Chapter 7
Seven
August had long been acquainted with sleeplessness, but tonight, as the hall’s grandfather clock tolled the third hour, he found it more tenacious than usual. The hallways of Wildmoore Hall had an unfamiliar hush, as if the very air braced for crisis. He was, for once, not the cause.
He drifted down the main staircase in shirtsleeves and stocking feet, the marble cool under his heels. A left, a right—instinct guided him to the music room, the only place in the house not haunted by his quest for perfection.
He did not light the candles. Instead, he slid onto the piano bench and let the darkness close in, save for a pale shaft of moonlight that sliced across the lid of the grand pianoforte. He flexed his fingers, cracked his knuckles. Then, softly, he played.
The melody was one he’d composed as a boy, back when melancholy was a flavor of longing, not the central ingredient of his character.
He played it slowly, stretching each note into a question he could not answer.
The music did not require an audience, and he relished its company. It was honest at least.
He played for an hour, maybe more. Time blunted at the edges. Sometimes, he would pause and listen to the way the notes dissolved into the velvet dark. When he reached the end of the last movement, he let his hands fall, spent.
He was not alone.
A faint rustle, the unmistakable hush of a woman’s slipper. He turned, and there she was: Eliza, Marchioness of Barrington, standing just inside the doorway.
She wore a simple nightdress and a robe, hair twisted into a loose knot. There was something ghostly about her—her refusal to announce herself, the way she watched him as if he were the one trespassing.
“How long have you been there?” he asked.
“Long enough,” Eliza replied. Her voice was quiet but not hesitant. She stepped forward, the light catching at her sleeve. “You play beautifully, but you look as though you are losing a war.”
August reached for the armor of charm. “I assure you, if I were fighting, I would be winning.”
Eliza’s eyes did not leave his face. “It is a sad song. Were you fighting sadness or only rehearsing it?”
He shifted on the bench, unsettled by the accuracy of the blow. “Why not both?”
She considered then nodded, as if he’d confirmed something.
“You do not sleep,” he observed, grasping for the offensive.
“Neither do you,” she said. “Or is this your usual hour for performances?”
He barked a low laugh. “It is my usual hour for insomnia.”
Eliza moved to the settee against the far wall, perching with the sort of composure that invited confession. “You have a reputation for being tireless,” she said. “I see now it is literal.”
He found himself wanting to ask why she was awake, what dreams or memories stalked her through the hallways. Instead, he pressed the keys again, letting the chords fill the space between them.
“If you would like to request a song,” he said, “I do know two or three that do not end in tragedy.”
She shook her head. “I prefer the tragic ones. They are more truthful.”
He arched a brow, even as he let a Chopin nocturne bleed from his fingers. “Are you so fond of sadness, then?”
Eliza leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands laced. “I am fond of honesty. Even if it is sad.”
August’s hands missed a note. He played through it, but she had noticed. Of course, she had.
He wanted to ask if she had always been so watchful. If the Hartwell women were trained to dissect a man’s soul by lantern light. Instead, he asked, “Is there something you wish to say, My Lady? Or have you come merely to haunt me?”
Eliza smiled, but it was not a kind smile. “You wish me to be haunted. It suits your image. But I do not believe in ghosts, only consequences.”
He closed the lid of the pianoforte. “You are a difficult audience.”
“On the contrary,” Eliza said, rising, “I am the easiest audience. I ask only for the truth.”
He watched her cross the carpet with a stubborn certainty.
“You should try to sleep,” he said, softer now.
“So should you,” she answered.
She was nearly at the door when he called, “Eliza?”
She stopped.
“If you wish to talk,” he said, “I will be awake.”
She paused, considering, then said, “I know.”
He watched her vanish into the dark. For a long moment, he sat there, hands pressed to the cold ivory, listening to the echo of her steps recede down the hallway. He wondered if she had heard the real melody he’d played, or just the mask he’d chosen for her.
The answer terrified him more than any sleepless night.
He did not play again but sat in the dark until the dawn began to bloom at the windows.
August was prepared for silence when he entered the breakfast room or even hostility, but he most certainly was not prepared for absence.
The long table, set with its blue-and-white porcelain and pyramids of toast, was entirely devoid of Eliza.
He scanned the room, certain she might materialize from the wallpaper if he blinked. She did not. Only the footman hovered in the corner, ready to replenish anything that required it.
August set himself at the head of the table, the chair scraping a single, accusatory note against the polished floor. He poured tea, applied a criminal amount of sugar, and waited.
Still no Eliza.
After a full ten minutes of contemplating the merits of solitary consumption, he finally relented and summoned Denton, who materialized in the threshold, hands folded behind his back.
“Where is the Marchioness?” August asked, pretending not to care.
Denton inclined his head. “I am not certain, My Lord. She has not been seen since last evening.”
August felt some annoyance, followed by something sharper. “Is she unwell?”
“I believe not, My Lord.” Denton hesitated. “Mrs. Finch might know more. She brought tea to the Her Ladyship’s room at dawn.”
August nodded curtly. “Send her to me.”
He did not wait for breakfast to finish. Instead, he paced the length of the dining room then cut through the drawing room to the main hall where Mrs. Finch was already waiting, apron immaculate, hair gathered in a formidable bun.
“My Lord,” she curtsied, “how may I assist?”
“Has the Marchioness made a habit of disappearing before breakfast?” August tried for dry amusement; it landed as accusation.
“Not as I am aware.” Mrs. Finch’s voice was neutral, but her eyes darted to the side. “There was a note, My Lord.”
August’s eyebrows did a dramatic climb. “A note.”
She produced it from her apron, folded once and sealed with a half-hearted crease.
He broke it open and read:
Gone for a walk. Will return before luncheon.
—Marchioness of Barrington
He folded the note twice then handed it back. “Did she indicate where she would be walking?”
“She did not, My Lord, but I am told she favors the west garden.”
August dismissed Mrs. Finch and stood in the hall, unmoored by the notion that his own wife had eluded him before the day had even begun.
He went to his study and tried to focus on estate business but found himself staring at the clock every third minute. The minutes conspired against him; by eleven, he had circled the house twice under the pretense of ‘inspecting repairs,’ but had not caught a single glimpse of her.
He thought of last night: the music, her silhouette in the doorway, the brief moment of… what? Communion? Or only challenge? He remembered the words she’d spoken—honesty, sadness, war—and felt, with rising horror, that he had already lost something to her and could not articulate what it was.
At exactly eleven forty-eight, he heard the front doors open, followed by the muffled thump of boots on the entry rug.
He emerged from his study just in time to see Eliza in the act of removing her outer coat. Her hair was windblown, cheeks pink with cold, and her shoes were a disgrace to civilization.
Denton stood by, holding a towel and looking profoundly concerned for the integrity of the flooring.
“I am sorry, Denton,” Eliza was saying, “I should have taken the garden path. But I doubt even gravel could have saved me from this—” she lifted a foot, revealing a boot caked in black mud.
Denton’s lips twitched. “It is of little matter, My Lady. The boots will survive.”
She smiled at him, and August found himself unreasonably annoyed by the exchange.
“Good morning, My Lady,” August called from the study threshold.
She looked up, instantly composed. “My Lord.”
Denton withdrew, barely suppressing a sigh.
August gestured her into his study. She followed, wiping her hands on the edge of the towel. She did not look ashamed or even contrite. She looked, if anything, invigorated.
He shut the door and faced her.
“You left a note,” he began.
“Yes,” she replied, as if that solved everything.
He waited for an explanation. None arrived.
He tried again. “Is it your habit to disappear before breakfast?”
“Is it your habit to interrogate your wife upon her return?” Eliza replied, voice even.
He stiffened. “I merely wished to ensure your safety.”
“Am I in danger on your estate, My Lord?” She set the towel aside, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Not from anything but the mud,” he retorted.
“I am well accustomed to mud. And to being alone.” Her voice was quiet but not defeated.
He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the day unravel. “We have not been married a week, Eliza. If you plan to despise me, could you at least wait until we have hosted our first dinner?”
This got a smile out of her, albeit a small and fleeting one. “I do not despise you.”
“Then what is it?” He paced, the carpet bearing the brunt of his impatience. “You treat me as if I am the enemy when all I have done is—” he stopped short, uncertain.
“All you have done is rescue me from the jaws of scandal and bestow upon me a title I did not ask for,” Eliza supplied. “Forgive me if I require a day or two to acclimate.”
He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to dominate the room by sheer force of charm. It had always worked on others—why not on her?
She read his mind, or at least his face. “You are not required to entertain me. I prefer to entertain myself.”
“It is not about entertainment,” he said. “It is about… appearances.”
Eliza’s arms crossed, chin tilting up a fraction. “You wish for me to parade through the house at all hours, looking adoring? That is not the arrangement as I understood it.”
He laughed, a rough, unscripted sound. “No. I suppose it is not.”
They regarded one another, neither yielding.
She finally said, “Do you require my schedule, My Lord? Or should I simply leave a daily itinerary with Mrs. Finch?”
He should have seen the trap, but he fell straight into it. “A simple notice will suffice.”
“Very well,” she said. “Tomorrow, I shall walk east. Day after, north. You may draw a map if you wish.”
“Do not be absurd,” he replied, but she was already turning to the door.
She stopped with her hand on the knob. “I will not be managed, August. Not by you, not by anyone.”
She left without waiting for a reply, her footsteps even and unhurried.
August stared at the closed door then at his hands which trembled very slightly.
He realized, with a mix of admiration and dread, that she had already succeeded in what no one else ever had: she had thrown him off his axis.
For a man whose entire existence had been built on managing, on controlling, it was a most disagreeable sensation.
He ran a hand through his hair, and for the first time in his life, he admitted that he had no idea what to do about his own marriage.