, almost as if savouring the unfamiliar weight of it, “you might consider calling me Nathaniel.”

She raised her eyes to meet his, steady and clear. A breeze caught at the edge of her shawl, and she did not reach to fix it.

“Very well,” she said, a little breathless, a little daring. “Nathaniel.”

He inclined his head with mock solemnity. “And I may call you Eleanor?”

“You already have,” she pointed out, lifting one eyebrow with such mischief that he laughed aloud.

The moment stretched between them, light as spun sugar but somehow sturdy enough to carry weight if they allowed it.

“I am reading you just like you are reading those books late into the night when you ought to be sleeping,” she suddenly heard him say. “Do not try to deny it. The faint glow beneath your chamber door gives you away.”

She laughed in a soft, musical sound she had not realized she was still capable of making at Loxley House. “You spy on me, Nathaniel?” she enquired in mock shock.

He, in turn, arched a brow in mock seriousness. “I merely observe. Just like I noticed you frown when you think.”

This time, she seemed startled, but that half smile was still there. “I do not.”

“You do. This little line,” he said, tapping his own brow above the bridge of his nose, “it appears whenever you are scheming improvements or debating with yourself whether the rose bushes ought to be removed.”

She blushed and laughed again, tossing a blade of grass in his direction. “And I have noticed,” she said with mock primness, “that you are quite hopeless at concealing when you are amused. Your left dimple gives you away dreadfully.”

The breeze ruffled Eleanor’s skirts as she leaned back slightly on her hands, feeling the earth warm beneath the linen. She could hardly remember the last time she had spoken so freely, so simply, without measuring each word against expectation.

“Some wine?” Nathaniel offered.

“Please,” she nodded.

He poured them each a glass of wine with surprising ease, as though he had long been accustomed to informal pleasures, though she suspected he rarely allowed himself such indulgences now.

She accepted the glass with a murmur of thanks, feeling the sun-warmed crystal against her palm. Nathaniel passed her a plate with slices of cold roast chicken and tart apple, then helped himself, settling opposite her with a look that was expectant but not pressing.

For a few moments, they ate in companionable silence, broken only by the whisper of the breeze through the elms and the occasional cheerful chirp of a bird.

Eleanor had not realized how much noise the house made. All those boots on polished floors, the ticking of clocks, the heavy doors closing softly, there was so much noise, and only now did she realize it when she was away from it. Out here, there was only air and sun and the rustle of leaves.

“You know, there are so many chambers here that have been falling into utter decay, which is quite a shame,” Eleanor pointed out. “I was wondering, if perhaps, you might allow me the freedom to breathe life into them once again.”

While it was true that the garden room was her primary focus now, she wondered if her influence might spread out into other areas of the house she inhabited now.

Nathaniel watched her silently, just listening. Eleanor felt herself flushing under that gaze, and so she faltered, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

“But,” she said, more quietly, “if that would be disagreeable … if your mother—”

“My mother,” he interrupted, his tone dry but not unkind, “believes Loxley House is perfect precisely because it has not changed since her own girlhood.”

Eleanor hesitated, unsure whether that was permission or a warning.

Nathaniel leaned back on one hand, letting the other toss the shredded blade of grass aside. “I think,” he said, his mouth tilting into something close to a smile, “that change might be exactly what Loxley House needs.”

The words, so simply spoken, settled over Eleanor like a balm. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, feeling an unexpected surge of something close to gratitude.

She looked at him, steady and unguarded. “Then I shall begin tomorrow,” she said softly.

“Such a decisive plan,” Nathaniel said, brushing his palms against his knees as he rose slightly on one elbow. His voice had that teasing drawl again, one that Eleanor was learning to recognize as a sign he was at ease. “Surely such boldness demands a celebration.”

She tilted her head, smiling despite herself. “A celebration?”

He gave a solemn nod, though there was mischief dancing in his eyes. “Cake. More cake, to be precise.”

Smiling, she watched as he reached for the little basket and, with exaggerated care, produced two plates. He cut generous slices of the remaining lemon cake, the knife glinting in the dappled light. Eleanor accepted her plate with mock gravity.

“A feast indeed,” she nodded.

They ate companionably, the tart-sweet flavour of the cake bright against the soft warmth of the afternoon.

Just as Nathaniel was cutting a final shared slice between them, there was a sudden rustling from the shrubbery.

Out burst Percival, tail curled high with the proud determination of a knight charging into battle.

“Percival …” Nathaniel warned, but it was too late.

With a victorious snort, the pug launched himself towards Nathaniel’s hand and, before either of them could react, snatched the last, perfect piece of lemon cake right from Nathaniel’s fingers.

For a heartbeat, there was stunned silence. Then Eleanor’s laughter spilled out, bright and ringing, with her hand flying to her chest as she doubled forward, unable to contain it. Tears welled in her eyes, her whole face transformed by unrestrained joy.

Percival, meanwhile, had plopped himself proudly onto the blanket, the stolen cake crumbling into his jowls with smug satisfaction.

“You are a menace,” Eleanor gasped between peals of laughter, reaching to scoop the pug up into her arms, heedless of the crumbs now scattering everywhere.

With the last crumbs of the cake claimed by Percival, and the sun beginning its slow, golden descent towards the horizon, Eleanor gathered the empty plates into the basket, smiling to herself as she worked. Nathaniel shook out the linen cloth with a practised snap and folded it neatly.

There was no need for words as a comfortable quiet had fallen between them, threaded with occasional glances and half-smiles. Percival trotted importantly between them, wholly unrepentant, his little paws leaving faint prints on the grass.

As they set off towards the house, Eleanor found herself walking close enough to Nathaniel that their sleeves brushed now and again. It was nothing but a mere trifle, yet it made her heart lift strangely in her chest each time it happened.

When they reached the steps leading up to the side terrace, Nathaniel paused, setting the basket down carefully on a stone bench.

“I will see that this is returned,” he said, brushing his hands lightly. “You need not trouble yourself further.”

Eleanor nodded, smoothing her skirts. For a moment, they simply stood there, neither quite ready to retreat into the walls of Loxley House and the weight of its unspoken expectations.

“Thank you,” she said softly, meaning not just for the afternoon but for everything, most importantly for seeing her.

His lips curved in a quiet smile, the kind that seemed to live only at the corner of his mouth. “It was long overdue.”

She felt her cheeks warm, but this time she did not shy away from it. Together, they crossed the threshold back into the house, side by side, still not touching, still cautious, but not quite strangers anymore.