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Eleanor burst into her chamber and slammed the door behind her, twisting the lock with trembling fingers. She stood there for a long moment, pressed against the wood as if bracing for someone to pound on the other side and demand entry. But no one came. No one ever did.

Her breath came in short, shuddering gasps.

Her chest ached as though her heart had been physically struck.

And then, without ceremony or resistance, she slid to the floor, as her silk skirts pooled around her like the trappings of a life she no longer recognized.

She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.

They were not silent, elegant tears, the sort her mother had instructed her. No. They were shaking, ragged sobs that came from the very depth of her broken soul.

She buried her face in her hands and cried until her throat burned and her eyes throbbed. Until her body felt like a shell scraped clean of dignity and pride, hollowed out by disappointment. It was not the scandal that broke her. Not the whispers or the stares.

It was Nathaniel. It was the way he’d looked at her as though he didn’t know her at all. As though she were some pawn who had strayed from her appointed square.

Did you ever even want me here?

She had asked, needing to know, hoping so foolishly for some sign of tenderness beneath his anger. But there had been nothing, but silence, the kind of silence that confirmed everything she feared.

She loved him.

God help her, she loved him.

And he would never choose her.

He might admire her composure. He might respect her lineage. He might even take pride in her performance as Lady Loxley. But he would not choose her. Not in a way that mattered. Not in the way a man should choose his wife: with heart, intention, and devotion.

The pain of it cleaved her open. Again and again.

She thought of his hand on her arm that night in the garden. Of how his smile had made her hope. Of how he had stood with her in the library and told her he trusted her.

Those fleeting moments flickered now like dying candlelight, each one extinguished by the way he had looked at her today in that accusatory and cold manner.

She curled up on the cold floor, her cheek pressed to the smooth rug, and let the sorrow consume her.

In the darkest part of the morning, she whispered once, to no one in particular, “I would rather live alone … in disgrace … than stay married to a man who will never love me.”

It wasn’t a bold declaration of independence. It was a surrender.

And yet, somehow, even then … something small stirred. The memory of his hand brushing hers. The flicker of warmth in his voice when he forgot to be cautious. Hope. Foolish, unwanted hope. But the door remained shut. The hall remained silent. And reality returned.

A bit later, it was mid-morning, though Eleanor couldn’t have said for certain. The windows remained shuttered, the fire had long since gone out, and the hours bled together in a haze of grief.

She sat curled in the corner of a chaise, with her eyes red and her limbs leaden. The weight in her chest had not eased. It only seemed to settle deeper, as though it intended to stay.

Then, she heard a knock on the door. At first, she thought she imagined it. It was so soft and tentative. She didn’t move. But that only caused another knock. And then, a gentle and urgent whisper.

“Lady Loxley … please open.”

Eleanor closed her eyes. For a moment, she considered staying silent. Letting whoever it was go away and take the day with them. But the voice came again, careful and familiar.

“It’s Lucy.”

She hesitated. Lucy would not force her way in, even if the doors were unlocked. She would knock again and then leave. But something in Eleanor, some thin thread of instinct, uncoiled just enough to move her feet across the floor. She unlocked the door and stepped back.

Lucy entered quickly and quietly as if afraid of what she might find. Her eyes widened the moment they landed on Eleanor. The dishevelled dress. The swollen face. The haunted, sleepless stare. She clutched a bundle of linens to her chest and then seemed to forget them entirely.

“Oh, My Lady,” she whispered, setting the bundle down. “Are you–”

“I will be,” Eleanor said, her voice hoarse, dry from hours of crying and silence. She turned away, walking back towards the cold hearth as if to prove it. “I will be.”

Lucy didn’t press her. But she hovered nearby, her expression furrowed with concern. “Would you like some tea? A bath, perhaps? I can send for—”

“No,” Eleanor said softly, shaking her head. “Not yet.”

Lucy hesitated. “Shall I … stay a moment?”

There was kindness in the offer, and it stung more than anything Eleanor had felt since the last conversation she’d had. She shook her head again, more gently this time. “Thank you, Lucy. I just need … a little while longer.”

The maid nodded. But she didn’t leave right away. She smoothed the blankets at the foot of the bed. She adjusted the fire screen. She did all those small tasks that allowed her to remain in the room without asking for more than Eleanor could give.

“I expect you’ve heard,” Eleanor said quietly, with her eyes still fixed on the dark grate of the fireplace.

Lucy stilled, her back to her. “People talk, My Lady. Especially when they shouldn’t.”

Eleanor gave a hollow laugh. “So it’s true. It’s already spread.”

Lucy turned. “It doesn’t matter what they say. Anyone with sense knows you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Eleanor looked up at her, and the devastation in her eyes was like a blow. “I’m not sure my husband agrees.”

Lucy took a step forward, but Eleanor offered her a faint, tired smile. “Go on, now. Before someone wonders where you’ve gone.”

The maid hesitated again. She was clearly reluctant but gave a small curtsy and obeyed. When the door closed behind her, Eleanor stood alone again in silence. She inhaled deeply, feeling a dire need for some fresh air.

She proceeded to walk over to the window, welcoming the chill of the morning air brushing against her skin as soon as she unlatched the panes. She needed the kind of air that might clear the fog of her mind, if only for a brief moment.

Then, she noticed something. Below, on the gravel drive, a carriage had just pulled up. She narrowed her eyes, trying to make out the crest on the side, but it was obscured by shadow and the movement of the footmen. Whoever it was had clearly already entered the house.

She stepped back, drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

Let them come, she thought. I will not go down for anyone—not today.

Unless … unless it was Charlotte. For her, she might make an exception.

A knock startled her. It was sharper this time, more certain. Her breath caught. She crossed the room quickly, hope rising like a stubborn flame. She opened the door, only to find Lucy there again.

Eleanor’s heart dipped, but she managed a small smile. “Yes?”

Lucy looked troubled, as her hands clasped before her. “Mr Pembroke is here to see you, My Lady.”

The words hit like cold water. Eleanor froze, stunned.

“He asked for me?” she repeated as if the meaning might shift with repetition.

“I told him you were indisposed,” Lucy said, apologetic. “That you weren’t seeing visitors. But he insisted. He … handed me this.”

From the folds of her apron, Lucy produced a folded note, cream paper sealed only by the pressure of its own fold. Eleanor hesitated, then reached out and took it.

Her name was written across the front in Arthur’s familiar hand. No title. Just her name. She unfolded it carefully.

Eleanor,

Please, let me explain. There is something you should know.

A long breath escaped her lips. She stood very still, while Lucy waited patiently.

“Help me get ready,” Eleanor said quietly. “I’ll go down.”

The maid gave a brisk nod and moved to gather fresh garments and brush out her mistress’s hair. As Lucy worked, Eleanor sat in front of the mirror.

She gazed at her own reflection, pale and drawn, but somehow steadier now. Her hands rested clenched in her lap, with the note still folded between her fingers. For some reason, she refused to let go of it.

She didn’t know what Arthur wanted to say. She didn’t know if she even wanted to hear it. But she would face him. She would hear the truth, whatever it might be.

Because something cracked last night. And if she didn’t understand how deep the fissure ran, she feared she might never find solid ground again.