The man bowed. “My Lady.”
August introduced her to the others: Mrs. Finch, the housekeeper, with the set jaw and kind eyes of a woman who could smother a fire with one hand and a scandal with the other; the cook; a mountain of a woman named Mrs. Hadley, who looked her up and down and gave a curt nod; a trio of senior maids who curtsied in perfect unison.
Eliza answered each greeting with composure. She knew her performance was under scrutiny, but after the morning’s events, this felt almost trivial.
As the staff dispersed, August lingered in the foyer.
He removed his gloves, flicked them once, then said, “I am needed in the study. Estate business.”
She inclined her head. “Of course.”
He looked as if he wished to say something else but thought better of it. Instead, he nodded—an awkward, almost boyish gesture—and strode off, his footsteps absorbed by the thick carpets.
Mrs. Finch appeared at her side. “If My Lady will follow me, I will show you to your rooms.”
Eliza said, “Thank you, Mrs. Finch.” She ascended the grand staircase, running her fingers along the polished banister. The walls were lined with portraits of Vestieres past—generals, parliamentarians, the occasional philanthropist. The effect was mildly overwhelming, but Eliza catalogued them as she had always done with new places: as objects to be analyzed, not traps to be sprung.
The chambers themselves were splendid, larger than her entire childhood nursery. A bay window overlooked the gardens, sunlight catching on the silver of the dressing table. There were no flowers, but the arrangement of books and decanters suggested a respect for both learning and comfort.
Mrs. Finch cleared her throat. “The footmen will bring your trunk presently. If there is anything?—”
“I will ring,” Eliza said.
The woman curtsied and left.
Eliza stood in the center of the rug, unmoving. She tried to imagine herself in this space: writing letters, directing staff, standing beside August at some future, equally incomprehensible gathering.
She moved to the window and set her palm against the glass. The gardens below were empty but for the peacocks, now embroiled in a standoff.
Her own reflection stared back at her, pale and determined. She wondered if this was the moment when the old self was meant to die, or if it would instead be smothered, gradually, beneath layers of silk and good intentions.
I will not vanish, she promised herself.Not into this house, not into this marriage, not even into their laughter.
Below, a figure emerged from the stables. August, coat off, sleeves rolled, conferring with the groundskeeper. The picture of capability as always.
She smoothed down her wedding dress, savoring the crisp lines, the refusal of the fabric to yield. She set her jaw and watched him, unblinking.
We will both be changed by this. I will see to it.
Five
“Denton, I require a miracle or a brandy, whichever comes to hand first,” August said as he handed his coat to the waiting butler. His feet could barely carry him from exhaustion.
“Welcome home, My Lord.” Denton gestured at a footman who stepped forward with a decanter and a tumbler upon a tray, ready for service.
“And—my wife? She dined?” He accepted a glass and started toward his study.
“She did, My Lord.” Denton’s gaze moved not so much to the side as into another dimension. “Her Ladyshiphad a solitary dinner in the blue dining room. She was attended by myself and Mrs. Finch and requested nothing further.”
August digested this or tried to. He felt a small, mean squirm in the hollow of his stomach—a thing remarkably like remorse. “Of course.”
“Is there anything you require tonight?” Denton offered. “If His Lordship wishes supper, Cook has set aside?—”
“Not necessary.” August shook his head. “I am fit for nothing but the sweet embrace of my own bed.”
Denton bowed. “Shall I send for anything to your chambers?”
August willed the smile to reach his mouth. “Perhaps a new life, but failing that, no.”