Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
The morning had dawned gray and cool, the mist clinging stubbornly to the parkland beyond Ravenswood’s great windows. Eliza had always liked mornings such as this—quiet, contemplative—but today the stillness felt heavy, almost oppressive, as though the air itself held its breath.
Eliza was not sleeping. She’d been awake for hours, lost in thought as she stared out at what should have been a peaceful setting.
Now, replaying the events of the evening before, even that bucolic scene appeared threatening.
When Helena sent for her, the summons was not expected, yet no less unwelcome for all that.
It was a welcome distraction from the terrifying memory of feeling hunted.
Not bothering to wait for the maid, Eliza dressed quickly and brushed her long hair until it was free from snarls.
Rather than pinning it up, she allowed it to hang freely over her shoulders, tied back from her face with a simple ribbon.
Her toilette complete, she sought out her grandmother in the morning room as directed.
When Eliza entered, Helena was seated by the window, her embroidery set aside, her sharp eyes fixed upon the pale, drifting fog outside. “Come, child,” she said. “Sit with me.”
Eliza obeyed, perching on the edge of the nearby chair. There was an air of ceremony about Helena this morning, one that made Eliza wary.
“I have been thinking,” Helena began, her voice calm but purposeful. “The time for hesitation has passed. If the Earl of Blackburn should ask for your hand, you must accept him.”
The words, though softly spoken, struck Eliza like a physical blow. “Must?” she repeated. Her grandmother had always encouraged her independence, her free thinking.
“Yes,” Helena said simply, as though the matter were beyond question.
Eliza rose, pacing to the small hearth before turning back to face her grandmother. “You speak as though I have no say in the matter.”
“You have every say, my dear,” Helena countered, “but you must use it wisely. You are a proud girl, and pride can make a woman foolish when her happiness is at stake.—and her safety. The Earl is a good man. Strong, honorable, and not untouched by feeling. If he asks, do not refuse him out of stubbornness or fear.”
Eliza’s pulse quickened. “You believe he will ask?”
“I do.”
Her throat tightened. “And you would have me marry him out of duty? Out of fear of this supposed curse that has ruled our lives for generations?”
Helena’s gaze softened, though her tone remained resolute.
“I would have you marry him because you care for him, though you may not yet be ready to admit it. And because he cares for you, though he has not yet named it for what it is. Fate has a way of offering us only one chance to choose rightly. Take it when it comes, Eliza. Do not let it pass you by.”
Eliza turned away, her hands gripping the edge of the mantle. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” Helena said gently. “Do not cut off your nose to spite your face. The path before you may not be the one you had envisioned for yourself, but it may yet lead you where your heart most wishes to go.”
There was no arguing with that quiet certainty. Helena had spent a lifetime cloaking her will in soft-spoken wisdom, and Eliza knew better than to press further. “Very well,” she murmured. “I will… consider it.”
Helena inclined her head, satisfied. “That is all I ask.”
But as Eliza left the room, her thoughts were far from settled.
A short time later, Eliza entered the breakfast room.
She was still pondering her conversation with her grandmother.
She did not wish to be ungrateful or unkind.
She certainly did not wish to allow pride and arrogance to dictate her actions.
But she could not bear to be coerced into something that should belong only to the realm of the heart.
And yet… there was that heart of hers, foolish and contrary, aching whenever she thought of him.
It wasn’t love. Not yet. But she was not so foolish as to deny that there was something there.
The internal battle with herself still raged when she entered the morning room.
The day was cool enough to warrant a small fire, and the scent of it mingled pleasantly with beeswax and violets.
She had little appetite and had only just reached for a cup of tea when the door opened and Gabriel appeared.
“My lord,” she said, her composure faltering only slightly.
“Miss Ashcombe.” He bowed, his tone formal but gentle. “Might I have a word?”
“Of course,” she said, setting her cup down to follow him into the morning room. It seemed the place for serious conversations.
As they entered, a maid who had been polishing furniture immediately withdrew. When Gabriel turned to her. His face was drawn, his expression grave but steady. “I know you have had a difficult night,” he began. “I would not add to your distress, but there is something that must be said.”
Eliza’s fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve. “Then say it plainly, my lord.”
He nodded once. “The circumstances in which we find ourselves are… delicate. You are under my roof, unchaperoned save for your grandmother. And in a community where I am all but a stranger and your reputation is somewhat precarious to start, that is a recipe for disaster.”
“Precarious is a generous description, my lord,” she replied dryly. “We are met with disapproval, suspicion or cool disdain by everyone in the community… until they require some remedy or charm. Then they are only too willing to brave the darkened woods to seek our aid.”
He nodded. “I have seen the reactions of others at church last Sunday… I fear now that the gossip this arrangement invites is inevitable, and I would spare you that indignity. Beyond that, I wish to ensure your safety and wellbeing. It seems the most expedient solution is to offer for your hand.”
Eliza stared at him. The words were not a surprise, not truly—Helena had prepared her too well for them—but hearing them aloud still stole her breath. “You make it sound very proper, my lord. Very… measured.”
He inclined his head slightly. “I mean it to be. You deserve my honesty, Miss Ashcombe… Eliza. You deserve the respect of full transparency.”
“And affection?” she asked, the faintest quiver of defiance creeping into her tone.
It was the rest of her life they were speaking of, after all.
If she were to tie herself to a man for the remainder of her days, then surely there should be some promise of at least a chance at happiness. “Do I not deserve that as well?”
“You do,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”
“Yet you do not love me.”
His gaze held hers, steady and unflinching. When he spoke, there was a new warmth in his voice, a warmth that held promise and offered hope. “Not yet. But the foundation for it is there, I believe. And if you will have me, I would build upon it. With you.”
Her breath caught at the simplicity of it.
There was no artifice in his manner, no empty flattery.
Only conviction, quiet and sincere. She had been prepared for argument, for persuasion, coercion even—but not for this kind of honesty.
For his willingness to admit something that would make him as vulnerable to her as she was to him.
“You speak of love as though it were a matter of logic,” she said softly.
“Perhaps it is,” he replied. “Or perhaps it is something deeper that I cannot name. But I know this much: I cannot imagine another man at your side without feeling the ground shift beneath my feet. That must mean something.”
Eliza’s pulse fluttered. His voice was low, almost rough at the edges, and though he stood with every outward appearance of calm, she could see the faint tension in his jaw, the way his hand flexed at his side. He was not as composed as he wished her to believe.
“I do not know what to say,” she admitted.
“Say only what you feel,” he answered.
She hesitated for several moments, caught between reason and that strange pull that had bound them from the first moment they met. She thought of Helena’s warning, of her own fear, and of the glimmer of hope that his words had sparked within her despite them both.
At last, she nodded once. “Very well. I accept.”
He released a quiet breath, and though his expression hardly changed, she saw the faintest easing of the lines around his eyes. From his coat pocket, he drew a small velvet case and opened it to reveal a delicate ring of gold set with pearls and tiny diamonds arranged like a cluster of blossoms.
“It was my mother’s,” he said softly. “I would be honored if you would wear it.”
Her hand trembled as he took it in his, the warmth of his touch startling after the coolness of the morning air. The ring slid easily onto her finger, fitting as though it had always belonged there.
“It is beautiful,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes met hers. “It suits you.”
The words, simple as they were, carried a weight that made her chest tighten.
“When shall we—?” she began, unable to finish.
“As soon as may be arranged,” he said. “We will go to Lincoln tomorrow, and be married by Common License.”
Eliza nodded, still unable to find her voice. When he bowed and turned to leave, she did not stop him. She stood in silence long after the door closed, staring down at the ring that gleamed faintly in the firelight.
Fidelis et Fortis. Loyal and Strong.
She traced the words with her thumb and wondered which of them would have to prove truer before all of this was done.