Chapter 4
For all intents and purposes, Eleanor took to her role well.
The air inside Ashbourne House felt still in a way that gave her a great sense of unease, even after days of being there.
Every place she passed was impeccably clean, and the precision of it all created an impression that nothing within the estate had ever been touched without permission.
If anything, she avoided wandering too much, for fear that she would make a mess of it all.
That morning, Eleanor paused in one of the wider hallways and let her gaze settle on a chair positioned against the wall. When she brushed her fingers along its edge, she found no dust, but even so, there was a sense of neglect, as though nobody truly lived there. She would be no exception.
She continued walking until she reached the rear doors of the estate, where the gardens stretched out before her, and for the first time since arriving the day before, she felt something loosen in her chest. The grounds were vast, but time had taken its toll on it all, and it seemed that nobody had maintained them, in spite of what her father had suggested.
Hedges had grown unevenly, pathways had lost their clarity, and though there had seemingly been an effort made, it was not in keeping with the standard of the rest of the household. With that, however, there came something honest about it in a way the house was not.
She walked along one of the broken paths, her skirts brushing against the soil as she studied what remained of it all. She recognized immediately that the garden had once been maintained with care rather than indifference, because structure still lingered beneath the overgrowth.
The layout had not been abandoned abruptly; it had faded gradually, as though whoever tended it had simply stopped returning and had not destroyed any of it.
She stopped near what had once been a rose border. The stems were tangled and uneven, but beneath the chaos she could still see the shape of what it had been. Instinctively, she reached out and began to untangle them slowly. A thorn pierced her skin, and she jolted at the sudden sting.
“You will ruin your gloves doing that.”
The voice came from behind her, and Eleanor turned to find Bessie approaching with a small basket balanced carefully in her hands. Her face carried a warmth that seemed almost out of place against the decay surrounding them, and she looked around at it all with hope rather than apprehension.
Eleanor glanced down at her hands, noting the soil already darkening the fabric of her gloves.
“They were already ruined,” she replied, brushing her fingers together as if that might at all help.
“It feels like this could all be beautiful again,” Bessie said. “It just looks like no one has cared about it in a long time. Fortunately, you are here now, and you care about plants more than anyone.”
Eleanor followed her gaze across the broken beds and uneven growth. The words should have sounded simple, but they did not sit easily with her. It was difficult to believe there was much care in the household at all, given that she had not even seen her own husband since their wedding.
“Caring is not always enough,” she said after a moment. “You need to have talent too.”
“Perhaps, but you are talented. Besides, sometimes tenderness is the only thing that changes anything.”
Eleanor did not respond immediately. Her attention drifted back to the garden, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to imagine it restored.
The thought pleased her more than she expected, but then it also unsettled her as it implied attachment, and attachment was something she had already decided against.
Before she could pull herself away from it, however, she felt the sense of being watched.
Her gaze lifted instinctively toward the upper floors of the house. At one of the tall windows, Alexander stood partially visible, though he was half-covered by shadow. He was not moving, and he was impossible to ignore. Eleanor met his eye without hesitation.
Then Alexander turned, and the window became empty again.
“Are you all right?” Bessie asked.
Eleanor knew that the expected thing was for her to simply say that she was, and let it rest, but something had been on her mind since her wedding day, and she needed to speak about it.
“He…The duke did something strange before our wedding.”
“Do you mean him not needing to meet you beforehand? It is not entirely unheard of.”
“No, he—you will think that I am mad.”
“I could never,” Bessie said kindly, half-smiling. “What happened?”
“He was dressed as a commoner, and he was in the library when I entered. He did not introduce himself, and instead tried to help me escape.”
At that, her maid’s eyes widened.
“But that does not make sense.”
“That is what I have been thinking, too. I wonder if he was trying to find a way not to marry me, only for his hand to be forced regardless.”
“I would not say that. He is a duke. If he had just reason not to marry you, he would not have done so.”
Eleanor wanted to believe that, but she doubted it all the same.
If he was not a cruel man, then perhaps he simply did not wish to ruin her.
For a moment, she remained still, listening to the quiet of the grounds and the distant life of the house behind her, before she forced herself to continue walking along the path, as though nothing had changed at all.
Bessie walked a little behind her, still speaking in that steady, unbothered tone of hers, though her words softened when they passed closer to the servants’ entrance.
Voices drifted from nearby, carrying fragments of conversation that stopped and started as if they were not meant to be heard, and Eleanor slowed without meaning to, the servants’ voices carrying easily in the quiet.
“They say the duke keeps to himself,” one said. “He has for years.”
“Pity her, then. No one lasts long in a house like this without feeling unwelcome.”
Eleanor kept walking as though she had not heard them, but the words settled too deeply for her to be able to dismiss them.
She had grown used to people forming opinions without knowing her, and she had long since learned that gossip was hardly ever true, but these were his servants.
They had to know him at least a little, and if that was what they had to say…
Bessie glanced at her briefly, as if weighing whether to speak, then chose not to. Instead, she adjusted the basket on her arm and continued beside her in silence for a while, letting the moment pass.
They reached a quieter stretch of the garden where the paths widened, and the overgrowth grew denser.
Eleanor stopped again, taking in the scale of neglect more fully, and then stepped forward and brushed her fingers lightly over a stem that had grown too wild to hold itself upright.
The contact was brief, but it grounded her in a way the house never had.
“This garden is still mine,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Bessie.
Bessie looked up at her, a faint smile returning.
“Then perhaps you might like to treat it like it is,” she said simply.
Eleanor did not answer at first. Her gaze moved across the space again, taking it all in, and then at last resolve settled in her chest. She was not powerless, not entirely, and she had to take advantage of that.
There were things that she could do to occupy her time, and if her husband was not going to notice her, then that would make it even easier.
“I will restore it,” she said at last. “You are right, Bessie. I am capable of it, and if this is to be my home, then I ought to do all that I can to make it perfect.”
Bessie’s expression brightened slightly at that, as if she had been waiting for the words.
“Then I will help you,” she replied without hesitation. “I know that this can all feel overwhelming, Your Grace, but you are not alone.”
“I do wish that you would simply call me Eleanor,” she sighed, but she was smiling all the same.
For a moment, Eleanor almost questioned her certainty, but then she did not. Instead, she turned her attention back toward the estate. When she lifted her gaze, she felt it again, that awareness of being observed.
The window above was empty now, but her husband’s presence lingered in a way that was harder to dismiss than his actual figure had been.
Eleanor held still for a brief moment, then forced herself to turn away from the house again, as if refusing to acknowledge that he had any claim over her attention at all.
She moved further into the garden with a slower, more deliberate pace, now looking at it all as an opportunity rather than an eyesore. The earlier unease had not vanished, but it had at least changed into something more manageable, knowing that she would be able to do something about it.
Bessie stayed close beside her, occasionally pointing out small signs of life among the overgrowth, and Eleanor noted that she was more aware of what was happening around her than she would have expected.
A few stubborn shoots had pushed through cracked stone near a border, and Bessie crouched briefly to inspect them before straightening again with a faint nod of approval.
“They’re stubborn,” she said lightly, brushing dirt from her fingertips. “This is entirely possible.”
Eleanor looked down at the same patch, studying it more carefully than she had before. There was something about how easily Bessie assigned patience to things that had been abandoned that put her at ease.
Eventually, they turned back, and the house soon came back into partial view through the trees.
From that angle, it looked even more imposing, its height cutting cleanly against the sky in a way that made the garden feel smaller by comparison.
Eleanor stopped without meaning to, her attention drawn upward in spite of herself.
The window was visible again, and Alexander stood there once more, though he was partially turned away, as if the moment before had never occurred. He did not appear to be watching her this time, yet Eleanor felt the awareness of him all the same.
After a long moment, he disappeared from view entirely again, and the window became nothing more than glass. Eleanor exhaled quietly, forcing herself to look back toward the garden. Bessie followed her gaze, though she seemed unaware of what had drawn it in the first place.
“It is strange,” she said after a moment, “living somewhere like this, where everything feels so still.”
Eleanor considered the remark before answering.
“It is nice, in a way,” she said finally. “It is quiet, and there is not much left that is quiet, not in a nice way at least.”
And yet, Eleanor found herself waiting for that to give way again. She hoped that the few days she had lived there were an indication that she was to live a peaceful life, but part of her waited for the rest of it to fall into place, and for it to all go terribly wrong.
She continued walking, but her thoughts no longer stayed entirely on the garden. Instead, they returned briefly to the house behind her, to the silence within it, and to the way she was seemingly always being observed. She did not like the way it stayed with her, so she pushed it aside.
They reached the edge of the garden, and Eleanor finally stopped again, taking in the full expanse of what she had taken on, whether she had intended to or not. It was not beautiful, not yet, but it was hers in a way the house was not.
“I will start here,” she said quietly.
“Then I will bring you gloves that are better suited for the task,” Bessie replied.
They both laughed softly, and for the first time since arriving, Eleanor felt happy.
It was tentative, but it was there before she let it pass.
Behind them, the estate remained silent, and above it, the windows offered no further sign of movement.
The garden, however, felt different, as though something within it had been acknowledged rather than simply seen.
Eleanor turned slightly toward the path back to the house, then stopped again, looking once more at the tangled growth in front of her. After a moment, she stepped forward and plucked out a single weed, holding it tightly in her hand. It was not much, but it was a start.
And it gave her a good deal of hope.