Chapter 20
Eleanor’s arrival earlier that morning had brought with it the sort of familiarity Anne had not realized she missed until it stood laughing in her entrance hall, carrying entirely too many opinions and refusing to lower her voice for anyone.
She needed her friend more than she had anticipated, and that was made all the more clear to her in Dorian’s absence. He had only left a few hours ago, and yet she could not stop thinking about him.
They wandered slowly through the gardens beneath a pale sky that threatened rain, and Eleanor glanced around the grounds with open approval.
“You have found yourself in a most beautiful home.”
Anne smiled faintly. “It has changed.”
“Well,” Eleanor replied, glancing sideways at her, “I assume married life has transformed everything.”
“Do not start.”
“Believe me, I barely have. I cannot help it, not when I have so many unanswered questions.”
Anne sighed quietly. “Our marriage remains exactly what it was always intended to be.”
But her friend was unbearably interested, and although Anne would have preferred a distraction, she had to admit that she appreciated being able to talk about her marriage with someone whom she knew would not judge her.
It was not Eleanor’s nature to be judgmental, even if she did also give good advice.
“And what, pray tell,” Eleanor asked, “was the arrangement, precisely?”
“It is not romantic. It was only ever meant to be a practical affair, and it will never be anything more than that.”
“No,” Eleanor agreed, with a half-smile. “Clearly not.”
Anne narrowed her eyes slightly. “You could at least act as though you believe me.”
“I am curious! You married one of the most notorious men in the county and somehow transformed both his estate and his personality in less than a season. Naturally, I would like details.”
“I have not transformed his personality. Dorian remains exactly as he always was: infuriating and entirely too amused by himself.”
Eleanor’s smile widened. “And yet you say his name now. You say Dorian, not the Duke or my husband.”
Anne opened her mouth, paused, then frowned harder. “That means nothing.”
“On the contrary, it suggests that you have formed an attachment.”
Anne looked away at once. She could not honestly say that one had not formed on her part, but she knew better than to assume the same for her husband. “There is no attachment.”
Eleanor hummed softly, unconvinced. “Very well. Tell me this—how long has he been gone?”
“Since this morning.”
“And have you thought about him?”
“Of course, but it is not as though he is anywhere frightening. He is in town with his good friend Tristan. He told me before he left.”
“Because you both care to know where the other is.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
Anne stopped walking. “I care,” she said carefully, “in the sense that he is my husband. Nothing has changed.”
“Then why do you look so disappointed?”
“I do not.”
“You have looked toward the front drive three times since we stepped outside.”
“I was not aware of that. I—you are unbearable sometimes.” Anne shook her head slightly and resumed walking, wishing that her friend would drop the matter.
Then again, after pestering her friend at the beginning of her own marriage, she supposed she was owed it.
Eleanor gave her a knowing look. She had been there before.
“Do you honestly believe what you are saying?” she asked.
“I do not know,” Anne admitted quietly.
Eleanor’s expression softened immediately, some of the teasing finally easing. “That sounds more honest.”
Anne looked ahead rather than at her. “This was never supposed to become complicated,” she said. “I understood what this marriage was meant to be.”
“And now?”
“Now he… he notices things. He remembers things I say, and he asks questions. He lingers when he does not need to. He—” She stopped again.
Eleanor looked alarmingly delighted. “Oh, this is much worse than I thought.”
Anne shot her a look.
“You miss him already, yes?”
“I do not. He has been gone for less than a day.”
“And yet you sound miserable.”
Anne looked away at once. “Perhaps because I am being interrogated in my own home?”
“That is quite strange, because you look happier than you have in years.”
The honesty of it landed harder than Anne had expected.
Eleanor reached for her arm and grasped it gently. “That frightens you far more than anything,” she said. “I know how you feel, Anne, so believe me when I tell you that you cannot fight it. You will be worn down by it if you do not accept what is staring at you.”
Anne did not answer immediately because Eleanor was not entirely wrong.
Eleanor remained quiet for a moment after that, gentler now, though Anne recognized immediately that the silence meant something worse than teasing was coming. It meant observation, which somehow always proved far more dangerous.
They continued slowly along the garden path, gravel crunching softly beneath their shoes while late afternoon settled around them in stretches of pale gold and shadow.
“May I ask you something?” Eleanor asked carefully.
Anne sighed. “You are going to regardless.”
“Do you want him?”
Anne nearly stumbled. “What?”
“Your husband,” Eleanor said simply. “Do you want him?”
Heat rushed into Anne’s face. “That is an outrageous question. I am not discussing this.”
“You absolutely are.”
Anne looked away at once, horrified by the fact that the answer itself had arrived far too quickly in her mind for comfort. Eleanor noticed, of course.
“You hesitated.”
“I did not.”
“You looked deeply offended by your own thoughts.”
Anne stopped walking again. “I hate you,” she muttered.
“No, you do not,” Eleanor replied pleasantly. “You merely hate being understood.”
Anne crossed her arms, her gaze fixed stubbornly somewhere over Eleanor’s shoulder.
Eleanor waited, but Anne said nothing.
“Anne.” Something in her voice made resistance feel suddenly more exhausting than honesty.
“I do not know,” Anne admitted finally. “Something has changed. I used to know exactly where the boundaries were. Everything felt simple. Practical. We had an arrangement.”
“And now?”
“Now he lingers.”
Eleanor blinked, clearly waiting for her to continue.
Anne did not want to, for she knew that her friend already understood far too much and that she was all too aware of what was happening, but there was another part of her that was grateful for it.
Despite what she was saying, she so desperately wanted to be understood, and it was killing her that she was not.
“He lingers,” she repeated, sounding faintly irritated by the fact. “When conversations should end, he stays. He notices when something is wrong before I say anything. He looks at me differently, as though he might actually like me rather than considering me a burden.”
Eleanor stayed silent, wisely allowing the moment space.
Anne swallowed slightly. “And sometimes,” she continued, her voice softer, “he looks at me in a way that makes me forget entirely why I was once so certain I would never allow myself to love anyone again.”
The honesty settled heavily between them. Anne had not meant to say it aloud, had not even meant to think it so clearly.
Eleanor’s expression immediately lost all traces of teasing. “Oh, Anne.”
Anne looked away. “That sounds dreadful when said aloud.”
“It sounds frightening,” Eleanor corrected gently.
Anne laughed under her breath, though there was little humor in it. “Do you know what the worst part is? I think he is becoming difficult to leave behind.”
Eleanor studied her carefully. “Do you think he feels any of this?”
Anne hesitated. Then, despite herself, she remembered the gardens—Dorian’s hand catching her wrist, the way he had looked at her when he thought she was jealous.
“I do not know,” she mumbled. “Sometimes I think perhaps he might.”
“And other times?”
She gave a small, helpless shake of her head. “Other times I remember exactly who he was before me.”
Eleanor was quiet for a long moment.
“You know,” she said, “men rarely look toward home every five minutes unless there is someone waiting there they would rather be with.”
Anne frowned slightly. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Eleanor replied, sounding entirely too pleased with herself, “I suspect your husband may be suffering from the same problem.”
“Yes, the problem being that this was supposed to be a practical match, not a loving one.”
Eleanor’s smile softened slightly, though the knowing look never fully disappeared. “You realize,” she said carefully, “this conversation stopped sounding practical quite some time ago.”
Anne let out a quiet breath. “I know.”
They resumed walking slowly, neither speaking for several moments. The gardens had grown quieter around them, the faint rustle of leaves overhead filling the spaces where conversation paused.
Eleanor glanced sideways at her, eventually. “So then,” she asked gently, “what exactly is stopping you?”
Anne did not answer immediately because the answer sat too close to something she rarely allowed herself to touch directly. Finally, she looked down at the path beneath them.
“My father,” she replied quietly. “I still think about how quickly everything changed. One moment, he was there; the next… my dream life vanished.”
Eleanor stayed silent.
Anne had always appreciated that about her. She knew when to interrupt and when to simply let the truth arrive on its own.
“I trusted that things would stay,” Anne continued after a moment. “I trusted that happiness lasted and that people who loved you remained. I thought… I thought there would always be more time. And then he was gone.”
Eleanor reached for her arm again, gentle this time. “Anne…”
Anne shook her head faintly. “I cannot do that again. I cannot allow myself to become fully vulnerable.”
“To Dorian?”
Anne hesitated. “To feeling such a profound loss again. If you love someone, you hand them the power to destroy you when they leave.”
Eleanor’s expression softened further.
“Your father did not leave you,” she said gently.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
Anne exhaled slowly, looking up. “I survived grief once. Barely, some days. I do not believe I could survive grief like that a second time.”
Eleanor’s expression softened into something deeply understanding. “I think it might already be too late for that. You are afraid of losing your husband as it is.” She squeezed her arm lightly after a moment. “You know, there is a difference between protecting yourself and imprisoning yourself.”
Anne gave a quiet, humorless laugh, then her smile faded again. “I just…” She hesitated. “Sometimes he looks at me, and for a moment I think perhaps I could trust happiness again.”
“And then?”
“Then I remember what it cost me last time.”
Eleanor remained quiet after that, allowing the silence to settle instead of rushing to fill it.
The gardens stretched wide around them, late afternoon slipping gradually toward evening, though Anne barely noticed any of it. She hardly ever spoke of her father. She hardly ever dared, but now that she had started, she did not know if she could stop.
After several moments, Eleanor spoke again, her voice gentler than before. “You rarely talk about it anymore.”
Anne knew immediately what she meant. Her father, the grief that had rearranged her life so completely that she still sometimes failed to recognize herself inside of it.
“There is not much left to say,” she murmured.
Eleanor gave her a look that suggested she disagreed entirely. “There usually is. You simply stop letting people ask.”
Anne looked down at the gravel path beneath them. For a moment, she considered dismissing her friend’s words. Instead, she found herself unexpectedly tired of carrying her grief so privately, tired of pretending it no longer reached into parts of her life it clearly still controlled.
“It happened so quickly,” she said. “He had been tired for weeks. Not seriously unwell, only… tired. He kept dismissing it. He hated being fussed over.”
“That sounds familiar,” Eleanor remarked softly.
Anne laughed faintly under her breath. “Yes. It is something we always had in common.” The smile disappeared almost immediately. “Then one morning, everything changed. He collapsed.”
The memory still hurt.
“The physician came,” she rasped. “Then another. Everyone kept speaking quietly, as though lowering their voices might somehow change the outcome. I remember thinking someone would tell me everything was fine. I kept waiting for it.” Her throat tightened slightly. “But no one did.”
Eleanor rubbed her arm soothingly.
“I stayed beside him for hours.” Anne’s breath hitched. “Sometimes he slept. Sometimes he pretended everything was normal. He even apologized for frightening me.”
“Oh, Anne.”
“He knew,” she sighed. “Before anyone said it aloud, I think he knew. I wish he had told me, so that I could have been more prepared for it.”
The ache of it settled between them.
“What happened?” Eleanor asked softly.
Anne hesitated. If her father knew what she had done, he would not have been proud of her at all.
“The last proper conversation we had… he told me not to stop living after him.” She chuckled under her breath, though there was no humor in it. “I remember thinking it was a ridiculous thing to say. As though there could be a version of my life that continued normally afterward.”
The wind stirred lightly through the gardens around them.
“He asked me to promise to keep riding,” she said quietly.
“To stay near the horses, to stop hiding from happiness because of fear.” Her eyes burned slightly.
“I promised him, and then the moment he was gone, I broke every part of it. For months, everything felt unbearable. People expect grief to look soft and graceful. They expect sadness. No one tells you how angry it makes you.”
Eleanor nodded once.
“The anger,” Anne said softly, “at everyone still laughing, still eating dinner, still speaking normally as though the world had not ended. I hated how ordinary everything looked. And afterward, everyone suddenly treated me differently.”
“How?”
“As though I had become fragile.” Anne looked away. “Or ruined somehow.”
Eleanor frowned immediately. “You were grieving.”
“I know,” Anne sighed. “But eventually, it became easier to stop wanting things and not to hope or to love too much.”
Because loving meant losing, and losing had nearly destroyed her once already.
Eleanor was quiet for a long moment before speaking. “And then Dorian happened.”
Anne let out a soft breath that sounded dangerously close to defeat. “Yes,” she mumbled.
“And he ruined your plan.”
Anne looked up helplessly at the sky for a moment. “Completely,” she said. “And now, I do not know what to do with myself.”