Chapter 28
Blackmere Park was too quiet.
Not the comfortable quiet of a well-run house, but the uneasy stillness that settled when something essential had been removed. Even the servants seemed to move differently, careful as they crossed corridors, voices lowered as if sound itself might offend.
Eleanor sat in the morning room with a letter unfolded before her and did not read a word of it.
It had been three days.
Three days since James had left. Three days since the sound of carriage wheels had faded down the drive and taken his presence with it. Three days of waking with the instinct to listen for his footsteps and realizing there were none.
She had kept herself busy. She had held meetings, answered callers, signed orders, nodded politely when someone praised the ball as if it were the only thing worth discussing.
It was not enough.
She could manage a household. She could manage society. She could manage her father’s cruelty and her sister Charlotte’s sharp edges.
But managing absence was a different skill entirely.
A soft knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Eleanor said, thankful for anything that forced her to speak.
Mrs. Hargreaves entered, her expression composed. “Your Grace. Lady Arabella has arrived.”
Eleanor’s heart lifted and sank at once. Relief, then shame at needing it.
“Send her in,” Eleanor said quickly. “And please tell Pritchard that I do not wish to receive callers this afternoon.”
Mrs. Hargreaves paused. “Are you unwell?”
Eleanor held her gaze. “Not physically.”
Mrs. Hargreaves nodded once, as if that answer was all she required. “Very good, Your Grace.”
A moment later Arabella swept into the room, cloak still on, cheeks pink from the cold. Her eyes searched Eleanor’s face with immediate precision.
“Oh,” Arabella said, stopping short. “You look dreadful.”
Eleanor gave a short laugh. “Thank you.”
Arabella crossed the room and took Eleanor’s hands without asking. “How long has he been gone?”
Eleanor tried to keep her voice steady. “Three days.”
“And he has not written?”
“No.”
Arabella’s jaw tightened. “Unforgivable.”
Eleanor pulled her hands free gently and gestured toward the settee. “Sit. Please.”
Arabella sat, but it was the tense sitting of someone prepared to stand again at a moment’s notice. She glanced around the room. “You have done something different with the curtains?”
Eleanor blinked, surprised by the observation. “Mrs. Hargreaves suggested the change after the ball. She said the light felt too formal.”
Arabella hummed. “It does feel softer.”
“I did not notice,” Eleanor admitted.
Arabella smiled faintly. “You rarely do.”
Eleanor huffed quietly. “You always did.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that carried familiarity rather than weight.
“Well, Charlotte,” Arabella said at last. “Is insufferable as always.”
Eleanor laughed despite herself. “What happened this time? Has she recovered from being asked to leave the ball?”
“She is telling everyone she was quite ill, and that your Duke merely helped cover for her so she could go back home.”
“And people are believing her?”
“Well, you and James are not out dispelling the tale, so yes.”
Eleanor shifted, careful not to show how upset she was that her husband was not with them.
Arabella continued without missing a beat, “She awoke this morning with opinions about everything,” Arabella continued. “The servants. The furniture. My choice of shoes.”
Eleanor shook her head. “I remember those tirades, remember that one time she told me that my hair made me look unambitious.”
Arabella snorted. “She told me mine made me look provincial!”
They shared a brief, genuine smile.
“And Father,” Arabella added more carefully. “He has been asking after you.”
Eleanor’s smile faded. “I am sure he has.”
“He wants to know whether the Duke is pleased with you,” Arabella said. “Whether you are behaving as expected. It seems he too has forgotten all about Charlotte’s dress.”
Eleanor’s jaw tightened. “I am sure James has something in store for him after all, but I remain unconcerned about our father.”
Arabella’s gaze sharpened. “Good. Do not let him back in.”
“I will not,” Eleanor said. “I have given him enough of my life.”
Arabella nodded, satisfied. “Good.”
“Do you remember when we used to hide in the east corridor when he was in a mood?”
Eleanor smiled faintly. “I insisted on counting the tiles.”
“So I would not hear,” Arabella said. “You always won.”
“You cheated,” Eleanor replied.
“I was resourceful,” Arabella corrected.
Another pause, softer now.
“This place,” Arabella said quietly, “does it feel like yours yet?”
Eleanor hesitated. “Sometimes.”
“And other times?” Arabella pressed.
“It feels like a stage,” Eleanor admitted. “And I am not certain which role I am meant to play.”
Arabella leaned back. “That sounds familiar.”
Eleanor looked at her. “Does it?”
Arabella met her gaze. “You have always wanted more than the part you were given.”
The words lingered. Her hands needed something to do.
Eleanor leaned forward and poured tea her sister and then herself.
Arabella watched her. “You are shaking.”
“I am not,” Eleanor said automatically.
Arabella raised a brow. “Do not insult me. I have lived with you my entire life.”
Eleanor set the cup down more sharply than she intended. “I am fine.”
Arabella’s expression softened. “You are not fine. You are angry and hurt and trying to pretend neither matter.”
Eleanor swallowed hard. “It does not matter.”
Arabella’s eyes flashed. “It does. Out with it, this instant, El!”
Eleanor stared at her cup. The tea trembled slightly. “He has left.”
“Left?”
“He said I could do as I pleased,” Eleanor said quietly.
“He said that about your marriage?”
“I believe so, yes.”
Arabella scoffed. “How generous of him.”
Eleanor did not smile. “He said I was free.”
Arabella leaned forward. “And what do you feel?”
Eleanor hesitated.
Arabella’s voice gentled. “El, tell me the truth.”
The truth rose in Eleanor’s throat like something alive.
“I miss him,” she said, and the words sounded too simple for the weight they carried.
Arabella’s gaze sharpened. “That is not the whole of it.”
Eleanor’s chest tightened. “It should be.”
Arabella waited.
Eleanor’s hands curled in her lap. “I did not want this,” she admitted. “I did not want a marriage that was only a title and an arrangement.”
Arabella’s mouth tightened. “He promised you nothing.”
“No,” Eleanor whispered. “I promised myself nothing.”
Arabella’s expression softened further, but her eyes remained steady. “And yet?”
Eleanor’s throat burned. “And yet I hoped.”
Arabella exhaled slowly. “Because he gave you reasons to.”
“Yes,” Eleanor said. “Because he looked at me as if he saw me. Because he touched my cheek. Because he let me into that attic, as if I mattered enough to see his grief.”
Arabella’s jaw clenched again. “Then he left.”
Eleanor nodded, staring at her hands. “He left.”
Arabella’s voice went sharper. “Do you love him?”
Eleanor’s breath caught.
She had not said it aloud. Not even to herself with full clarity, as if naming it might make it permanent.
“Yes,” Eleanor whispered. “I think I do.”
Arabella’s eyes softened, but the sympathy there nearly broke Eleanor. She would have preferred anger. Anger was easier to survive.
“I did not intend it,” Eleanor said quickly, as if that absolved her. “I never thought he would be kind. And then he was, in small ways. I never thought he would want me, and then he did. And then he left again as if none of it mattered.”
Arabella reached across the space and took Eleanor’s hand. “It mattered.”
Eleanor let out a shaky breath. “How do you know?”
“Because you are not foolish,” Arabella said. “You do not imagine tenderness where there is none.”
Eleanor looked up. “I feel foolish.”
Arabella squeezed her fingers. “You feel human.”
Eleanor swallowed. “I cannot bear it.”
Arabella’s expression hardened. “Then you do not bear it alone.”
Eleanor blinked. “Arabella.”
“I am staying tonight,” Arabella said, decisive. “And if you object, I will ignore you.”
Eleanor let out a weak laugh. “You cannot simply decide that.”
Arabella lifted her chin. “I can and I have.”
Eleanor’s eyes stung. “Thank you.”
Arabella’s mouth softened. “Of course.”
They spent the afternoon in the way Eleanor had not allowed herself to in years. Not managing. Not arranging. Not hosting.
Talking.
Arabella asked questions Eleanor had avoided. About the ball. About the confrontation. About the attic. About what it felt like to be kissed and then dismissed.
Eleanor answered some. Skirted others. But she spoke more than she had since James left, and each sentence made the air feel less suffocating.
By evening, Arabella insisted they dine privately.
“I do not want a dining room full of empty chairs,” Arabella said.
Eleanor could not argue with that.
They took supper in Eleanor’s sitting room, the tray placed near the fire, candles burning low. Arabella removed the pins from her hair and let it fall down her back.
“You look like you did when we were girls,” Eleanor said softly.
Arabella smiled. “I feel like one. This house is enormous. It swallows sound.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened. “It swallows everything.”
Arabella’s gaze met hers. “Not tonight.”
Later, when Eleanor prepared for bed, Arabella slipped into the adjoining chamber, then returned in her night rail as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“You are truly staying in my room,” Eleanor said.
Arabella climbed onto the bed without hesitation. “We did it a thousand times when we were children. You used to insist you slept better when I was there.”
Eleanor’s chest tightened. “I did.”
Arabella patted the coverlet beside her. “Then come.”
Eleanor climbed in, lying stiffly at first, as if her body did not remember how to share a bed without obligation.
Arabella turned on her side. “Tell me one thing.”
Eleanor’s voice was quiet. “What?”
“If he returned tomorrow,” Arabella said, “and asked you to forgive him again, would you?”
Eleanor stared into the dim light. “I do not know.”
Arabella’s voice gentled. “Do you want to?”
Eleanor’s throat burned. “Yes.”
Arabella sighed. “Then you are in trouble.”
Eleanor let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob. “Yes.”
Arabella reached over and took her hand in the dark. “Sleep.”
Eleanor tried.
The warmth of Arabella beside her helped. The familiar closeness, the steady breathing, the sense of not being entirely alone.
Eventually, Eleanor drifted.
She did not know how long she slept. Minutes or hours. The darkness was complete.
Then a sound pulled her back.
A soft creak.
Eleanor’s eyes fluttered open slowly.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of dying coals across from her in the hearth.
Another sound. Footsteps. Light, careful.
Eleanor sat up slightly and turned her head slowly toward the door that was opening.
“James?” she questioned hoarsely.
A figure slipped inside, and Eleanor’s heart lurched. “James?” she asked again, louder this time, but careful not to wake Arabella.
Arabella stirred beside her, half asleep, but remained asleep.
Suddenly, Eleanor caught movement from the corner of her vision. The figure moved quickly, too quickly, crossing the room.
The figure rushed toward the bed.
Eleanor’s scream ripped through her entire body.