She took August’s note from the escritoire and handed it to the housekeeper. “See that he receives it.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
She turned and looked at the staircase now. Morning light was beginning to creep through the windows, painting the marble steps in shades of gray and gold. Beautiful. Elegant. The home she had thought she might be building with him.
She reached out and touched the banister. The wood was smooth and cool beneath her palm, worn by generations of hands that had gripped it before hers.
She had begun to think of this place as home. Had begun to imagine herself belonging here, not as an obligation or a convenience but as something real.
She straightened her shoulders and pulled her hand away.
In the carriage, Eliza kept her eyes forward, watching the road ahead, even as her chest constricted painfully. She blindly watched the morning mist curl around the trees lining the drive then the gates approach and then pass as they rolled through and onto the main road.
The life she had begun to hope might become real faded, becoming insubstantial and impossible as it had always been.
Thirty-Four
August pushed through the breakfast room doors and squeezed the bridge of his nose hard enough that spots danced behind his closed eyelids. Sleep had not come. Again. He had spent the night staring at his ceiling, listening to the house settle around him, waiting for dawn. Now dawn had come and gone, and he was late. Eliza would be waiting.
But when he lowered his hand and opened his eyes, only Denton stood by the sideboard. Mrs. Finch hovered near the door, her hands folded at her waist. No Eliza.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Denton said.
August moved to his usual chair. The one across from him sat empty, the place setting untouched. Perhaps she had already eaten. Perhaps she was in the garden, or the library, or?—
“Your Grace.” Mrs. Finch approached, extending a folded piece of paper. “Her Grace asked me to give you this.”
He took it. The paper felt ordinary in his hands—good quality, the sort Eliza used for her correspondence. His name was written on the outside. He broke the seal and unfolded the note.
Wildmoore,
I find I am in need of a brief respite from the demands of recent weeks. With your permission, I shall visit Lady Hartwell for a fortnight. I believe the change of scenery will do me good.
Please do not trouble yourself over my absence. I am certain you have more than enough to occupy your attention.
Eliza
He read it again. The words did not change. Brief. Formal. The sort of note one might write to a distant relative, not one’s husband.
With your permission.As though she needed to ask. As though they were strangers operating under some strict set of rules about propriety and distance.
He folded the note and looked up at Mrs. Finch. “When did she leave?”
“Early this morning, Your Grace. Before dawn. She took the small carriage.”
Before dawn. While he had been lying awake in his chambers, separated from her by a hallway and a lifetime of careful walls he had built around himself, she had been packing. Leaving.
“Thank you, Mrs. Finch. That will be all.”
The housekeeper curtsied and withdrew. Denton followed, closing the door with a soft click that seemed too loud in the quiet room.
August sat. The chair across from him remained empty. He stared at it for a moment then reached for the teapot. The tea was still warm. He poured a cup and added milk, watching the white cloud billow and dissipate in the dark liquid.
It is perfectly natural she would visit Lady Hartwell. A fortnight apart after the strain of recent weeks made perfect sense.
He lifted the cup and sipped. The tea had begun to cool, the temperature not quite right. He drank it anyway.
She needed space. Distance. After everything with Lady Wilhampton, after the maid’s betrayal, after the letters?—