Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
The fire in Gabriel’s study had long since burned down to embers, but he made no move to replenish it.
The air was cool, faintly scented with the lingering smoke of cigars, the leather bindings of books, and the ink that had dried in the open ledger before him.
He had not turned a page in over an hour.
Instead, he sat in silence, staring into the faint glow in the fireplace as his thoughts churned in a tangled knot he could not escape. Helena Ashcombe’s words replayed themselves in his mind again and again.
Though he had not meant to overhear them, it had been unavoidable, at least initially.
The conservatory adjoined his study by way of a small, covered terrace — a pleasant feature of the house he’d often used since coming to Ravenswood.
He’d stepped out earlier that afternoon to clear his mind, hoping the air might chase away the restless unease that had plagued him since morning.
Instead, it had brought him voices — Helena’s low and measured, Eliza’s softer, more uncertain.
He might have turned back. He should have. But something in Helena’s tone — a strange solemnity — had rooted him where he stood.
And then he’d heard the word curse.
It had seemed absurd at first, the kind of superstition that clung to families and old houses like mold.
But as Helena spoke, her words spun a tale so vivid, so steeped in sorrow and consequence, that he found himself unable to move away.
The wind had carried each syllable through the open doors, and he had stood frozen on the threshold, unwilling to break the spell of it.
He’d listened as she told of Lenore and Lettice Ashcombe, of love turned to envy, of witch hunters and hangings and tragedy. Of the curse that condemned every Ashcombe woman to heartbreak and disgrace, to bear children out of wedlock, to live always on the fringes of respectability.
He did not believe it. He could not.
And yet…
He exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to his temple.
In the army, he had seen things he could not explain — men who claimed to see their deaths before they came, villages where the wind itself seemed to carry voices.
He had learned to dismiss such tales for the sake of sanity.
But here, in this place, with her… with this undeniable pull between them that seemed to be magical in and of itself, the line between disbelief and dread blurred.
He could not deny the strangeness of what had already transpired — the dream they had both shared, the unbidden familiarity of a kiss that neither could have imagined before it happened.
He had never been a fanciful man. He was, by nature and by training, a creature of reason.
But reason seemed a frail defense against the mysticism and otherworldliness that drew him toward Eliza Ashcombe.
Was it enchantment? Some lingering spell from her forebears? Or simply the madness of desire, sharpened by proximity and secrecy?
He did not know. What he did know was that it no longer mattered. Spell or no spell, curse or no curse, his feelings for her were real. She had taken root in him as surely as ivy claimed the stone walls of this house. And the more he fought against it, the deeper she grew.
He stood abruptly, pushing back from the desk. The chair skidded slightly on the carpet.
No. He would not be the kind of man who used a woman’s vulnerability for his own satisfaction.
Whatever gossip might cling to her name, whatever stories the villagers told, he had seen the truth of her.
Beneath the mystery and the whispers, she was innocent.
Blameless. A woman of quiet strength and unyielding dignity.
And a woman who had not yet surrendered herself t any man.
To seduce her under his roof — under the guise of protection — would make him the worst sort of scoundrel. He had spent a lifetime becoming a man his father would have despised: disciplined, measured, honorable. He would not undo it now.
If this feeling between them was to mean anything, it must be given shape in the light, not the dark. And that meant seeking her grandmother’s consent before he spoke a single word of his intentions to Eliza herself.
Gabriel crossed the room, his decision settling like steel within him. His reflection caught briefly in the glass of the window — pale, drawn, the look of a man both resolute and uncertain.
“Fool,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re behaving like a lovesick schoolboy.” But even as he said it, he knew it was already too late to turn back.
He found Helena in the morning room not long after.
The space was bright, filled with the scent of beeswax and violets, the kind of room where sunlight seemed to linger longer than elsewhere in the house.
She sat near the window, her embroidery frame balanced neatly in her lap, her needle flashing in and out of the fabric with deliberate precision.
“Miss Ashcombe,” he said, pausing at the threshold.
Helena looked up, her eyes sharp despite the mild smile that curved her mouth. “My lord. What an unexpected visit. Do come in.”
He inclined his head and stepped closer. “I fear I am intruding, madame.”
“Nonsense. Embroidery is hardly sacred work, though it does keep idle hands from meddling where they ought not. And do please call me Helena. We have invaded your home, after all. Such formality seems a bit pointless under the circumstances, doesn’t it?”
Her words held a double meaning, and Gabriel suspected she knew exactly why he had come. “Very well, Helena. And you may call me Gabriel or Blackburn. Whichever you are most comfortable with. I wished to speak with you,” he said. “About your granddaughter.”
Her needle stilled. “Ah. Yes, I rather thought as much.”
He drew a breath, then forced himself to meet her gaze.
“I will be plain, Mis—Helena. I care for her. Deeply. And with such short acquaintance, perhaps more than I have any right to. I am not a man who makes impulsive decision, but I have learned through my years in the military to trust my instincts. And if I am to act, it must be with purpose.”
Helena’s expression did not change, but something in her eyes softened. “You mean to offer for her.”
“Yes.” The word left him before he could soften it. “I mean to marry her — if she’ll have me. But I know she will not even consider it without your consent.”
Helena set her embroidery aside, folding her hands atop it. “You are correct. Eliza is guided by loyalty as much as by love. She would not defy me, though she might wish to.”
“Then I ask for your blessing.”
For a moment, the older woman was silent. The clock on the mantel ticked softly, the only sound in the still room. Finally, she spoke.
“Tell me, my lord — do you know what it is you are asking for?”
“I do.”
“You would bind yourself to a woman whose family lives under a curse.”
“I do not believe in curses,” he said firmly.
Helena’s smile was faint, almost wistful. “No. Nor did the men who loved us before you. But belief changes little. It is the truth of the thing that endures.”
He met her gaze evenly. “If misfortune comes, it will come whether I believe in it or not. But I would rather face it beside her than spend my life wondering if I might have saved her from it. Or if I allowed cowardice to rob us both.”
Helena regarded him for a long moment, then nodded once. “Then you have my consent, Gabriel Hawthorne. And my gratitude. You are braver than most.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you. I will speak to her at once.”
But as he turned to go, Helena’s voice stopped him.
“She is not here,” she said quietly.
He turned back. “Not here?”
“She went out early this morning,” Helena said, her tone calm but her eyes betraying a flicker of concern. “Said she wished to walk in the gardens.”
Gabriel felt a sharp chill of apprehension. “Alone?”
Helena’s silence was answer enough.
He was already moving toward the door when she spoke again, her voice carrying softly after him.
“The woods call to her, my lord. They always have.”
He did not stop to reply. A sense of urgency had overcome him. By the time he reached the terrace, the sun had begun its slow descent, and the forest beyond Ravenswood stood dark and waiting.