Chapter Twenty #3
What if he had been confessing fear rather than apathy? What if ‘I fear I shall harm her’ had not been regret, but the terror of a man who cared so deeply that the possibility of inflicting pain was unbearable?
It would be better if she did not—
She had not heard the end of that sentence. She had fled before it was spoken, had allowed fear to complete it for her. She had retreated behind walls erected in haste, shielding herself from a blow that might never have been aimed.
You heard what your old hurt instructed you to hear, her mother had said in the dream.
Eleanor picked up the rose.
The petals were cool and silken beneath her fingers, the fragrance subtle and sweet.
It had been cut but recently; the stem remained fresh, the bloom unblemished.
Benjamin must have gone to the gardens at first light, selected this particular flower with care, ascended the stairs, and placed it at her door—uncertain whether she would treasure it or cast it aside.
He is trying, she thought. Despite every effort of mine to push him away, he is still trying.
The question is—have I the courage to do the same?
She stood in the doorway, the rose cradled in her hand, the weight of decision pressing upon her, and for a long moment she did not move.
***
It was late in the afternoon when Eleanor sought out Mrs Harding in the servants’ hall, the rose still resting upon her desk where she had placed it that morning. She had worked through the day without truly seeing a single word she had written.
“The rose on my breakfast tray,” Eleanor said. “Do you know when His Grace left it?”
The housekeeper regarded her with an expression composed equally of hope and prudence. “Before dawn, Your Grace. He came to the kitchens himself to request a cutting from the garden.”
“He came himself.”
“Yes, Your Grace. He was…” Mrs Harding paused delicately. “Forgive me, but he appeared much distressed. He inquired what flower you might most favour, and when I mentioned that roses are the customary choice for—well—for apologies—he insisted upon selecting one with his own hand.”
An apology.
He believed himself at fault. Believed he owed her amends for some injury he could neither name nor comprehend, yet was desperate to repair.
All the while, the greater fault had been hers—the listening at doors, the swift assumptions, the walls raised without granting him opportunity to explain.
“Where is His Grace at present?” Eleanor asked.
“In his study, I believe. He mentioned reviewing the quarterly accounts this morning.”
Eleanor inclined her head. “Thank you, Mrs Harding.”
She turned to depart, then halted. Something in the housekeeper’s countenance compelled her to pause.
“You wish to say more,” Eleanor observed gently. “Pray—do so.”
Mrs Harding hesitated, plainly selecting her words with care.
“Your Grace, I have served this household these twenty years,” she said at last. “I have watched His Grace withdraw further into himself since his return from the war. I had come to believe that nothing would ever draw him forth—that he would pass his days confined to that study, alone with guilt and grief, until little remained of him but a title and a sense of obligation.”
Her severe features softened, almost maternally.
“And then Your Grace arrived. For the first time in years, I saw him begin to re-emerge. I saw him take meals in company. I saw him walk in gardens long neglected. I saw him smile—truly smile—in a manner I had not witnessed since before the war.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened painfully.
“Whatever has transpired between you,” Mrs Harding continued, “whatever misunderstanding has occasioned this distance—I beg you to consider whether it merits the cost. For the gentleman I have observed this past week is not the man who had begun to heal. He is the man from before. The ghost. The shell.”
“And you think me responsible for that.”
“I would not presume to judge you, Your Grace. I merely observe.” Mrs Harding met her gaze steadily. “You restored him to life. And now he appears to be fading once more. Whatever wrong you believe he has committed—whatever hurt you bear—does it justify watching him diminish?”
The question lingered, impossible to evade.
Eleanor thought of the rose awaiting her in her sitting room. Of the small grey cat learning trust while she perfected retreat. Of her mother’s voice in the quiet of a dream, warning her of the difference between protection and disappearance.
“No,” she said softly. “No, it does not.”
Without waiting for further reply, she turned and made her way toward the study.
***
The study door was closed.
Dusk had settled over the house by the time Eleanor reached it. The corridors lay hushed in that peculiar stillness that descends after a day’s labour, when even the servants tread more softly and the light beyond the windows turns from gold to grey.
She stood before the door, her hand lifted to knock, her heart beating with a force that felt perilously like terror. She had spent the better part of the day wrestling with herself—the rose upon her desk a silent reproach she could neither ignore nor discard.
For a week, she had constructed barriers against this man—seven long days persuading herself that distance was safety, that retreat was wisdom, that guarding her heart mattered more than reaching for what she desired.
Yet the walls had not preserved her. They had only left her alone. They had drained the warm, hopeful future she had scarcely dared to imagine and rendered it cold, colourless, barren.
You heard what your old hurt instructed you to hear, her mother had said. But fear is not truth.
She knocked.
“Enter.”
His voice was level, but devoid of warmth. The voice of a man who had ceased to anticipate anything kind from the day.
She opened the door.
Benjamin sat behind his desk, papers arrayed before him in studied disorder. He was plainly not reading them. At her entrance, he looked up, and for the briefest instant, hope flared in his eyes—unguarded and bright—before he subdued it.
“Eleanor.” He rose at once, formal and restrained. “Is there something you need?”
Yes, she thought. I need you to tell me what you truly said to your solicitor. I need to know whether I have been shielding myself from a genuine wound—or dismantling something precious through a grievous misunderstanding.
But the words tangled in her throat, caught in pride and fear and the heavy silence of the past seven days.
“The rose,” she said at last. “Thank you for the rose.”
Something altered in his expression. “You found it.”
“Yes. I—” She faltered, searching for language vast enough to contain all she must say. “It was very beautiful.”
“I was uncertain whether you would welcome it.” His tone was roughened by restraint. “You have made it abundantly clear this week that you welcome very little from me.”
“That is not—” She stopped, frustration rising sharp and hot. This could not be accomplished in half-phrases and civility. “I heard you.”
He frowned faintly. “Heard me?”
“With your solicitor. A week ago.” The confession spilled forth in haste. “I was bringing the translated documents. The door stood ajar, and I heard—”
She broke off. The colour had drained from his face.
“What did you hear?” he asked, very quietly.
“That the marriage was necessary. That you required someone who would not expect. That you feared you might harm me—that it would be better if I did not—” Her voice wavered. “You did not complete the sentence. Or rather, I did not remain to hear the rest.”
Silence fell between them.
Benjamin regarded her with an expression so intent she could scarcely endure it. Then, without haste, he rounded the desk and came to stand before her.
“You heard that,” he said evenly. “And you concluded—what? That I repented of marrying you? That I wished you removed from my life?”
“What else could I conclude?” she demanded, the hurt she had so carefully concealed rising to the surface.
“You might have asked me.” The sudden force in his voice made her start. “You might have afforded me the opportunity to explain, rather than withdrawing behind walls I could not scale. You might have trusted me enough to—”
He broke off, lifting his scarred hand to his brow as though to steady himself.
“But why should you?” he continued, more quietly. “I have offered you little reason for trust. I have been guarded—overcautious—so fearful of speaking amiss that I have spoken scarcely at all. And in my silence, you heard precisely what your fear supplied.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears. “What ought I to have heard?”
He lowered his hand.
When he looked at her now, there was no reserve in his gaze. No careful distance. Only unvarnished truth.
“The sentence I did not finish,” he said. “Would you hear it now?”
“Yes.”
He drew a measured breath. Then another.
“It would be better if she did not know,” he said slowly, each word deliberate, “how very much I have come to need her.”