Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Close your eyes,” Morgan said, his hand warm in hers.
Eliza laughed. “Why?”
“Because I want to show you something, and I want it to be a surprise.”
Three days had passed since their wedding and now they were standing in a corridor on the third floor of Kirkhammer Hall, one she’d rarely ventured into during her time as a maid. The morning sun streamed through the tall windows, casting patterns of light across the polished floors.
“All right,” she agreed, closing her eyes. “But if you let me walk into a wall, I’ll never forgive you.”
“I would never risk that beautiful face.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Come on.”
He guided her forward, his hand steady on hers. She heard the sound of a door opening, the creak of old hinges. Then they were moving again, and the air changed. It was cooler, with a hint of mustiness that spoke of a room rarely opened.
“Can I look now?”
“Almost. Just a few more steps. There. That’s my darling. Now.”
Eliza opened her eyes.
And gasped.
They stood in a long gallery she’d never seen before, lined floor to ceiling with paintings.
But these weren’t the formal portraits that hung in the main halls, which were all stern ancestors in stiff clothing, judging the world with painted eyes.
These were different. Landscapes of breathtaking beauty.
Seascapes with waves captured mid-crash.
Abstract pieces that played with light and shadow.
And portraits, but intimate ones, full of warmth and personality.
“Morgan,” she breathed. “This is incredible.”
“My mother’s private collection,” he said quietly, moving to stand beside her.
“She was passionate about art. Spent years acquiring pieces from artists no one had heard of, supporting them before they became famous. After she died, my father couldn’t bear to look at them.
He had them moved up here. Out of sight, out of mind. That was his way.”
Eliza heard the pain in his voice and squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” He led her further into the room. “I keep meaning to bring them back downstairs, to display them properly. But somehow, I never… I suppose I understand why my father hid them. Looking at them reminds me of her. Of how much I miss her.”
“Tell me about her,” Eliza said softly.
Morgan smiled, a sad, fond thing. “She was brilliant. Kind. She loved the sea. In fact, that’s why my father bought this estate, because she fell in love with the view. She used to take me down to the beach every morning when I was small, and we’d look for shells and interesting rocks.”
He paused in front of a painting of a woman in a garden, her face turned toward the sun, laughing.
“That’s her,” he said. “The artist was a friend of hers. She said he captured her better than any formal portrait ever could.”
Eliza studied the painting, seeing the joy in the woman’s expression, the life radiating from the canvas. “She was beautiful.”
“She was.” Morgan was quiet for a moment. “She would have liked you, I think.”
The words settled around Eliza’s heart like a blessing.
They walked through the gallery together, Morgan sharing stories about different pieces, about his mother’s passion for finding beauty in unexpected places.
And somewhere between the landscapes and the seascapes, he pulled her into an alcove, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that started tender and quickly turned heated.
“I’ve been wanting to do that all morning,” he murmured against her lips.
“What stopped you?”
“The servants. The breakfast table. Basic propriety.” He kissed her again, deeper this time. “But here, we’re alone.”
His hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer. Eliza melted into him, marveling at how quickly she’d become addicted to this. To his touch, his taste, the way he made her feel wanted and cherished and alive.
“Morgan,” she breathed when he’d kissed his way down her throat. “We should go somewhere more private! Someone might—”
“No one comes up here,” he assured her, his hands already working at the fastenings of her dress. “It’s just us, darling.”
Just us…
The beach was quiet in the late afternoon, the tide rolling in with its eternal rhythm. Eliza walked beside Morgan, her hand in his, her skirts lifted to keep them from the wet sand.
“I used to dream about this,” she said. “When I was locked in my room, waiting for the wedding to Whitfield. I’d imagine running away to the sea. Living in a small cottage by the water. Being free.”
“And now?” Morgan asked.
“Now I’m here. With you. And it’s better than any dream I could have imagined.”
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the crash of waves and the cry of gulls overhead.
“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” Morgan said suddenly.
Eliza glanced at him. “That’s a dangerous request.”
“I know. But I want to know you, Eliza. Really know you. Not just the parts you think are acceptable to share.”
She took a breath, then another. “All right. I… I’ve always wanted to write.
Stories. Adventures. Things that would never happen to someone like me.
But my mother said it was foolish, that ladies don’t write, that I should focus on being accomplished in the ways that matter.
Music, needlework, proper conversation.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Morgan said immediately. “You should write. I have a whole library you’re welcome to use. Or better yet, I’ll have a writing desk put in your chambers. You can write whatever you want.”
Eliza felt tears prick her eyes. “You mean that?”
“Of course I mean it. Your dreams aren’t foolish, Eliza. They’re part of what makes you who you are. Your life is yours to live. I am grateful to be a part of it.”
She stopped walking, turning to face him, her heart impossible full. The sun was setting behind him, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” she said quietly.
“You survived,” Morgan said simply. “You fought for your freedom, for your life. That’s more than deserving, darling. You are a marvel.”
He pulled her close, and they stood there on the beach, wrapped in each other’s arms, as the sun sank into the sea.
“I need to tell you about Abigail,” Eliza said, later that evening after dinner.
They were in Morgan’s study. She sat in the chair across from his desk while he reviewed some correspondence, but the words had been building in her chest all day.
Morgan set down his papers immediately. “Tell me.”
So, she did.
She told him about meeting Abigail when they were both twelve years old, at some tedious musicale their mothers had dragged them to.
How they’d sneaked away to the garden and spent the entire evening making up stories about the other guests.
How that friendship had bloomed into something deeper, something true.
“She was the only person who really knew me,” Eliza said, her voice thick with emotion.
“The only one who saw past all the expectations and just… saw me. When she married Whitfield, I was happy for her at first. He was charming, wealthy, well-respected. She could have done worse, but a part of me always knew. And then…”
Her voice broke.
Morgan came around the desk, pulling her to her feet and into his arms. “It’s all right. Take your time.”
“She changed,” Eliza continued, her face pressed against his chest. “She became quiet. Nervous. She’d flinch when he entered a room. She started wearing long sleeves even in summer, and I knew… Then, when I asked her about it, she’d just smile and say everything was fine.”
“Eliza. Oh darling…”
“The night she died, at the Fontaines’ ball, she told me she was scared.
She said Whitfield had been in a rage all week because she wasn’t pregnant yet.
That he blamed her for failing in her wifely duties.
” Eliza pulled back to look at Morgan, tears streaming down her face.
“She said she was going to ask her parents if she could come stay with them for a while. And then, an hour later, she was dead.”
“You think he pushed her,” Morgan said quietly.
“I know he did. I know it in my bones. But no one believed me. Everyone said it was a tragic accident. That she’d had too much wine and lost her balance. But Abigail never drank more than a single glass. She was careful. She wouldn’t have…”
She broke off, sobbing now.
Morgan held her tighter, his hand stroking her hair. “I believe you.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” His voice was hard. “I’ve met Whitfield. I’ve seen the coldness in his eyes. And three dead wives is not a coincidence.”
“I want justice for her,” Eliza said fiercely. “I want him to pay for what he did to Abigail. But I don’t know how. I don’t have proof. I don’t have anything except my certainty that he’s a monster.”
“Then we’ll find proof,” Morgan said. “I have resources, connections. We’ll investigate his past, look into the deaths of his other wives. If there’s evidence to be found, we’ll find it. I will leave no stone unturned.”
“You’d do that? For Abigail?”
“For Abigail,” Morgan agreed. “And for you. Because her death haunts you, and I won’t let him get away with taking someone you loved.”
Eliza threw her arms around his neck, holding him as tightly as she could. “Thank you. God, Morgan, thank you.”
“We’ll bring him to justice,” Morgan promised. “I swear it.”
Morgan sat at his desk before dawn, writing by candlelight.
To Mr. James Hartley, Bow Street Runner,
I require your services in a matter of utmost discretion and importance.
I need you to investigate Lord Edmund Whitfield, particularly regarding the circumstances surrounding the deaths of his three wives: Lady Charlotte Whitfield (died 1819), Lady Margaret Whitfield (died 1822), and Lady Abigail Whitfield (died 1826).