Page 21

“Hold still, My Lady,” Lucy murmured, her fingers deft at the back of Eleanor’s gown. “There. Perfect.”

Eleanor caught her own reflection in the mirror, a slim figure wrapped in dove-grey silk, plain as a morning mist. She could see no glittering jewels, no lace to soften the lines of her shoulders. Just herself, quiet and uncertain.

“I look like a ghost,” Eleanor said dryly, smoothing a hand over her skirts.

Lucy chuckled under her breath as she adjusted a loose curl at Eleanor’s temple. “Most certainly not. In fact, if this is what a ghost looks like, I would surely like to be one.”

“You are too kind.” Eleanor smiled back. Lucy’s words did make her feel a little bit better.

Despite everything, she wasn’t foolish enough to believe tonight would create some drastic change. But perhaps, if nothing else, it would fill another small part of the void that existed between her and her husband. And little by little, they might find their way to each other.

The clock on the mantle chimed half-past six, each note stretching thinly through the chamber.

“At least the duchess and the duke are dining elsewhere tonight,” Eleanor said, reaching for her gloves but ultimately deciding against them. “That alone is cause enough for optimism.”

Lucy gave a conspiratorial grin as she stepped back, folding her hands neatly. “No generals hovering over the battlefield,” she pointed out. “You’ll have the field to yourselves.”

Eleanor laughed softly, though her nerves were strung taut beneath the sound. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and gathered her composure like a cloak around her shoulders.

“Thank you, Lucy,” she told her maid. “You may go.”

When the door closed behind Lucy, Eleanor remained still for a long moment. She pressed a hand lightly to her abdomen as if she could steady the flutter there by sheer will.

Drawing a slow breath, Eleanor turned towards the door, her steps measured and light.

Downstairs, Nathaniel would be waiting. Or perhaps not waiting, she thought wryly.

But either way, she would go, because truce wasn’t always offered.

It was chosen, and this evening, just like the previous times, she herself would choose it.

When she stepped into the dining room shortly after, the hush of the space seemed to embrace her.

She was surprised to see a round table set in the centre, simply laid with gleaming china and soft linen.

Everything was set up just for two people.

She moved towards it, as her heart tapped an uneven rhythm against her ribs, which was part hope, part dread.

Then, the clock struck seven, and the door eased open. Nathaniel entered, with his dark green coat a sharp contrast to the pale walls and his hair still slightly wind-tousled as if he had come directly from the stables or the garden. He paused a moment when he saw her, then bowed.

“Eleanor,” he said her name as if reciting a poem.

Eleanor dipped a curtsy in return, simple and unpractised. “Nathaniel.”

Their eyes met for a brief moment, and neither of them seemed inclined to hide behind courtesy.

Instead, he moved towards her, pulling out her chair with a grace that made her chest tighten.

She smiled in gratitude. He returned it.

Then, she sat down, smoothing her skirts. He took the seat opposite her.

Dinner began with a rhythm that felt strangely companionable. Eleanor sipped her wine, the warmth curling through her slowly, as the first course was cleared and a lighter dish placed before them.

Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, studying her with a kind of quiet amusement.

“What are you reading now?” he asked, revealing a genuine interest she was beginning to recognize.

She smiled into her glass. “The Castle of Otranto,” she said lightly, setting the wine down.

One of his eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “Walpole?”

At her nod, he added, “Of all the books in this house, you chose a tale of ghosts and crumbling castles.”

“It is a good book,” she said primly, though the glint in her eye gave her away. “Far more lively than a treatise on botany or the histories of minor European monarchs.” She was teasing him, and he understood it.

Nathaniel grinned. “Well, all right. Tell me, then … do you believe in ghosts?”

Eleanor tilted her head, considering the question seriously. “I am not certain,” she said finally. “I cannot believe in something I have neither seen nor felt.”

He swirled the wine in his glass thoughtfully, then gave her an almost mischievous look.

“Well,” he said, leaning slightly closer across the table, “you may have a chance to experience it for yourself. You see, our wine cellar is haunted.”

She blinked, momentarily caught between amusement and suspicion. “You are jesting.”

“I assure you, I am not,” Nathaniel said, affecting a grave tone, though his eyes gleamed.

“When I was a boy, I ventured down there on a dare. It was late, and the lamps were nearly out. I swear I heard—” he paused for effect, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “—whispering. Soft and cold like a draught sliding along the stones.”

Eleanor smiled despite herself. “Perhaps it was just the wind.”

“That is what my father said,” Nathaniel agreed with mock solemnity. “Though he never explained the shadow I saw at the end of the corridor.”

She laughed, covering her mouth quickly. “You are making this up, admit it.”

“Am I?” He gave a theatrical shrug. “You may find out for yourself … if you dare.”

Eleanor set down her napkin with a small, decisive movement, her pulse quickening with the sort of reckless courage that had been stifled for too long. She looked across the table, meeting Nathaniel’s amused gaze.

“Is that a dare, then?” she asked, lifting her chin in challenge.

His mouth curved into a slow, mischievous smile. “I suppose it is,” he said simply.

She glanced at the table, at the remains of dinner barely touched, the fire crackling low behind them, and felt a sudden buoyancy rise in her chest.

“Then let us go,” she urged.

Nathaniel blinked. “Now?”

“Now,” she echoed.

For a moment, he looked as if he might argue, but then he gave a soft, disbelieving laugh and rose from his chair, offering her his arm. She took it, feeling his strong, warm line through the sleeve of his coat, and together they left the dining room behind.

The deeper into the house they went, the quieter it became. The wide, grand halls of Loxley gave way to narrower passages.

Eleanor kept her steps measured, though the heavy hush around them made her heart thrum faster.

At last, Nathaniel led her to a narrow stairwell tucked behind an unmarked door.

The stone steps spiralled downward into darkness.

The air was cooler here, and the scent of damp earth and old wood was stronger.

“Still willing?” he asked, almost in a whisper.

Eleanor lifted her skirts slightly and nodded. “Lead on, brave sir.”

They descended slowly. The wine cellar was not like the rest of Loxley’s polished interiors. It was old, older even than the house above.

The stones were uneven and worn, the ceiling low enough that Nathaniel had to duck. Rows upon rows of dusty bottles lined the walls in precarious wooden racks. A single lantern, carried by Nathaniel, threw trembling light over the scene, making the shadows dance and deepen.

The floor was packed earth, cold and gritty beneath her slippers. Somewhere in the far darkness, a drip of water echoed, irregular and sharp. Eleanor shivered, but not from the chill.

“Pleasant, is it not?” Nathaniel said with dry humour, lifting the lantern higher to reveal a long corridor stretching away into blackness.

“It is certainly … atmospheric,” she murmured.

They moved cautiously forward. Dust floated in the lantern’s beam. Around them, the silence pressed close, so thick that Eleanor could almost believe in the whispering voices Nathaniel had spoken of. Every creak of wood or settling of stone sounded loud enough to startle.

Eleanor paused, feeling a prickle along the back of her neck. “Did you feel that?” she whispered.

Nathaniel turned, his face half-lit, half-shadowed by the lantern. “The ghost grows bold,” he said gravely, though the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Despite herself, she smiled back. “If it is a ghost, then it shall find me a most stubborn opponent.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound rolling low in the hollow space. “I have no doubt.”

They moved deeper into the labyrinth of the cellar, past crumbling racks and great casks abandoned to dust. At last, Nathaniel slowed. He lifted the lantern high, casting long, swaying shadows across the low, arched ceiling.

“This,” he said, his voice reverberating against the stones, “is where I believe the ghost appeared.”

Eleanor turned a slow circle, studying the space. It looked no different from the rest of the cellar: dark, damp, faintly claustrophobic. Nothing sinister lurked in the corners, nothing stirred in the heavy gloom.

“It looks,” she said archly, “like any other badly lit and dismal place.”

She stepped backward, but as she did so, she bumped into him, not realizing that he had somehow appeared behind her. A moment later, she felt the warm touch of his hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, I … sorry …” she managed to muster, turning to him, and feeling completely tongue-tied as his cologne permeated her senses.

He lifted an amused eyebrow. “Just admit you are scared.”

She frowned playfully. “Never.”

Then, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he drew a breath and made a low, wailing sound, an exaggerated moan that echoed hauntingly off the stone walls.

Eleanor narrowed her eyes at him, unimpressed but unable to stop the smile tugging at her lips. “Now, that is really childish,” she muttered.

He grinned. But just as he fell silent, another sound shivered through the air. It was softer and almost a whisper. Eleanor stiffened, with her heart leaping into her throat.

“Stop it, Nathaniel,” she said sharply, taking a step back, closer to him.

He turned to face her. “But …” he said quietly, as his eyes darkened with something akin to concern. “That wasn’t me.”