Chapter 18 #2
Once she was settled near the fire, Eleanor stared into the flames for several moments before speaking.
“There is something I need to tell you.”
Every part of Alexander became still. He knew that tone, the careful preparation before saying something difficult.
His mind immediately went to Julian. After all, perhaps she had finally decided she could no longer pretend, and she would tell him that the feelings she had once carried for Julian Sinclair had never truly disappeared.
He hated that he cared. He hated that the idea of losing something he had never possessed hurt so deeply.
“I have been trying to—”
A sudden knock at the door interrupted them, a maid bustling in to hand them hot tea. Alexander felt relief before he could stop himself. The moment passed, and whatever she had been about to say remained unspoken.
He was grateful, and ashamed of being grateful, because he knew, deep down, that he had not avoided the truth. He had only delayed it. And when Eleanor looked back at him, Alexander knew he was not ready to hear her words. Not yet.
Eleanor remained near the fire, her hands wrapped around the warm cup that had been brought to her.
The flames reflected softly against her face, and Alexander found himself noticing the small details he had once overlooked; the damp strands of hair near her temple, and the faint exhaustion beneath her eyes.
He cleared his throat.
“You should not have been outside.”
“Neither should you.”
“I was looking for you.”
“I was only in the garden.”
“In a storm.”
“I did not expect it to arrive so quickly.”
“Neither did I.”
A quiet silence followed, one that was not uncomfortable. For so long, silence had been something he used as a barrier. With Eleanor, it was beginning to feel like something else entirely.
“I suppose you will tell me the flowers in the garden survived?”
The question caught her off guard.
“The flowers?”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the window, where rain continued to fall heavily against the glass.
“Are you truly concerned about the flowers?”
“I am aware that they are important to you.”
The admission was simple, but Eleanor seemed to hear more in it than he had intended.
“They have suffered worse.”
“From storms?”
“From neglect.”
Alexander looked down.
“The estate has suffered from neglect as well,” he acknowledged.
Eleanor turned back toward him.
“I do not think Ashbourne was neglected. I think it was simply waiting for someone to care about it again.”
Alexander looked toward the fire and wondered if she only meant the estate.
“You have changed a great deal since arriving here.”
Eleanor smiled faintly.
“I am not certain whether that is a compliment.”
“It is, and I mean it sincerely.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Eleanor glanced down at her cup.
“I did not expect to care about this place.”
“Neither did I,” Alexander chuckled as he leaned back slightly, his gaze resting on the flames. “When I returned from the war, I thought I knew exactly what Ashbourne was. It was a responsibility, something to maintain because it was expected of me.”
“And now?”
He looked around the room.
“Now I am beginning to think perhaps I was wrong.”
Eleanor studied him, but she did not push him to explain.
“Do you miss it?”
“The war?”
She nodded. Alexander considered the question, which surprised even himself.
“No, but I miss knowing exactly what was expected of me.”
Eleanor understood that more than she wanted to admit.
“At least there,” she replied, “everything was clear.”
“Yes.”
“You knew what you were fighting for, and here things are more complicated.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his mouth.
“That is one way of describing it.”
Eleanor smiled in return.
“I should thank you,” he said.
Her brows drew together.
“For what?”
“The garden.”
She seemed genuinely surprised.
“It is my home too. You do not need to thank me.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I have spent years believing that changing things was unnecessary. You reminded me that something can be restored without becoming what it was before, and that is something that I never thought I would value until you proved it to me.”
Eleanor was quiet for a moment.
“That is a rather thoughtful thing to say.”
“I am capable of being thoughtful occasionally.”
She laughed softly.
“There are some who might disagree.”
“Henry, undoubtedly.”
“Most certainly. He is a good man, and I am pleased that the two of you are friends.”
The sound of her laughter filled the room, and Alexander felt something inside him ease.
For once, they did not speak about the past. Instead, they spoke about smaller things, such as the fact that Thornton had apparently been quietly attempting to repair a broken cabinet for three months because he refused to admit he needed assistance.
By the time the fire had burned lower, the silence between them no longer felt like a divide, and when Eleanor finally stood to leave, Alexander found himself reluctant to let the moment end.
“Eleanor?”
“Yes?”
He hesitated. There were countless things he could have said—questions, apologies, confessions he was not yet brave enough to make. Instead, he chose something simpler.
“Get some rest.”
A small smile touched her lips.
“I shall try.”
She left the room quietly, and Alexander remained beside the fire long after she was gone, aware of the strange feeling that had settled over him.
For the first time in years, he had spent an evening not thinking about duty, and somehow it had been the most unsettling thing he had ever done.