Chapter Thirty
The west wing of Sommer Castle smelled faintly of beeswax, rain-damp stone, and the lingering sharpness of dried lavender. Though much of the grand estate remained shuttered and silent, one sun-drenched chamber had been coaxed into life.
A long table stretched beneath the tall, mullioned windows, its surface hidden beneath bolts of ribbon, ledgers, sealed envelopes, and a precarious stack of plate samples long since declared unsuitable and forgotten.
Leticia stood near the hearth, her gloves tucked into one hand, the other resting against a stack of guest lists she had already reviewed twice. She did not belong, and this room offered no answer.
Across from her, Lady Eastbury sat with the poise of a woman who had once overseen the seating of three dukes and a bishop at a christening breakfast. She made notations in a small book, spectacles low on her nose, her pen gliding in firm, efficient strokes.
At the head of the table, Mrs. Bainbridge swept into motion like a small but determined storm cloud, opening boxes and lifting lids with theatrical flair.
“Three cakes,” Mrs. Bainbridge declared. “And I refuse to be told I can’t have all three. If Barrington has opinions, he may air them to the almond torte.”
Leticia glanced over, lips twitching.
Lady Eastbury didn’t look up. “He does object to almonds. Says they remind him of barracks soap.”
“Then he’s eating the apricot,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “But I am choosing the almond.”
She carved neat slices from each and passed the forks with decisive intent. Leticia tasted the apricot first. It was warm, soft, with a jam-like sweetness that made her smile. The taste took her back to late summer afternoons, before the world had shifted underfoot.
“The apricot,” she said quietly.
“The almond,” said her aunt as she dabbed at the corner of her mouth.
Mrs. Bainbridge grinned in triumph. “Almond it is. And pears in claret jelly for Lady Northwood, Barrington’s mother. She claims they aid digestion.”
“She also says they repel scandal,” Lady Eastbury added dryly.
Leticia looked up then, her smile thin but genuine. “We should serve them in buckets.”
Laughter softened the edges of the room.
They moved on to flowers. A cloth-bound book of pressed samples was laid open between them, fragile petals preserved beside penciled sketches.
Mrs. Bainbridge leaned over Leticia’s shoulder, rattling off names with delight: autumn roses, sprigs of yew, orange-tipped leaves, something oddly labeled spiked foxbrush.
Leticia reached for a tiny myrtle blossom before she realized her hand had moved.
“Your mother’s favorite,” Lady Eastbury said softly.
Leticia nodded, turned the page. “It suited her.”
Silence followed, the hush of remembered things, broken only by the rustle of skirts and the arrival of Mrs. Pembroke, the seamstress, her arms full of silk.
“Final fitting,” she announced.
“Now we shall see if I can still breathe in silk,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, vanishing behind the screen with an energy that bordered on dangerous.
Leticia stepped in to help when called, tightening the back laces, adjusting the neckline, and folding the hem slightly at the edge. When Mrs. Bainbridge emerged, the room stilled.
The gown shimmered pearl-gray, the embroidery catching the sunlight in quiet defiance. It was elegant, poised, and entirely her.
Leticia stared.
Mrs. Bainbridge turned, hands on her hips. “Well?”
Leticia’s throat ached. “It’s perfect.”
Mrs. Pembroke smiled. “A dress should suit the heart of the woman who wears it. This one does.”
Leticia turned away before her expression could betray her.
They returned to the table, that last round of names waiting. Mrs. Bainbridge sifted through the envelopes, Leticia read the names aloud, and her aunt made elegant ticks beside each one with tidy precision.
“Lady Lennox and the Duke.”
“Marvelous,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “If she behaves, she’ll only insult three people. Four if the music offends her.”
“Lord Ellington and Lady Edythe.”
“Lovely woman. She has such kind eyes.”
Leticia continued. “The Baron and Baroness of Grenville. The Viscount and Viscountess Hollingsworth. Lord and Lady Rockford. Oh, and here is the response from Marquess and Marchioness of Glenraven.”
Lady Eastbury looked up. “Barrington’s entire brigade will be present.”
“And the ladies graduates from the Sommer-by-the-Sea Female Seminary,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “All of them. I’m absurdly proud.”
Leticia managed a faint nod. Each name fell with quiet finality. These were women she had once met in bright rooms scented with ink and tea. The days then had felt hopeful rather than fragile. Now they would be guests at a wedding.
“And the Duchess of Herridge?” Lady Eastbury asked.
“Regrets,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “Gout.”
Leticia murmured, “She’s consistent.”
Gentle laughter fluttered through the room. Then Mrs. Bainbridge’s tone softened. “And what will you wear to this evening’s soiree, my dear?”
Leticia straightened the ledgers, fingertips resting on the paper’s edge. “I’m not attending.”
Silence fell, not sharp, but heavy.
Lady Eastbury looked up. “No?”
“I’ve made plans to visit friends in Alnwick.”
Mrs. Bainbridge stilled. Not abruptly, but with that careful sort of stillness that comes when hope is put on hold. “I see. I wish you a peaceful visit.”
Leticia nodded, though the motion was brittle. She excused herself with polite phrases and collected the fabric samples from the end of the table, tying them with a loose ribbon. The conversation behind her drifted onto menus, music, and seating arrangements she would no longer be part of.
Among the papers she gathered, one envelope lay apart from the rest. No seal, only her name in Gabriel’s familiar hand. She had broken it quickly. The words had burned into her more sharply than any threat the Order had sent.
“If silence is what you choose, I will match it. But know this…silence does not mean absence. You have my eyes, my thoughts, my loyalty. Whether you claim them or not.”
She folded it once, twice, and tucked it beneath the ribbon with the fabric swatches. And she walked out into the corridor, not so much leaving as slipping away, drawn by the quiet rather than any clear destination.
The corridor beyond was cool and dim, steeped in the scent of old polish and rain. Her shoes echoed lightly on the stone, each step carrying both resolve and regret.
At the far end of the hall, Gabriel stood.
How long had he been there? He didn’t move, only watched her as if he had been watching longer than the moment allowed. Lamplight caught the line of his jaw. He stood in the lamplight, unmistakably real.
Her breath hitched. The bundle in her arms felt suddenly heavy.
He did not step toward her, and she did not speak his name. Her heart beat fast, fast enough she was certain he could hear it. She gave the smallest nod and turned away.
She heard no movement behind her, but she felt his gaze, the sense of a presence that never reached her.
Her aunt appeared from the adjoining passage and fell into step beside her.
“I must prepare for Alnwick,” Leticia said, her voice even, her hands trembling beneath the folded swatches.
They passed beneath an arched stone lintel. Leticia went on. Her aunt stood watching her as Mrs. Bainbridge came to her side.
“Leticia hasn’t any friends in Alnwick.”
“I know,” Mrs. Bainbridge said.