“There is something else,” she said.
Anne did not interrupt this time, allowing Eleanor to speak without prompting.
“The arrangement I entered into at the estate was always meant to be no more than exactly that,” Eleanor continued. “That has not changed. What has changed is my understanding of what it can and cannot become.”
“Has your husband given you a reason to leave?”
Eleanor did not soften it.
“He has given me reason not to remain. The choice was mine, so I made it.”
There was a brief silence, heavier than before, as each of them understood what she had chosen not to elaborate on. One of them exhaled quietly through her nose.
“Then he is a fool,” she said. “Though that does not help you much at present.”
“No,” Eleanor said. “It does not.”
After some time, Anne rose, breaking the intensity of the room with a quieter suggestion.
“We have spoken enough within these walls,” she said. “Come, we will walk. The air will do us more good than continued argument.”
There was no objection to that, and within minutes they had left the house behind, stepping out into the mild afternoon. The path they took was a familiar one, winding away from the house and through the surrounding grounds, the quiet of it offering space without demanding silence.
Their conversation did not end, but it softened, moving between lighter observations and quieter returns to the subject that still lingered beneath it. Eleanor found that she could speak more easily, not because the matter was less significant, but because it no longer pressed in quite the same way. She answered their questions, offered what explanations she could, and allowed herself, at moments, to simply listen.
It was only after some time, as they walked further from the house, that she became aware of something missing. The realization came quietly, without prompting, and settled into her thoughts with an unexpected weight.
Lily.
Eleanor slowed slightly, her gaze shifting without purpose, as though expecting to find the child nearby despite knowing she would not be. She had grown accustomed to her presence ina way she had not fully acknowledged, to the way she would appear without warning, eager for attention, for something as simple as her time.
Anne glanced at her, understanding more than Eleanor had said outright.
“You will miss the little girl,” she said.
Eleanor did not deny it. The admission was simple, but it carried more weight than she had intended. Of everything she was leaving behind, Lily had not been part of her reasoning, not something she had considered in the same way as the rest. The decision had been shaped by the need to step away from something that had proven itself uncertain, and yet the absence of such a sweet girl unsettled her in a way she had not anticipated.
“She will forget you quickly enough,” one of her friends said, not unkindly, but with a practicality that did not account for the full truth of it. “Children do. I am not trying to say that you were of no importance, of course, only that she will be alright in your absence.”
Eleanor felt selfish disagreeing, as though she were considering herself the most important person in Lily's life, but it was not far from the truth.
“I do not think she will,” she said. “Not immediately.”
Anne did not contradict her.
“And you will not forget her at all,” she sighed.
Eleanor said nothing to that, though the truth of it settled quietly into place. They continued walking, the conversation shifting once more, but the absence remained with her. She had made her decision, and she did not question it, but for the first time since leaving the estate, she became aware that what she was leaving behind was not as simple as she had allowed herself to believe. She was walking away from a little girl that did not deserve to be abandoned, and that tore her apart. She loved Lily.
And, in spite of how angry she was, she loved her husband too.
CHAPTER 28
Julian did not follow Eleanor when she left.
He stood where she had left him, one hand resting against the back of a chair, his thoughts moving slowly at first. What had just passed between them had been entirely within his control. He had said what he intended to say. He had corrected what should never have been allowed to blur. He had restored distance where there had been none.
That was what he told himself.