Chapter 12
Twelve
She had dined alone. Mrs. Finch had brought soup and a cutlet at six precisely then vanished with the discreet efficiency of a stagehand.
Eliza preferred it this way; the sight of the footman hovering in the next room or the clatter of plates only amplified the sense of being observed.
With the meal finished, she had retreated here where the only witnesses were the rows of unread novels, the portrait of some smirking ancestor, and the chessmen, waiting for direction.
The door swung open, and August entered, a sketch of exhaustion in living form.
His cravat was loosened, the edges of his collar soft with wear; his coat hung unbuttoned, his movements not so much lethargic as unguarded.
He did not speak but watched her for a moment from the threshold, gloves in hand, before circling to the sideboard and pouring a glass of water.
She completed her next move, feinting a check with her knight. “If you have come to haunt the drawing room, you must at least pretend to admire my technique,” she said, not looking up.
August downed the water in three swallows. He replaced the glass with the care of a man used to things breaking in his wake. “What do you call this opening?”
Eliza turned the board. “The Hartwell Gambit. It relies on attrition and the opponent’s predictable arrogance.”
He smiled but not with his eyes. “I will keep that in mind.” Then, instead of leaving, he rounded the table and took the seat opposite her, sinking into the chair as if gravity had increased in his presence.
They stared at each other across the board, neither eager to break the truce of silence.
Eliza waited for a quip, or a command, but none came.
Instead, August reached out and gathered the pieces, stacking them in disciplined rows, and reset the board.
When he finished, he extended his hand toward the queen. “You may have first move.”
She considered the board and the man, and the late hour. Then she advanced the queen’s pawn two squares. “D4.”
“Bold,” he said, echoing her earlier tone.
They played in silence. The only sounds were the click of ivory against wood, and the distant, muttering wind outside the windows.
Once, August ran a hand through his hair, the gesture impatient, then squared his shoulders and advanced his bishop with a decisive snap.
Eliza countered with patience, careful not to expose her lines, never rushing a move.
The match lasted twenty minutes, and not a word passed between them.
It was the closest thing to peace she had known in months.
August won, but only by a pawn and the narrowest of margins. When he delivered the coup de grace—rook takes knight then checkmate with his queen—he leaned back in his chair and regarded her not as an opponent but as a riddle.
“You sacrificed your queen to trap my rook,” he observed.
Eliza righted the toppled king. “A calculated loss. It opened your defense.”
He nodded then studied her with an intensity that prickled at the back of her neck. “You play the long game.”
She met his gaze without blinking. “I find it’s the only way to win what matters.”
The words hung in the air, too heavy for the lamps and the late hour.
August reached forward slowly and picked up her captured queen from the side of the board.
He turned it in his fingers, examining the worn base, then set it upright with care.
Their hands brushed as he did. They both stilled, yet a strange warmth ran through Eliza.
The touch was accidental, yet neither of them acknowledged it, as if any notice would shatter something irretrievable.
He said nothing more. He stood with his gloves in hand and left the drawing room with a nod that was more surrender than victory.
Eliza watched the queen, her own pulse thundering louder than the wind against the glass. She replayed the moves in her mind, tracing every loss and every gain, and wondered when the match had become about anything but chess.
Eliza made her escape from Wildmoore Hall at precisely five minutes past dawn, when the footmen were busy hauling in wood and the kitchen staff had not yet finished cursing the oven.
She left a folded note on the side table for Mrs. Finch.
Gone out walking. Back before breakfast. E.
Then she pulled on her boots—soaked from yesterday’s rain and not quite dry—and slipped out the east door, closing it with a gentle click that would have made a thief proud.
The mist hung low over the fields, blurring the hedgerows and washing out the world to its bones. She liked it best this way: no color, no shape, no judgment. Only the squelch of earth underfoot and the whir of her own mind.
She thought of the last time she had tried this, just after the wedding, and the long, chilling conversation with August that followed.
He had caught her returning through the side door, mud to her knees, and demanded—in the absurdly polite tone he reserved for moments of high exasperation—“Is it your intention to cause me an apoplexy, or is it merely a talent?”
He’d been joking. Mostly. She remembered the set of his jaw, the way his hands formed fists and then relaxed, as if he were waging a private battle not to shake sense into her.
She had said, “I do not require a keeper.” He had replied, “Every marchioness requires something, Eliza, even if it is only to be noticed.” She had not known how to answer, so she hadn’t.
He will not be awake for hours, she thought and picked up her pace.
The orphanage was three-quarters of a mile down the lane, past the churchyard and the brewery, its brick walls barely visible through the lifting haze.
Eliza arrived just as the bell rang for morning prayers.
She bypassed the front steps and circled around to the kitchen door where the cook, a woman of formidable dimensions and keener instincts, greeted her with a smirk.
“Back so soon, Miss Hartwell? Or must we call you Marchioness now?” the cook teased, wiping her hands on her apron.
Eliza grinned. “Marchioness, Miss, My Lady, or Eliza—I answer to all, provided you don’t shout them at me before sunrise.”
The cook’s laughter boomed. “Well, you’re just in time, My Lady. If I let Mrs. Everett near this pot one more minute, she’ll turn it into library paste.”
Eliza accepted the offered apron and looped it over her dress then approached the hearth.
The porridge, she noted, had reached the perfect state between gruel and paste, but a little intervention would not hurt.
She reached into her reticule and withdrew a small jar of honey and a packet of cinnamon, secret weapons smuggled from Wildmoore Hall’s own larder.
She stirred the additions in, the sweet and sharp scent waking even the dullest of senses.
“Mrs. Everett in yet?” Eliza asked.
The cook nodded toward the hallway. “Hovering in the parlor, nervous as a hen on baking day.”
Eliza dusted her hands and strode through the servant’s hallway to the main entry. The matron was exactly as described: wringing her hands at the edge of a threadbare carpet, her shawl askew, hair bristling with the static of perpetual worry.
“Mrs. Everett,” Eliza said softly.
The matron turned, her face opening with relief. “Miss Hartwell—your pardon, My Lady. Oh, but you are a sight! Forgive me, I do not know how to address you now.”
Eliza waved the concern away. “If you start curtsying, I’ll have to find a new matron, and you know how hard it is to train them.”
Mrs. Everett managed a weak laugh. “I did not wish to presume upon your new station, My Lady.”
“Then presume away, Mrs. Everett. I am only myself here.”
The matron’s face softened. “The children have missed you.”
“Then let’s see to breakfast before they riot.”
In the dining hall, Eliza took up a ladle and served the porridge herself, filling the bowls of children who queued up in states ranging from bashful to feral.
She ruffled hair, bent to listen to secrets, mediated two squabbles, and congratulated a stammering boy for spelling ‘catarrh’ correctly in a spelling contest (though she was privately certain he’d made up the word).
She spotted him at the end of the table: a frail boy, perhaps six years old, with hair stuck flat to his skull and eyes so bright they seemed to shine through the fever.
He coughed then attempted to lift his spoon, but his hand trembled so violently that he nearly upended the bowl.
The child did not complain or whimper—just set his jaw and tried again.
Eliza made her way down the line then knelt beside him. “Good morning, John.”
He regarded her with grave solemnity, the way only the truly ill can. “Good morning, Miss,” he whispered.
She smiled, took the spoon, and stirred the porridge to cool it. “Would you like to hear a story?”
He nodded.
She fed him a spoonful then began: “Once, there was a boy who lived in a house made entirely of spoons…”
For five minutes, she told the story, feeding him one spoonful for every sentence. He ate with the dazed patience of the very sick, never taking his eyes off her face. At the end, when the bowl was empty, he said, “Thank you,” and set his head on the table, exhausted.
Mrs. Everett watched from the doorway, eyes damp. “That is more food than he’s taken in a week, My Lady. You are a miracle worker.”
Eliza stood, her knees creaking in protest. “It is all Mrs. Finch’s honey, I assure you.”
They finished breakfast with minimal casualties and maximal mess. When the children were sent out for lessons, Eliza rolled up her sleeves and helped clear the tables, wash the bowls, and wrangle two of the older girls into scrubbing the worst of the sticky patches from the benches.
It was only as she was hanging her apron by the door that the magnitude of the morning caught up to her. She had not thought of Wildmoore Hall, or August or the relentless machinery of her new life for two full hours. Here, she was useful, invisible, and entirely at peace.
She left as the sun broke through, lighting the lane in sudden gold. She walked back more slowly, savoring the silence.
When she returned, Mrs. Finch was waiting in the entry hall.
“My Lady,” Mrs. Finch said, “a note has arrived. Urgent by the look of it. From London.”
Eliza took the tray, noting the familiar hand. The address was written with the looping confidence of a woman who had never been denied anything in her life.
“Thank you, Mrs. Finch.”
The housekeeper lingered. “You have mud on your hem and a…” she made a vague gesture at Eliza’s hair, “… something.”
Eliza brushed at her head, discovering a smear of porridge on her temple. She laughed, genuine and unguarded. “Tell no one?”
Mrs. Finch’s lips twitched. “I am not in the business of passing information, My Lady.”
Alone, Eliza broke the seal. The message inside was brief:
The Marchioness of Wilhampton requests the pleasure of the Marchioness of Barrington’s company for tea at two o’clock at her townhouse on Cavendish Square.
—A.M.W.
Eliza reread the note then set it aside, pulse speeding. What could Lady Wilhampton possibly want with her and why summon her like a servant?