Page 37

After the fall, the world shrank.

The days moved slowly, measured not by bells or correspondence or calls from cousins, but by the quiet clink of tea trays, the murmured tones of Lucy or the physician, the creak of the old floorboards outside her chamber door, the wind whispering through the hedges in the garden below.

Morning brought pale sunlight and birdsong; evening brought lamplight and silence. It was a different rhythm, one of stillness, of healing, of being.

Eleanor lay within it like a leaf borne on water.

Her ankle remained bound, her wrist splinted in linen and ashwood, her movements tentative and small. Pain dulled from sharpness to ache. Her pride was bruised, but fortunately not broken, only coloured in shades she did not care to name.

At first, the confinement chafed. The quiet pressed in like a scold. She’d always moved quickly, spoken clearly, fought to be seen and heard.

Now, she could do neither. Her body rebelled when she tried to sit too long or rise too fast. Her thoughts, at first, followed suit, revealing themselves as restless, defensive, aching with unfinished conversations and unshed tears.

But slowly and almost imperceptibly, something shifted.

There were no expectations here. No duties to perform, no roles to maintain. There was only rest. And silence. And breath.

And Nathaniel …

He came every morning, not as the Marquess of Loxley, not as the man who had once spoken to her in cold half-sentences and veiled expressions, but simply as himself. He never announced his arrival. He never made her ask.

Sometimes he brought tea, steeped just the way she liked it, with a whisper of rose. Sometimes he carried books, her favourites, or ones she’d once mentioned in passing and forgotten. A slim volume of poetry. A battered collection of travel essays. A French novel, soft-spined and dog-eared.

He did not hover, however.

He helped her sit more comfortably, adjusting the pillows behind her with a carefulness that made her throat tighten. He brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen into her eyes without remark. He noticed when she winced and shifted her leg with a gentleness that bordered on reverence.

And always, his hands were careful. His voice was low. His presence was a constant rhythm, one she had never known to associate with him, and now could not imagine being without.

He did not speak of the fall. He did not revisit old wounds with apologies or reassurances. He simply stayed.

And in that quiet, Eleanor found something she had not expected: peace. Not the peace of resolution, nor even of forgiveness, but the deep, aching relief of not being alone. He came to her not out of duty, but devotion, not because he had to, but because he could not do otherwise.

And though her body ached and her spirit still bore the cracks of past hurts, she found herself watching the door each morning, waiting for the quiet sound of his boots against the wood, the soft creak of the latch, the scent of linen and cedar.

Nathaniel. Not completely changed, but becoming someone she had always wanted, she had always needed.

One golden morning, Eleanor lay curled on the chaise in her sitting room, with her injured foot propped upon a velvet cushion and a light shawl draped across her lap.

The windows stood open to the garden, allowing a late-summer breeze to drift in. It carried the faint rustle of leaves and the distant trill of a blackbird.

She was not thinking of anything in particular. The idle luxury of the hour allowed her mind to drift, utterly unburdened. The book in her lap remained unopened, one finger marking her place though she had no real intention of returning to it.

The door opened softly, and Nathaniel entered, carrying a tray.

She blinked in a startled manner, not because he was here (he always was, now), but because of what he held.

A porcelain pot of hot chocolate, thick, dark, and laced with cinnamon, accompanied by a plate of almond biscuits, each one dusted with sugar.

It was just the way she liked them. She stared a moment longer than she meant to.

“Did I even mention them to you?” she enquired quietly, as he set the tray on the low table.

“You only mentioned it once,” he replied, pouring with careful precision. “But I listened.”

He handed her a cup, the scent rising in gentle steam. She took it, her fingers brushing his, and the warmth of his touch seeping into her palms.

Instead of retreating to the window, as he so often did, he sat beside her. The cushions shifted under his weight. Their legs brushed. She did not pull away. Instead, she sipped in silence. He did the same.

The conversation came easily, drifting from the roses that had begun to bloom again, to a debate over the merits of blank verse versus rhymed couplets. It was light, inconsequential, and yet she felt the tether of it, each word gently binding her back to the world.

She tilted her head, teasing, “You only ever read poetry for appearance’s sake. Admit it.”

A slow, wry smile curved his mouth. “Once, perhaps. It made for passable conversation.”

“And now?”

“Now,” he said, looking into his cup, “I find I listen for the emotion. For what is not said outright.”

She turned towards him, studying his face. The hard lines she’d once thought immovable had softened. The corners of his eyes creased differently when he smiled now. There was a gentleness in him that had not been there before. A quiet that was no longer cold, but full.

He did not speak like a man performing, nor look like one watching himself be watched. He was present. Entirely so.

“You’ve changed,” she murmured before she could stop herself.

He glanced at her, brows lifting just slightly. “Have I?”

She nodded. “You used to sit like you were preparing for battle. Every conversation a calculated manoeuvre.”

He looked amused and not in the dismissive way he once might have been. “You were always too clever for me.”

“True,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting. “But you’re catching up.”

His answering smile was small, but it reached his eyes. The sunlight spilled over them both, warm and golden, dappling his sleeve, her blanket, and the tray between them. The breeze stirred again, lifting the edge of her shawl, carrying the scent of almonds and the garden beyond.

They had forgiven each other, and they were growing closer with each passing day, yet, she still felt that something was missing.

***

In the dim hush of late afternoon, Nathaniel sat alone in his study. His hand rested atop the desk, fingers curled around the small golden locket he had kept hidden in his drawer for years.

It was unassuming at first glance: oval, delicate, etched with ivy leaves so fine they could have been spun from breath. Yet in his palm, it felt impossibly heavy. Not for its weight, though, but for what it meant.

He had told Eleanor only part of the story. She knew the version one shared in careful fragments, behind a measured voice and a diplomat’s smile.

The version shaped to spare pain, both hers and his. But that restraint no longer served them. She had laid herself bare before him. And he would not meet her honesty with silence.

He rose, pocketed the locket, and left the study.

The corridor outside her chamber was hushed.

The house had quieted with the fall of twilight, the entire household drifting into that uncertain space between dinner and dreams. His footfalls were soundless over the carpet runner.

When he reached her door, he paused … not out of uncertainty, but reverence.

He knocked. It was Lucy who answered, candle in hand. Her expression was wary, protectiveness writ plain across her features. She gave him a long, guarded look, then stepped aside without a word. He inclined his head in a sign of gratitude and entered.

Eleanor didn’t ask why he had come, nor did she dismiss him. Instead, she smiled and merely gestured at the chair beside her bed. He sat.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The fire crackled softly in the grate. Outside the windows, the wind stirred the branches of the Linden trees. Then he reached into his coat and drew forth the locket. It lay in his hand like a question long avoided.

“I need to share something with you,” he said, his voice quiet but unwavering. “Something I probably should have done sooner.”

And the entire room held its breath.