August was prepared for silence when he entered the breakfast room or even hostility, but he most certainly was not prepared for absence.
The long table, set with its blue-and-white porcelain and pyramids of toast, was entirely devoid of Eliza.
He scanned the room, certain she might materialize from the wallpaper if he blinked. She did not. Only the footman hovered in the corner, ready to replenish anything that required it.
August set himself at the head of the table, the chair scraping a single, accusatory note against the polished floor. He poured tea, applied a criminal amount of sugar, and waited.
Still no Eliza.
After a full ten minutes of contemplating the merits of solitary consumption, he finally relented and summoned Denton, who materialized in the threshold, hands folded behind his back.
“Where is the Marchioness?” August asked, pretending not to care.
Denton inclined his head. “I am not certain, My Lord. She has not been seen since last evening.”
August felt some annoyance, followed by something sharper. “Is she unwell?”
“I believe not, My Lord.” Denton hesitated. “Mrs. Finch might know more. She brought tea to the Her Ladyship’s room at dawn.”
August nodded curtly. “Send her to me.”
He did not wait for breakfast to finish. Instead, he paced the length of the dining room then cut through the drawing room to the main hall where Mrs. Finch was already waiting, apron immaculate, hair gathered in a formidable bun.
“My Lord,” she curtsied, “how may I assist?”
“Has the Marchioness made a habit of disappearing before breakfast?” August tried for dry amusement; it landed as accusation.
“Not as I am aware.” Mrs. Finch’s voice was neutral, but her eyes darted to the side. “There was a note, My Lord.”
August’s eyebrows did a dramatic climb. “A note.”
She produced it from her apron, folded once and sealed with a half-hearted crease.
He broke it open and read:
Gone for a walk. Will return before luncheon.
—Marchioness of Barrington
He folded the note twice then handed it back. “Did she indicate where she would be walking?”
“She did not, My Lord, but I am told she favors the west garden.”
August dismissed Mrs. Finch and stood in the hall, unmoored by the notion that his own wife had eluded him before the day had even begun.
He went to his study and tried to focus on estate business but found himself staring at the clock every third minute. The minutes conspired against him; by eleven, he had circled the house twice under the pretense of ‘inspecting repairs,’ but had not caught a single glimpse of her.
He thought of last night: the music, her silhouette in the doorway, the brief moment of… what? Communion? Or only challenge? He remembered the words she’d spoken—honesty, sadness, war—and felt, with rising horror, that he had already lost something to her and could not articulate what it was.
At exactly eleven forty-eight, he heard the front doors open, followed by the muffled thump of boots on the entry rug.
He emerged from his study just in time to see Eliza in the act of removing her outer coat. Her hair was windblown, cheeks pink with cold, and her shoes were a disgrace to civilization.
Denton stood by, holding a towel and looking profoundly concerned for the integrity of the flooring.
“I am sorry, Denton,” Eliza was saying, “I should have taken the garden path. But I doubt even gravel could have saved me from this—” she lifted a foot, revealing a boot caked in black mud.
Denton’s lips twitched. “It is of little matter, My Lady. The boots will survive.”