Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
“You went downstairs for a glass of water.”
The voice came from the darkness of the corridor, and Elinor’s heart seized so violently she nearly lost her footing on the top stair.
A silhouette stood against the far wall, half-hidden by the curtain that framed the landing window. Moonlight caught the edge of a pale nightgown and the loose fall of dark hair.
Joanna.
Elinor opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her cloak was still damp from the night air, her shoes muddied from the lane behind Morland House, and her hair hung in the same loose state she had left in. No amount of invention could explain what she looked like at this hour.
Joanna stepped forward. Her expression held no accusation, no curiosity, only the quiet resolve of a young woman making a decision she had already weighed.
“You went downstairs for a glass of water,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “That is what I saw, if anyone asks. You were thirsty, and you came back to bed. Nothing more.”
The relief hit Elinor so hard her eyes burned.
She crossed the distance between them and pulled Joanna into a fierce embrace, her arms wrapping tight around her stepsister’s narrow shoulders.
She felt Joanna stiffen for just a moment before she relaxed into it, her own arms pressing firmly between Elinor’s shoulder blades.
“Thank you,” Elinor breathed against her hair. “Joanna, thank you. I don’t deserve—”
“You are the only person in this house who has been kind to me without wanting something in return.” Joanna’s voice was small and certain. “Whatever you are doing, wherever you go when you leave at night, I trust that it matters to you. And that is enough for me.”
They stood like that for a long moment, two young women holding each other in a dark corridor in a house that had never felt like home to either of them. Then Joanna pulled back, squeezed Elinor’s hand once, and disappeared down the corridor to her room without another word.
Elinor slipped into her own chamber. Newton raised his head from the pillow, blinked once, and settled back down. She undressed in the dark, hung her cloak, placed her muddied shoes behind the wardrobe, and climbed into bed.
Sleep did not come for a long time. But when it did, her hand rested on the celestial atlas, and Lucien’s voice followed her into her dreams.
You are the only person I have wanted to pay it for.
“What a magnificent creature. Does he always purr this loudly?”
Annabelle sat on the settee in Morland House’s parlor with Newton draped across her lap, his eyes half-closed in satisfaction, his paws kneading into the silk of her skirt with slow, rhythmic purpose. His purring filled the room with a low, contented rumble that could be heard from the doorway.
“Only when he approves of someone,” Elinor said, settling beside her. “He hissed at my stepbrother for a full minute when Gilbert arrived.”
“Intelligent animal,” Annabelle murmured, scratching beneath Newton’s chin. He stretched his neck and purred louder, his body vibrating with it. “I have always wanted a cat, but Lucien insists they shed too much on his tailcoats. As though his tailor cannot handle a bit of fur.”
“Newton sheds on everything,” Elinor admitted. “My stepmother considers him a menace. But he is mine, and he stays.”
“Good.” Annabelle’s chin lifted with an approval that reminded Elinor sharply of her brother. “A woman should keep what is hers.”
The dinner party had been her stepmother’s idea, extended with the sweetness her stepmother reserved for occasions that served her own ambitions.
An intimate evening at Morland House, she had declared, to welcome Lady Annabelle to the family.
The invitation had gone to Lucien and his sister.
Dominic, who might have provided a welcome buffer, was occupied with estate matters in the country and had sent his regrets.
The result was Elinor’s two worlds pressed into one room, and the friction was constant.
Rebecca presided at the table with practiced ease, directing the conversation toward Lucien with questions about the duchy and the rest of the Season.
Her voice held its usual warm deference, the performance of a woman who knew a duke in the family reflected well on her.
But beneath the table, when Elinor reached for her glass, her stepmother’s shoe pressed sharply against her ankle.
Sit straighter. Speak less. Do not embarrass me.
Across from Annabelle, Belinda spent the first course recounting her accomplishments, her singing, her embroidery, the musicale where three lords had praised her performance.
Annabelle listened with polished patience, the expression of a woman well practiced in attending to what did not interest her.
“How lovely,” Annabelle said after a long account of Belinda’s watercolor studies. Then she turned to Elinor. “Lucien tells me you have been visiting the children at Lyra House. I should love to hear about them.”
Belinda’s smile thinned to a blade. Elinor felt Rebecca’s gaze sharpen from across the table. She chose her words with care.
“I have not had the pleasure of visiting yet, I am afraid.” She kept her voice light. “But His Grace has told me a great deal about the renovations, and I confess I am eager to see them for myself. The work he has done for those children is remarkable.”
She glanced at Lucien, willing him to follow her lead.
“Lady Elinor has expressed an interest in the children’s education,” Lucien said, picking up the thread without missing a beat. “I have promised to arrange a visit. With a proper escort, of course.”
“How charitable,” Rebecca said, her tone warming to the word the way it always did when charity could be displayed rather than practiced.
Annabelle caught Elinor’s eye across the table, and something in her expression suggested she understood a boundary had been drawn, even if she did not yet know why.
“Your Grace,” Belinda interjected, leaning toward Lucien with a smile that carried too much warmth for a man engaged to her stepsister.
“I have been practicing a new piece on the pianoforte. Perhaps after dinner, I could perform for you. Music is best appreciated in an intimate setting, do you not agree?”
Lucien’s expression remained pleasant, betraying nothing.
“I am sure it would be delightful, Lady Belinda, though I confess my ear for music is not what it ought to be.” He turned to Elinor, and his voice shifted into something warmer and less rehearsed.
“You were telling Annabelle about the new star charts. I should like to hear more about that.”
The pivot was so smooth that Belinda could not object without appearing petulant. Her fork clinked against her plate with more force than the pheasant required.
Elinor spoke about the charts, and she gestured to illustrate a constellation’s shape.
“And if you follow the line from Vega down to Sheliak,” Elinor said, tracing the shape in the air, “you can see why the ancients imagined a lyre. The strings run between the two lower stars.”
Her hand passed near his on the table. His smallest finger shifted, grazing hers. The contact lasted less than a second. It sent heat up her wrist and into her chest, and she lost her place mid-sentence.
“The strings,” Lucien prompted, his expression perfectly composed, as though he had not just set her pulse racing with a single finger.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “The strings.”
“The children must adore you,” Annabelle whispered, her face bright. “Lucien has written to me about the lessons. He says you make the stars seem like old friends rather than distant objects.”
Elinor glanced at Lucien, who found his wine glass suddenly fascinating.
“Did he?”
“Oh, extensively.” Annabelle grinned. “He is not usually one for lengthy letters, so you must understand what a feat that is. I received four pages about your lesson on Orion alone.”
The guilt twisted in Elinor’s chest. It had been building all evening, sharpening each time Annabelle laughed or squeezed her arm or spoke about her brother with the uncomplicated joy of a sister who believed she was watching him find love.
Because Annabelle believed it.
She believed all of it: the engagement, the courtship, the affection she could see between them. She had no reason not to, and every reason to be happy.
And she was being lied to.
Elinor caught Lucien’s eye, and she saw the same guilt reflected.
His jaw had tightened, and his gaze held hers with an honesty the rest of the room could not see.
They were both trapped in it now, this web they had spun, and the threads were growing tighter with every genuine connection that formed inside the lie.
Gilbert, who had been silent during the meal, chose the pause between courses to lean toward Annabelle.
“Lady Annabelle, I must tell you about my new stallion. He is the finest horse in three counties, and I have been told by no fewer than four people that my riding form is exceptional. I should be happy to take you for a ride through the park.”
Annabelle turned to him. “How kind, Lord Henleigh. I shall keep it in mind.” She turned back to Elinor. “Now, you were saying about the moon’s phases?”
Gilbert’s mouth hung open around the next line of his prepared speech. Across the table, Joanna pressed her napkin to her lips to hide what was unmistakably a laugh.
After dinner, Annabelle found Elinor on the settee while the men lingered over port.
“I owe you an apology,” Annabelle said, keeping her voice low as she settled beside her. “I did not realize your stepmother was unaware of your visits to Lyra House. The way Lucien spoke of it, I assumed everyone knew.”
“They do not.” Elinor glanced toward Rebecca, who was occupied with Belinda across the room. “And I would very much like to keep it that way.”
“Consider me a vault.” Annabelle pressed her hand to her heart with mock solemnity, then let the performance drop into something genuine. “I am sorry. I would not have raised it at dinner if I had understood.”
“You could not have known.”
“Still.” Annabelle’s gaze moved over Elinor’s face with the quiet attention of a woman deciding whether to say more. She said more. “It must be exhausting, keeping so many parts of yourself hidden from the people you live with.”
The observation landed in a place Elinor had not expected. She looked at Annabelle, this woman she barely knew, who had apologized, and felt something loosen in her chest.
“It is,” she admitted. “Although I have grown rather good at it.”
“Then I am glad you have at least one house where you do not have to.” Annabelle squeezed her hand. “And at least one person who would rather know the real version.”
Newton jumped onto the settee and wedged himself between them, purring with the immediate conviction of a cat who had identified the two best people in the room.
“He approves of you,” Elinor said. “That is not a small thing. He hissed at Gilbert within five minutes.”
“I knew I liked this cat.” Annabelle scratched behind his ears. “We are going to be very good friends, he and I.”
The evening wound down, and Rebecca maintained her performance of gracious hostess.
Belinda retreated into a sulk she disguised as fatigue.
Gilbert made one last attempt to impress Annabelle by describing his fencing form in detail, which Annabelle received with the enthusiasm of a woman being read a shipping manifest.
At the door, Elinor helped Annabelle with her cloak. The younger woman pulled her into an embrace that felt natural and unforced, the kind of hug between women who had decided to be friends and saw no reason to be cautious about it.
“I have never seen my brother smile the way he does when you are speaking,” Annabelle whispered. “Whatever you are doing, please do not stop.”
Elinor held her tighter, because the alternative was to let the guilt show on her face.
Lucien lingered at the threshold. He took Elinor’s hand and kissed her knuckles, as he always did, but his mouth stayed a fraction longer than necessary, and his thumb pressed once against her palm before he released her.
The gesture was small enough that only she could feel it and large enough that she felt it for the rest of the night.
She closed the door and leaned against it. From the parlor, she could hear Rebecca’s voice, already dissecting the evening with Belinda, already finding fault.
Newton wound between her ankles, purring.
Elinor picked him up and held him against her chest and tried not to think about the fact that Annabelle’s friendship was the most honest thing in her life, and it was built on the least honest thing she had ever done.