Chapter 23
Truth be told, Nathaniel did not leave before dawn to avoid his wife.
He left because dawn was the safest hour. London’s outskirts were quieter then– less traffic, fewer curious eyes, fewer gentlemen with idle time and sharp memories. Mist remained low over the fields as he rode, his collar turned up against the cold.
He preferred the road at that hour.
By the time the sun fully rose, he was already nearing the small house tucked beyond a narrow stand of trees, far enough from the main road to discourage visitors.
A single lamp burned in the front window. He dismounted and knocked once before letting himself inside. His sister looked up from the settee, her expression tightening before easing.
“You are early,” she said.
“It is safer.”
She gave a faint nod. The boy lay asleep beside her, color stronger in his cheeks than it had been weeks ago. Nathaniel crossed the room and rested two fingers lightly against the child’s forehead.
“No fever?” he asked.
“Not for days now,” she replied.
“And the coughing?”
“Lessening with each passing day.”
He exhaled quietly.
“The apothecary must remain discreet.”
“He is paid to be.”
His sister sighed, looking at him with tired eyes.
“How long must we remain hidden?”
Nathaniel did not answer immediately.
“Until it is safe,” he said at last.
She looked down at her son.
“Safe from whom?”
He met her gaze.
“From everyone. You know that this is what must be done.”
The words were not dramatic. They were factual. One misstep, one whisper in the wrong drawing room, and everything would unravel. Her life had collapsed loudly enough. Nathaniel would not allow them to be a target once again.
“I am not ashamed,” she said quietly.
“I know. I am not ashamed of you either.”
“Then why must I live as though I am? As though you are?”
“You are not living in shame,” he replied. “You are living in protection.”
She was silent for a moment, looking at a spot of dirt on the floor that had been missed.
“Have you everything you require?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“If anything changes–”
“I will send word.”
He nodded once. She studied him carefully.
“You look as tired as me.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
He did not argue.
“Does she know?” his sister asked.
He stilled.
“Know what?”
“Where you go.”
“She knows I have obligations.”
“That was not my question.”
He moved to the window, scanning the tree line automatically.
“She does not need details.”
“Is that kindness,” his sister asked softly, “or distance?”
He did not answer.
“You have always believed you must carry everything alone,” she continued.
“This is not everything.”
“It is enough.”
He turned back toward her.
“The fewer who know that I am here this often, the fewer who can be harmed.”
“And Margaret would be harmed by knowing?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“By association.”
His sister watched him closely.
“Or by exclusion? She knows who I am, Nathaniel. Pretending that you are not here will only lead to more distrust.”
Silence lingered. The boy stirred faintly.
She bent to adjust the blanket. He wanted to tell Margaret, but he knew it would not end there.
She would want to accompany him, to assist him, and he could not allow her to.
Eliza was the one responsibility that was his alone, and she had already put him to shame in regard to running the household.
He did not need her to be a better sister to Eliza than he had been as a brother.
“I have not forgotten what it is to feel shut out,” she said quietly.
“This is temporary,” he said.
“So you tell yourself.”
“It is.”
She looked up at him.
“And when it is no longer necessary?”
“Then I will return my full attention to Ravensmere.”
“And to your wife?”
“Yes.”
She studied him, searching.
“Do you believe she requires only provision?” she asked.
“I believe she values stability.”
“And nothing more?”
“That is what we agreed upon.”
His sister’s mouth curved faintly, not in amusement.
“You and your agreements.”
“They prevent chaos.”
“They also prevent closeness.”
He did not respond. A knock sounded softly at the rear door, one of the discreet deliveries he had arranged. Nathaniel moved quickly to intercept it, stepping outside to exchange quiet words with the grocer.
“Everything as ordered?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“No one has asked questions.”
“See that they do not.”
The grocer nodded and departed without lingering. Every visit required precision. Every decision carried weight. One wrong rumor, one loose tongue, and his sister would be dragged through the same merciless scrutiny she had barely survived.
When he finally mounted his horse again, the sun had risen fully.
The ride back felt longer.
He thought of Margaret standing in his study, asking him directly whether he was avoiding her. He had not been. He had been preserving something fragile, yet the look in her eyes had unsettled him.
“I asked for nothing more,” she had said.
And he had taken that as instruction. By the time he returned to Ravensmere, evening shadows had begun to stretch across the drive.
He dismounted slowly, fatigue settling into his shoulders. Inside, the house felt warmer than it once had. Fires burned brighter. Margaret had changed the atmosphere of the place.
He paused in the entry hall, removing his gloves. Mrs. Hill appeared as though summoned by instinct.
“You have been away,” she observed. “Again.”
“Yes.”
“She asked for you.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“And?”
“She did not wait.”
He absorbed that.
“She is not unaware,” Mrs. Hill added carefully.
“Of what?”
“That you are elsewhere.”
“I am where I must be.”
“I do not dispute that.”
He met her gaze.
“She feels the absence,” Mrs. Hill said.
Absence did not mean indifference. He wanted to say it aloud. Instead, he simply nodded once and moved past her. In the corridor outside Margaret’s chamber, he paused.
The door was closed, but light glowed faintly beneath it. He raised his hand to knock, then lowered it.
Not yet, he told himself. Not until this was secure. He would finish what was necessary, then he would repair what distance had frayed.
For now, he turned away.
Nathaniel had not kept his distance because he felt nothing. He kept it because he felt too much.
It would have been simpler if Margaret had faltered in her role, if she had complained, if she had demanded attention or filled the house with visible dissatisfaction.
Instead, she moved through Ravensmere with quiet steadiness. He saw it even when he was not meant to. He saw the way the staff straightened when she entered a room, the way she paused to listen before issuing instruction.
One afternoon, returning earlier than expected, he stopped in the corridor outside the drawing room. Her voice drifted through the half-open door.
“We will not reduce their rations,” she was saying calmly. “If the harvest was thin, then we adjust the distribution. We can not punish them for weather.”
A tenant’s voice followed, hesitant.
“Your Grace, it is too generous.”
“It is sensible,” she replied. “Cold soil yields little.”
Nathaniel remained still. She had never been raised for this weight, yet she carried it perfectly. He stepped away before she could see him. It was easier to watch from a distance.
Later that evening, he observed her at dinner across the long table. Candlelight caught in her hair. She asked measured questions about accounts, about boundary repairs, about mill output.
“You have handled the west cottages efficiently,” he said at the close of the meal.
“Thank you,” she replied.
That was all. He excused himself before the silence deepened. In his study, he pressed his fingers against his eyes briefly. He was not indifferent. He was careful.
The more he saw her settle into the role of duchess with that unassuming grace, however, the more intolerable it became to imagine dragging scandal into her life.
One whisper about his sister. One careless connection between properties. One curious gentleman with too much time and not enough restraint.
Margaret would be drawn into it. He would not allow that, so he chose silence. If he kept the lines clean, if he preserved the appearance of practicality, then no one would look too closely.
A practical marriage invited little curiosity. A passionate one invited scrutiny. He stood at the window long after the candles burned low. Longing had no place there, he told himself.
He had been reckless once before, in smaller ways. He would not be reckless now when the stakes were greater.
Still, his thoughts betrayed him. He found himself recalling the way her brow furrowed when she studied accounts. The way her voice softened when speaking to the younger maids. The way she had stood in his study and asked him directly whether he was avoiding her.
One evening, passing her chamber, he heard faint movement inside– pages turning, perhaps. He paused outside the door without intending to.
He imagined knocking, stepping inside and explaining everything.
Then he imagined her face when she understood the danger, the anxiety that would follow, and thought better of it. It was better that she believed him distant.
The thought left a bitter taste.
In the morning, he rode out again before dawn. At the small house beyond the trees, his sister met him with quiet news.
“He slept through the night,” she said.
Nathaniel nodded, relief threading through his exhaustion.
“You look worse,” she added.
“I am well.”
She studied him.
“Does she know that you care for her?”
“She knows I respect her.”
He looked toward the boy, not answering. His sister stepped closer.
“Protection is not the same as silence.”
“It must be,” he said.
“For how long?”
“Until this is finished.”
“And when will that be?”
He did not know. On the ride back to Ravensmere, the wind cut sharp against his face. He told himself again that his marriage had to remain practical, that he could not afford to want what he might lose.
Yet when he reached the estate and saw Margaret in the garden speaking with the head gardener, her hands folded loosely at her waist, sunlight catching along the curve of her cheek, his breath stalled.
She turned at the sound of hooves. For a brief second, their eyes met. Something passed between them. Not accusation, not even hurt.
It was distance.
He nodded his head, and she did the same.
And he felt, with quiet certainty, that the silence he had chosen was beginning to cost more than he had calculated.