Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Sleep would not come. Eliza stared at the canopy above her bed until the shadows took on shapes that meant nothing and everything at once.
She counted the minutes by the slow tick of the clock on the mantel.
Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five. Each one stretched longer than the last, pulling her further from any hope of rest.
The events of the day should have exhausted her. The revelation about Martha. Lady Wilhampton’s schemes laid bare. August’s apology in his study, the way he had taken her hand and looked at her as though she were something precious rather than merely convenient.
But her mind would not quiet. It turned over every word, every gesture, searching for meaning in the spaces between. Did he truly see her? Or did he see only what he needed her to be?
She threw back the coverlet and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold against her bare feet, but she welcomed the sensation. Something real. Something that anchored her to this moment instead of letting her drift into the endless circling of her own thoughts.
Her wrapper lay across the chair where her maid had left it. She pulled it on and tied the sash then moved to the door. Perhaps a walk would settle her mind. The hallways would be empty at this hour, and she could move through them like a ghost, bothering no one.
The hallway outside her chamber was dark, save for the moonlight streaming through the tall windows at each end.
Her feet made no sound on the carpet runner as she walked, trailing one hand along the wall to orient herself.
She knew this house now. Knew which floorboards creaked, which turns led where, which rooms held which purposes.
How strange. To know a place so intimately and still feel like a visitor.
She moved without destination, letting her feet choose the path.
Down one hallway then another. Past the family portrait gallery where generations of Vestieres watched from their frames.
Past the music room where someone—April, probably—had left sheets of music scattered across the pianoforte.
Past the morning room where she and August had shared breakfast a lifetime ago before everything had grown so complicated.
The library lay ahead. She could see the faint glow of lamplight spilling from beneath the door, painting a thin gold line across the dark floor.
Someone is awake.
She slowed her steps. Perhaps she should turn back. If it was August, she did not know if she could face him tonight. Not when her defenses were down and her heart was too close to the surface.
But then she heard voices. Low. Male. Not August alone, then, but August and someone else.
Her hand found the wall, and she pressed herself against it, listening. She should not eavesdrop. Should not stand here in the dark straining to hear words not meant for her ears.
She stayed anyway.
“I must compliment you, Your Grace, for your timely marriage.”
The voice was unfamiliar. Not a member of the household staff. Perhaps his solicitor or his man of business. Someone who dealt with estate matters.
“You are too kind.” August said.
“Not at all. The duchy required stability, particularly in the weeks following your father’s death. The ton can be merciless when they sense weakness or uncertainty. Your swift action in securing a wife prevented any number of potential difficulties.”
Eliza’s breath caught. Securing a wife.
“The circumstances were admittedly unusual,” August said, “but I believe we have managed well enough.”
“More than well enough. A practical solution, sensibly executed. And the Duchess appears well-suited to her position from what I have observed.”
“She is.” A pause. “Eliza has proven herself more than capable.”
The words should have pleased her. They were compliments, after a fashion. But something about the way they were spoken—clinical, detached, as though discussing the merits of a new steward—made her chest tighten.
“I confess,” the advisor continued, “I had my doubts when I first heard the news. A marriage arranged so quickly under such circumstances. But you made the right choice, Your Grace. The estate needed security, and you provided it. A timely marriage that ensured stability during a volatile period.”
The gold line of light beneath the door blurred. Eliza blinked, and the world came back into focus, sharp and cruel.
“I hope you are pleased with how matters have settled,” the advisor said.
“I am.” August’s voice was quiet. “The marriage has served its purpose well.”
The wall beneath her hand seemed to tilt. She pressed harder against it, needing the solidity of stone to keep her upright. Her lungs had forgotten how to work properly. Each breath came shallow and insufficient, as though the air in the hallway had turned to water.
She had been convenient. A solution to a problem. A duchess-shaped piece that fit neatly into the space his father’s death had left empty.
And she had been fool enough to think it might become something more.
The conversation continued, but she could no longer parse the words. They washed over her in waves of sound that meant nothing. Her hand slipped from the wall, and she took a step backward. Then another. Her feet carried her away from the library.
Which it was. Which it always was.
She climbed the stairs to her chamber. Her body moved on its own, disconnected from her mind. One hand on the banister. One foot in front of the other. Mechanical. Efficient.
The door to her bedchamber closed behind her with a soft click. She stood in the center of the room and stared at nothing.
She had known of course. Had understood from the beginning that their marriage was born of scandal and necessity. But somewhere in the past months, she had allowed herself to hope. To believe that perhaps what had started as convenience might grow into something real.
The rose garden. The orphanage. The kiss in the carriage that had felt like a promise.
His hands holding hers. His mouth pressing against her knuckles. The way he had looked at her as though she mattered.
She crossed to her writing desk and lowered herself into the chair. The surface was neat, everything in its place. Paper, ink, blotter. The tools of correspondence that a duchess required.
She pulled a sheet of paper toward her and uncapped the inkwell. Her hand did not shake as she dipped the quill. Did not tremble as she set nib to paper.
She folded the paper and set it aside then she rose and moved to the wardrobe.
Her dresses hung in neat rows. Silks and satins in colors appropriate for a duchess. Morning dresses and afternoon dresses and ball dresses she had worn precisely once. A fortune in fabric and lace, none of it hers. Not really.
She pushed past them to the back, where her older things still hung. The dresses she had brought from Lady Hartwell’s house. Plain muslins and sturdy wool, serviceable and forgettable. She pulled three from their hooks and laid them across the bed.
The valise sat on the top shelf of the wardrobe.
She dragged it down, set it on the floor, then knelt beside it.
The leather was scuffed at the corners, bearing the marks of previous journeys.
She had carried it when she first came to London.
Had packed it the morning she married August and moved into Wildmoore Hall.
Now, she would pack it again.
She folded the dresses with care, smoothing each crease before laying it in the valise. Three dresses. Two petticoats. A nightdress. Stockings. Her plainest bonnet.
The books on her bedside table were next. Three volumes, all well-worn. She had brought them from her mother’s house years ago, and they had moved with her to Lady Hartwell’s then here. They were hers in a way the matched sets in the library would never be.
She placed them in the valise atop the dresses.
Her mother’s locket lay in the jewelry box on the dressing table.
The only piece she wore regularly, the only one that mattered.
She lifted it from its velvet nest and fastened it around her neck.
The metal was warm from where it had been sitting, and she pressed her palm against it, feeling the familiar shape through her skin.
Mama. What would you tell me to do?
But her mother had chosen love and been disowned for it. Had chosen a man over security and paid the price in cold and hunger and eventual death.
Eliza would not make the same mistake.
She returned to the valise and surveyed its contents.
Everything that truly belonged to her fit in one small bag.
The rest—the dresses, the jewels, the Duchess’ chambers with their silk hangings and imported carpets—belonged to August’s wife.
To the position she had filled. To the solution he had needed.
She closed the valise and latched it then set it beside the door where she would not forget it.
The escritoire beckoned. She returned to it and took out a second sheet of paper. This one she did not address to anyone. This one was simply for her.
I will not be a burden. I will not be another responsibility he carries because duty demands it.
The words steadied something inside her. She folded this paper too and slipped it inside her mother’s book where no one would find it unless they were looking.
The clock struck four. Dawn was coming. Soon the servants would wake and begin their morning routines. Soon the house would stir to life.
She needed to leave before then. Before anyone could stop her or ask questions she did not want to answer.
She rang for Mrs. Finch.
The housekeeper arrived within minutes, her cap slightly askew as though she had dressed in haste. Her eyes went immediately to the valise by the door then to Eliza’s face.
“Your Grace.”
“I apologize for waking you so early.” Eliza kept her voice even, controlled. “I require your assistance.”
Mrs. Finch stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “What do you need?”
“I am going to visit Lady Hartwell. For a fortnight, perhaps longer. I would be grateful if you could arrange for the small carriage to be ready within the hour.”
The housekeeper’s eyes searched her face. Eliza could see the understanding there, the way Mrs. Finch looked at the valise again and then at the letter on the escritoire.
“Does His Grace know of your plans?”
“I have left him a note. He will find it when he wakes.”
“I see.” Mrs. Finch moved closer, and her voice dropped. “Your Grace, forgive my boldness, but are you certain? Perhaps if you spoke with His Grace—”
“I am certain.” The words came out harder than Eliza intended. She softened them with a small smile that felt like a lie. “It is only a visit. Nothing more.”
Mrs. Finch did not look convinced, but she nodded. “I shall have the carriage ready. Shall I send your maid to help you finish packing?”
“That will not be necessary. I have everything I need.”
“Very well, Your Grace.” The housekeeper moved toward the door, then paused. “If you require anything—anything at all—you need only send word.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Finch.”
The door closed, and Eliza was alone again.
She dressed in one of her plain traveling dresses, the dark green wool she had worn when she first came to Wildmoore Hall as August’s bride. It felt strange now, too loose in places where the Duchess’ dresses had fit perfectly. As though she were putting on a costume of who she used to be.
Perhaps she was.
She pinned up her hair with more care than usual, checking her reflection in the mirror to ensure every strand was in place. A duchess did not leave her husband’s house looking disheveled, even if she was only going to visit her aunt.
She pushed the thought aside and fastened her traveling cloak. The valise was light when she picked it up. Everything she owned of value fit in one hand.
She took August’s note from the escritoire and handed it to the housekeeper. “See that he receives it.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
She turned and looked at the staircase now. Morning light was beginning to creep through the windows, painting the marble steps in shades of gray and gold. Beautiful. Elegant. The home she had thought she might be building with him.
She reached out and touched the banister. The wood was smooth and cool beneath her palm, worn by generations of hands that had gripped it before hers.
She had begun to think of this place as home. Had begun to imagine herself belonging here, not as an obligation or a convenience but as something real.
She straightened her shoulders and pulled her hand away.
In the carriage, Eliza kept her eyes forward, watching the road ahead, even as her chest constricted painfully. She blindly watched the morning mist curl around the trees lining the drive then the gates approach and then pass as they rolled through and onto the main road.
The life she had begun to hope might become real faded, becoming insubstantial and impossible as it had always been.