Chapter Forty-One
The afternoon light slanted through the upper windows of the gallery, dulled and gray, as though the sun itself declined to illuminate Hartleigh. Eliza walked its length with her hands loosely clasped behind her back, her gaze passing over the lineage portraits she had known since girlhood.
She was not studying faces. She was listening.
For footsteps. For the house shifting. For any sign that Thomas had returned from repositioning Sammy deeper in the passage.
She paused before a portrait of Adrian as a child. He stood beside his parents. The familiar ache caught her unawares. In the painting, his eyes were bright, expectant, unaware of what the years would take.
Her fingers brushed the carved frame.
“Adrian,” she murmured, “I hope I’m choosing well.”
A draft slid down the corridor, cool and slow, circling her skirts before moving on.
The house had heard.
Footsteps followed, deliberate and heavy, not a servant’s tread. Eliza straightened, composure settling into place before the man appeared.
Ashwood.
He approached with unhurried intent, a small ledger in his hand, his expression courteous and edged.
“Lady Thornhaven,” he said, bowing. “I hoped I might find you.”
“Is there a difficulty?” she asked calmly.
“A matter requiring your attention.” He lifted the ledger slightly. “Hartleigh business.”
She extended her hand. “May I?”
He hesitated, only a fraction, before relinquishing the book. She noted the care with which he did so.
Eliza opened it. The ledger contained tenant names, dates, and obligations. Orderly. Expected.
“This appears complete,” she said.
“Does it?” Ashwood stepped closer. “You see, the Thornhaven steward reports missing supplies meant for urgent repairs. Timber. Nails. Pitch. Lantern oil.”
She closed the ledger. “Storms delay deliveries.”
“Or,” he said mildly. “They never left Hartleigh.”
Her gaze met his without flinching. “Are you accusing someone, Mr. Ashwood?”
“Yes,” he said at once. “I am asking where you were last night.”
“In my rooms.”
“All night?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
Eliza did not answer immediately.
She regarded him with a calm that was no longer polite.
“You forget yourself, Mr. Ashwood,” she said. “I am a widow, not a suspect.”
A pause. Just long enough.
“Hartleigh has endured many under-stewards,” she added mildly. “It will endure the next one just as well.”
Silence stretched. Ashwood moved closer, watching her face as though waiting for a misstep.
“You seem tired today,” he observed.
“So do you.”
A floorboard snapped sharply beneath his foot—a loud, protesting sound.
He startled. “This house—”
“Objects to unnecessary pressure,” Eliza said smoothly. “As do I.”
Ashwood’s breath caught. “If you know anything about the missing boy—”
“I know,” she interrupted quietly, “that you are more interested in his absence than his safety.”
A flicker crossed his face. Gone as quickly as it came.
“I am preventing harm,” he insisted.
“To whom?” she asked.
He reached into his coat and produced a small brass button.
“This was found near the path to the crypt,” he said. “Buttons do not fall away on their own.”
Eliza regarded it without reaction. “No. They are sewn on.”
The gallery sconce nearest him guttered violently and went dark.
Ashwood flinched.
Eliza did not.
“I have no explanation for your curiosity,” she said. “Nor do I intend to provide one.”
He studied her for a long moment, recalibrating.
“I will find the boy,” he said quietly. “Hartleigh keeps secrets—but none beyond my reach.”
“Do inform me if you uncover anything of value,” she replied.
Ashwood’s mouth tightened. “I believe I already have.”
He turned away. His footsteps faded down the gallery.
Behind Eliza, the extinguished sconce flared back to life.
She exhaled slowly.
The house was not warning her.
It was standing with her. The awareness settled through her slowly, steady as breath returning after too long held.
And she was learning—at last—how to hear it.