Chapter 18
Eleanor first noticed James’s absences because the house seemed to pause without him.
It was not quiet, but something in its rhythm shifted. Doors closed more often than they opened. Footsteps passed her without stopping. Even the servants’ voices softened, as though sound itself might travel too far.
She noticed it one morning at breakfast.
James’s chair remained empty.
The table had been set regardless, silver placed with exacting symmetry, his napkin folded and waiting. Eleanor hesitated before sitting, a foolish instinct she had not yet unlearned, and then took her place alone.
Mrs. Hargreaves hovered near the sideboard longer than usual.
“Is His Grace expected this morning?” Eleanor asked lightly, reaching for her tea.
Mrs. Hargreaves clasped her hands. “His Grace has already taken breakfast, Your Grace.”
“Oh.”
“He left just after dawn.”
Eleanor nodded. “Of course.”
Mrs. Hargreaves did not leave immediately. “Shall I have something sent up later? If you wish?”
“No,” Eleanor said at once. “This is sufficient.”
The woman inclined her head and withdrew.
Eleanor stirred her tea though it did not need it. She had learned to observe without drawing notice, and observation told her this was not the first morning James had gone early. It was simply the first she had been awake to see the gap.
Later that day, she encountered him only in passing.
She was crossing the east corridor when voices carried toward her. James emerged from the study with his coat already on, Thomas beside him, a folded packet in his hand.
They slowed when they saw her.
“Eleanor,” James said.
The use of her name still unsettled her, arriving without warning and leaving behind it the faint sense of being acknowledged.
“Good morning,” she replied.
Thomas bowed and excused himself at once, retreating with the discretion of a man who understood when he was no longer required.
James remained.
“I did not see you at breakfast,” he said.
“I slept poorly.”
A pause. Not long, but deliberate.
“I will be gone most of the day,” he said. “There are matters to attend to.”
“I assumed as much.”
He studied her for a moment, his gaze steady, unreadable. Eleanor felt, with a sudden and irrational clarity, that he was waiting.
Waiting for what, she did not know. Or perhaps she did, and did not wish to confirm it.
“Very well,” she said.
His brow creased faintly.
“If you require anything –”
“I will speak to Mrs. Hargreaves.”
“Yes.”
Silence pressed in again, heavier this time. Eleanor had the strange sensation of standing at the edge of something she was not permitted to name.
He inclined his head, courteous, distant. “I will see you this evening.”
She watched him go, her hands folded loosely in front of her, her expression composed.
It was only once his footsteps faded that she realized she had almost asked where.
The realization unsettled her more than the question itself.
She reminded herself of the rule. He had been clear. Questions about his movements were unnecessary. He had been polite about it, but the boundary had been unmistakable.
And she had agreed.
Agreement, she had learned, was easier than resistance.
Over the next several days, the pattern repeated.
James left early. Returned late. Sometimes he did not return until well after midnight. He did not seek her out when he did, though he never avoided her when chance brought them together.
At dinner, he was attentive but distracted.
“You prefer the trout?” he asked one evening.
“Yes.”
He nodded, then stared at his plate as though the answer had not entirely registered.
She did not ask where he had been.
She did not ask where he was going.
She did not ask why he sometimes returned with a faint scent of cold air and leather, as though he had ridden farther than necessity required.
Instead, she learned the estate.
She walked the gardens with Mrs. Hargreaves. Learned which paths flooded after rain, which trees were oldest, which servants had been at Blackmere since James’s childhood. She read in the afternoons, wrote letters she did not send, and practiced the pianoforte when the house felt too still.
One afternoon, she was descending the front steps when she saw him in the drive.
James stood beside a horse already saddled, his glove halfway on, Thomas handing him a sealed letter.
Eleanor stopped.
He looked up at once, as though he had sensed her presence.
“Eleanor.”
She descended the remaining steps, her skirts gathered lightly in one hand. “You are leaving again.”
“Yes.”
The word sat between them, plain and unadorned.
She felt the question rise, unbidden, sharp at the back of her throat.
Where are you going?
The impulse was so strong it startled her. She had not expected to want to know. Want implied entitlement, and she had never been permitted such a thing.
James’s gaze held hers. He did not look impatient. If anything, there was something wary in his expression, as though he, too, were braced for what might follow.
She saw then that he expected her to ask.
The realization was almost dizzying.
Her fingers tightened around her reticule.
“I hope your ride is not unpleasant,” she said instead.
Something flickered across his face. Surprise that was quickly masked.
“I do not expect it to be.”
She nodded once. “Then I shall see you later.”
“Yes.”
For a fraction of a moment, neither of them moved.
Then James turned, swung easily into the saddle, and rode off without another word.
Eleanor remained where she was, watching until the bend in the drive swallowed him whole.
Only then did she exhale.
She told herself she had done the sensible thing.
That evening, James did not return for dinner.
She ate alone again, the candles burning lower than usual, the room too large for one person.
When he finally returned, it was past midnight. Eleanor had been sitting in the small drawing room, pretending to read while listening for footsteps she would never admit she was waiting for.
The door opened.
He stopped when he saw her.
“You are awake.”
“So are you.”
He gave a short huff of something that might have been amusement. “Apparently.”
She closed her book. “Would you like tea? Mrs. Hargreaves keeps a pot warm.”
“That will not be necessary.”
She rose anyway, crossed the room, and rang for it.
James watched her with an expression she could not interpret.
When the tray arrived and the maid departed, Eleanor poured without comment for them both.
“You waited for me to return,” he said abruptly.
Her hand stilled.
“No.”
“I thought you might be here for a conversation regarding my whereabouts.”
“I considered it.”
“And yet you did not.”
She handed him the cup. Their fingers brushed, just briefly.
“No,” she said evenly.
He took the cup, his jaw tightening. “I asked you not to concern yourself with matters that are mine.” He looked to her. “Do you resent that?”
The question caught her off guard.
“No,” she said, and then, because honesty mattered more in moments like these, “I do not know that I have earned the right to.”
His gaze sharpened. “You are my wife. If anyone has any right, it would be you.”
She met his eyes. “That does not mean the same thing to everyone.”
Silence fell again, thick and uncertain.
“Look, Eleanor –” he began, then stopped.
She waited.
He exhaled slowly. “I did not intend to make you feel excluded.”
“You did not,” she said at once.
That, too, was true. Exclusion required expectation. She had learned not to expect.
James studied her for a long moment.
“You are very disciplined,” he said.
“I have had practice.”
“That was not a compliment.”
She smiled faintly. “I will take it as one anyway,”
He shook his head, clearly dissatisfied with the turn of the conversation.
“How goes preparations for the ball?” he said instead.
She stilled. “The ball?”
“Yes.”
“You really wish to know?”
“Yes, if we are hosting it here at Blackmere Park, I wish to know how the preparations are going.”
Her pulse quickened despite herself. “It is just that you did not seem interested in anything before this point. The invitations have been all sent, the musicians reserved, the décor and livery and florist order have all be put in. I am working closely with Mrs. Hargreaves and Mr. Graham to complete the preparations.”
“Usually women have an eye for these things. I would only get in your way. Now you may have some pride in knowing that the ton’s newest duchess will host the Season’s first ball. I intend on showing up promptly when told, and show us as a united front.”
Us. The word settled into her with surprising weight.
“I see,” she said.
“It will be… an occasion,” he continued. “Necessary.”
“Of course.”
“You will need gowns for the season.”
She smiled slightly. “I have a few drawn up, and will meet with the modiste in a few days to approve the final design for our ball. The rest of the Season is already taken care of. I went when Aunt Frances was here.”
His gaze flicked over her, assessing, and she wondered what he truly saw when he looked at her.
“Ensure they are appropriate,” he said.
She inclined her head. “I will.”
He finished his tea in silence.
When he stood to leave, she surprised herself by speaking.
“James.”
He turned.
“You have been careful,” Eleanor said quietly.
James straightened. “About what?”
“About not being in the same room with me for longer than necessary.”
“That is not –”
“It is,” she said, not unkindly. “And you need not defend yourself. I only wish to understand the rule.”
His fingers slid easily into a pocket of the jacket he wore. “There is no rule.”
She tilted her head. “Then why does it feel like one?”
Silence followed. The kind that pressed rather than waited.
“I have not avoided you,” he said at last.
“No,” Eleanor agreed. “You have simply ensured that we never remain alone. And I already know that I should not ask of your business.”
His gaze flickered. Just once.
“It seems… prudent.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth curved, faint and knowing. “Prudent things are usually easier to explain.”
James shifted his weight impatiently. “You are testing me.”
“I am observing you husband, and if you feel as if that is a test, then you should look inward to better understand why it is that you do,” she corrected.
“And what have you observed?”
“That you leave earlier than necessary. That you return later than required. That when you speak to me, you position yourself as though you might retreat at any moment.”
“That is your interpretation.”
“It is plain as the nose on your face.”
His jaw tightened. For a moment, the only sound was the fire. “You assume intention where there may be coincidence,” he said.
“Do you truly wish for me to believe that?”
He did not answer.
Eleanor’s voice softened. “I would not mind the distance,” she said. “If it were not so… deliberate.”
Something strained in his expression then. “You think I am punishing you?”
“Not fully, no. Some, yes,” she said gently. “I mostly think you are punishing yourself.”
His eyes darkened. “You do not know what you are speaking of.”
“I know,” she said, standing and stepping just close enough that she could feel nearly touch him with a deep enough breath, “that you do not look at me the way you did before we –”
He swallowed, fully caught off guard. “My dear, you are treading on thin ice,” he said hoarsely.
“No, not yet,” Eleanor shook her head, and looked up at him squared her shoulders. “I only wish you would make it easier on both of us and create another rule for that which you refuse to name.”
“I will not give what you are looking for tonight, wife.”
She held his gaze, calm and unflinching. “I am beginning to wonder why you are so afraid to give it.”
The silence that followed was taut, intimate, and unresolved which was exactly as she intended.
They regarded one another in the low lamplight, something unspoken hovering between them, fragile and unresolved.
“Good night, Eleanor,” he said at last.
“Good night, James.”
She sat and poured herself another cup of tea as he left, steps retreating down the corridor loudly. And for the first time since he had mentioned them, Eleanor knew that she no longer wished to follow his ridiculous rules.