Chapter Thirteen
“The storm’s not done yet, Your Grace.”
Mrs Harding delivered this assessment with the grim satisfaction of one whose predictions had been vindicated. Beyond the windows, the sky had darkened once more, the brief morning reprieve surrendering to another assault of wind and rain.
Eleanor inclined her head, suppressing a yawn.
She had not slept—had scarcely considered the possibility—after the night spent labouring over the merchant correspondence.
The documents had been dispatched with the courier at first light, and now nothing remained but to await a reply and hope her translations and arguments proved sufficient to avert disaster.
“Has there been any word regarding the bridge repairs?” she asked.
“The temporary supports are holding, but another spell of rain such as last night’s may carry them away entirely.” Mrs Harding consulted her notes. “The groundskeeper advises that we prepare for the likelihood of being cut off from the north farms for several days.”
“And the families there? Are they adequately provisioned?”
“Well enough for the present. His Grace arranged for supplies to be sent across before the bridge failed entirely.” A brief pause. “He has been… more attentive to such matters of late.”
Eleanor did not miss the implication in the housekeeper’s tone. Because of you, it suggested. Because you have reminded him that there are people beyond these walls who depend on him.
She did not know whether to feel pride or discomfort. She had not set out to alter him. She had merely… observed. Performed the work that required doing. And somehow, in the process, she had begun to draw him back from the isolation he had wrapped about himself like armour.
“I shall inspect the cellar stores,” she said, rising from her chair. “If we are to be cut off, I wish to ensure we possess adequate provisions for the household.”
“I can send a footman—”
“I would rather see to it personally.” Eleanor summoned a weary smile. “The movement will help me remain awake.”
***
The corridors of Thornwood Park lay dim beneath the storm-darkened sky, the usual light from the windows reduced to a dull grey that rendered the house smaller, closer, more intimate.
Eleanor walked slowly, fatigue weighing upon her limbs, her thoughts still circling the events of the previous hours.
He told me about Spain.
The thought returned again and again, like a tongue probing a tender place. He had entrusted her with his worst memory—the fire, the deaths, the guilt he had carried alone for years. And she had not offered hollow comfort, nor absolution she had no right to grant. She had simply remained.
Endurance is less punishing when it is not undertaken alone.
She had spoken the words for him. Yet moving through these dim corridors, surrounded by the relentless voice of a storm that refused to yield, she recognised their truth for herself as well.
She had lived alone for so long—useful yet unseen, present yet invisible.
And now, slowly and painfully, she was learning what it meant to share her world with someone who truly perceived her presence.
The servants’ corridor lay quieter than the principal halls, the sounds of the household softened by distance and stone. Eleanor turned toward the cellar stair—
And stopped.
***
The cat sat squarely in the centre of the corridor.
It was the grey stray—she recognised it at once, though she had encountered it only twice before. The same roughened coat. The same wary green eyes. The same gaunt, watchful bearing of a creature taught by experience to expect little kindness from the world.
It must have slipped inside through an open door during the storm. Seeking shelter. Seeking warmth. Seeking the fragile safety even wild creatures pursued when the world turned hostile.
It also stood directly between Eleanor and the only exit.
Move, she told herself. It is just a cat. A small, frightened creature. It will not hurt you.
Her body refused obedience.
Her feet seemed rooted to the stone floor. Her hands began to tremble. And somewhere deep within her chest, a terror she had not confronted in years rose like bile.
She was eight years old again.
Eight years old in her grandmother’s garden, reaching for a kitten that had appeared so soft, so harmless. Eight years old, feeling the sudden slash of claws across her palm, the shock of blood bright against her skin. Eight years old, sobbing—screaming—while adults laughed at her distress.
It is only a scratch, they had said. Do not be so childish.
What a foolish thing to weep over, they had said. It is nothing more than a cat.
She will forget it soon enough, they had said. Children always do.
But Eleanor had not forgotten. She had learned instead to conceal it—to avoid cats entirely, to shape her life so she need never confront them, to bury the irrational terror so deeply she could pretend it did not exist.
And now the terror stood before her in the dim corridor, blocking her path with unblinking green eyes that seemed to pierce her carefully constructed composure.
The cat did not move. It merely watched; its tail wrapped neatly about its paws.
Eleanor pressed herself against the wall.
She could not breathe. Could not think. Could do nothing but stand there, paralysed by a fear she knew to be foolish, childish, utterly unworthy of a grown woman who managed estates, translated contracts, and refused to weep when the world proved cruel.
Move, she commanded herself. It is only a cat. Only a small, frightened cat.
Her body did not respond. The trembling had spread through her entire frame, and a sound gathered in her throat—a broken, humiliating whimper she could not quite suppress.
The cat’s ears flicked.
Then—footsteps. Uneven. Familiar. Approaching from behind her.
“Eleanor?”
Benjamin’s voice, roughened by concern. She heard him halt, heard the sharp intake of breath as he took in the scene—his wife flattened against the wall, trembling, while a grey cat sat unmoving in the corridor before her.
She could not turn toward him. Could not remove her gaze from the animal, as though looking away might somehow provoke it.
“I—” Her voice emerged strained and fragile, scarcely recognisable. “I cannot—”
He asked no questions. Demanded no explanation. Did nothing that would have forced her to articulate a fear she barely understood herself.
He simply moved.
She heard his steps pass her—felt the warmth of him as he positioned himself between her and the cat, obscuring it from her sight.
She heard the soft rustle as he crouched, the low murmur of his voice as he addressed the animal in the same gentle tones she had once overheard in the hidden courtyard.
“Easy,” he said softly. “Easy now. You are quite safe.”
A moment of stillness. Then the faint sound of the cat being lifted—a small protest quickly soothed—and Benjamin’s footsteps receding down the corridor toward the servants’ entrance, the creature cradled securely in his arms.
Eleanor remained pressed against the wall, her heart pounding, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps.
He saw, she thought. He saw me like this. Weak. Foolish. Afraid of a creature scarcely heavier than a loaf of bread.
The shame was almost worse than the fear.
He returned a few minutes later.
Eleanor had not moved. She could not seem to command her limbs to obey her, even now that the cat was gone. She stood with her back pressed against the cold stone, her hands flattened against the wall behind her, her whole body still trembling in the wake of terror.
Benjamin halted several feet away. She could feel his gaze upon her—measured, attentive—but when she dared a glance at his face, she found none of the judgment she had braced herself to meet.
“It will not happen again,” he said quietly.
That was all. No questions as to why she had been so afraid. No gentle ridicule of her irrational dread. No reassurances that the animal was harmless, that she had nothing to fear, that she was being foolish.
Only five words, spoken with unqualified certainty: It will not happen again.
Eleanor’s throat tightened. She opened her mouth—to thank him, to apologise, to explain—but no sound emerged.
He seemed to understand. He gave a single, slight inclination of his head, then turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the corridor to gather herself.
***
She did not see the cat again that day.
In truth, she saw very little at all. The exhaustion from the previous night finally overtook her, and she withdrew to her chambers to sleep—not the restless, fractured sleep that had followed her since her arrival at Thornwood, but a deep, dreamless oblivion that lasted well beyond the dinner hour.
When she woke, the storm had at last exhausted itself. The sky beyond her window lay clear and dark, strewn with stars that seemed impossibly bright after days of unrelenting cloud and rain.
She rang for her maid and was informed that His Grace had requested not to be disturbed, but that supper could be sent to her room should she wish it. She did wish it.
The supper was simple and nourishing. Eleanor ate mechanically, her thoughts still circling the events in the corridor—the terror, the humiliation, and the five quiet words that had carried more comfort than any elaborate consolation could have done.
It will not happen again.
He had not promised to cure her fear. Had not offered assistance in overcoming it, nor suggested that she ought to. He had simply promised she would not be forced to confront it unexpectedly within her own home.
It was, she realised, precisely what she required. Not a remedy. Not a transformation. Simply… protection.
***
The following morning, Eleanor walked the servants’ corridor once more.
She did not entirely know what she sought. Perhaps proof that the previous day had been real. Confirmation that she had not imagined the terror, or Benjamin’s quiet intervention, or the promise that still echoed in her thoughts.
She found it near the servants’ entrance.
A screen. Newly constructed, by its appearance—the wood pale and scarcely weathered, the hinges freshly oiled. It had been fitted neatly across the narrow gap where the door met its frame, closing the small passage through which a determined creature might have slipped inside during a storm.
Eleanor stood before it for a long moment, her hand pressed against her chest.
It will not happen again.
He had not merely spoken the promise. He had enacted it. He had recognised the weakness in the household’s defences and corrected it—quietly, without display, without expectation of gratitude.
He had protected her.
Not through grand gestures or dramatic declarations. Not with words designed to impress or soothe. Simply… through action. Plain, practical action, undertaken because she required it and he possessed the means to provide it.
Something within Eleanor’s chest loosened. A tension she had not realised she carried began, slowly, to ease.
She reached out and touched the screen, running her fingers along the smooth wood, the careful joinery, the evidence of thoughtful labour.
“Thank you,” she whispered, though no one stood near enough to hear.
Then she turned away, walking toward the morning room, toward the household accounts, toward the familiar and ordinary duties that shaped her days.
And yet something had altered.
She could not have named it precisely. Could not have explained the difference between the woman who had walked this corridor the previous day and the woman who walked it now. But the change existed nonetheless—subtle, undeniable.
He had witnessed her fear. Had seen her at her weakest, her most irrational, her most ashamed.
And he had not judged her for it.