Chapter 7
Alexander sat behind the desk that evening, his attention fixed on the page in front of him without really reading it.
He had not meant to upset his wife, but he had, and he did not know what to do about that. He needed to apologize, but then she had told him not to speak any further, and he wanted to respect her wishes.
He was so deep in thought that when a knock came at the door, he did not hear it.
It opened before a reply could be given, and Henry stepped inside, closing it behind him.
He had not left as the weather had turned, and Alexander reasoned that it would be better with his friend there.
His eyes moved immediately to the desk, then to Alexander, and then back again, giving a short glance at the papers.
“Do you ever go anywhere else?”
“I have work that requires attention.”
“Everything requires attention, including oneself,” Henry replied, moving closer and resting a hand briefly on the edge of the desk.
Alexander finally lifted his gaze at that.
“I have a list of priorities, Henry, and I have been at the bottom for a long time.”
“There are clerks who exist for precisely this purpose.”
“They exist,” Alexander said, “and still the work remains.”
“You will never run out of work to do if you wish to find it. There will come a time, however, that your body will decide it must rest without your permission, and then you will be incapable of thinking at all. You should plan for that and stop it before it happens.”
A faint silence followed, broken only by the distant sound of wind against glass. The storm had not yet broken, and though it was undoubtedly good for the garden, it meant they were all confined to the house, which meant crossing paths if Alexander did not hide himself away.
Henry seemed to be aware of that, too, for he had that same half-smile he always wore when he thought he knew something that he should not have.
“Before all of this, you made space for things that were not obligatory.”
“That space no longer exists. It cannot when one is in a position such as mine. Heaven knows I would like it to, but my position has its positives and negatives, and if the negative is simply that I must work, then so be it. I will survive.”
“If you insist, but I would have thought that someone in your position would prefer to live rather than merely survive.”
Alexander looked down at the scattered papers again, though his focus no longer seemed fixed on any of them in particular. He did not answer his friend, as he did not know what to say. Henry let the silence sit for a moment longer before finally straightening, glancing once more at the desk.
“This will still be here after a few hours. I will be taking a walk through the household, if you wish to accompany me.”
“I do not have the time.”
But Henry raised an eyebrow, clearly not believing him, and Alexander had no choice but to accept that, indeed, he had all the time in the world. Alexander walked with him through the corridor, offering little more than short replies.
Suddenly, Henry turned to him, and they both stopped walking.
“Try not to let him win.”
“He already has,” Alexander said. “He did long ago, and that does not change simply because he died.”
Henry gave a short sigh at that, shook his head, and they continued on.
As they passed one of the windows overlooking the gardens, however, something about the flowerbeds finally caught his eye. The soil had been freshly turned, the plants still low enough to blend into the surrounding growth.
And so, the following morning when the storm had ended, he went to look at it more closely. As he stepped past it, his hand brushed against something sharp along a hidden support stake.
A brief sting followed immediately.
He stopped, looking down at his hand as a thin line of blood appeared across his palm.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, flexing his fingers slightly as he assessed the cut.
Soft footsteps approached from behind. He turned and saw that Eleanor stood a short distance away with her lady’s maid beside her, both having just stepped onto the garden path. The maid’s face shifted immediately as she saw his hand.
“Good heavens,” the maid said, taking a half step forward before stopping herself.
Eleanor’s attention dropped at once to his hand.
“You are bleeding.”
“It is a scratch,” Alexander said.
“And it is bleeding,” Eleanor repeated, turning to her maid. “Fetch a cloth.”
The maid hesitated only a moment before nodding and hurrying back toward the house.
Alexander remained where he was, his hand still slightly raised, though he did consider moving to close the distance.
Eleanor watched the maid go, then turned back to him.
She stepped closer, her attention fixed on his hand rather than his face.
“May I?”
Alexander did not answer immediately, then lowered his hand slightly and offered it to her. Eleanor took that as permission. She reached out and took his hand carefully, turning it so the cut was visible under the light.
Her touch was steady, and unexpectedly precise, as though she had handled far worse than it before. It was not deep by any means, but somehow that made it hurt worse, as it stung immensely.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Alexander remained still, his gaze fixed on her face rather than the injury.
There was a light furrow in her brow as she studied him, and her bottom lip moved gently as though she were talking to herself, and though he did not want to be, he could not help but be captivated.
The pressure of her fingers around his hand was light, but it grounded his attention. For a moment, he forgot that he had been hurt at all. Her breath caught slightly as she examined the cut more closely, and she frowned faintly.
“It is deeper than you think.”
“It was a thorn, not a blade.”
“A thorn would not cause this,” she explained. “Where were you when it happened?”
He pointed with his free hand to the garden bed, and only then did he notice that there was a pair of shears opened on the side of it.
“Ah, I—”
“My sincerest apologies,” she interrupted. “I should have closed them. You never leave tools open, I know that.”
“It is quite all right.”
“But you are hurt!”
“It is a scratch,” he chuckled. “I have been through worse.”
Eleanor nodded uncertainly, but she did not let go of his hand. Instead, she adjusted her grip slightly, supporting it as though it required more care than he had given it.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“It is manageable,” he said.
Eleanor glanced up briefly at that, and for a moment their eyes met properly for the first time since she had stepped closer. The air between them tightened in a way neither of them acknowledged immediately.
Alexander’s attention shifted slightly downward again, realizing that the small distance between them was affecting him more than he would have liked to admit.
The scent of her reached him—faintly floral with a hint of fresh earth, and he could tell that it had come from her spending time in the garden rather than it being applied or artificial, and it settled too easily in his mind.
Eleanor broke eye contact first, focusing again on his hand as she adjusted her hold slightly.
The maid’s footsteps could be heard returning along the gravel path, and Alexander withdrew his hand at once, not sharply but with every intention of them not being seen in such a way.
He wondered why that was, for there was nothing improper about it and she was his wife, but it still felt all too intimate to be witnessed.
Eleanor’s fingers fell away without resistance, and he stepped back, his composure returning as the distance between them restored itself. The maid arrived moments later with a cloth and bandages in hand, slowing as she took in the two of them standing slightly apart.
Eleanor did not look at him immediately as she accepted the cloth, and Alexander did not speak as the space between them returned to something closer.
He accepted the cloth and ointment from the maid without shifting his attention fully away from his wife.
The cut on his hand had stopped bleeding, though it still held a faint sting that became noticeable only when he flexed his fingers.
“There is no further need for assistance,” he said.
Eleanor’s gaze dropped briefly to the cloth in her hands before lifting again to his face.
“It still should be cleaned properly.”
“It has been seen to,” he replied.
The maid remained slightly behind Eleanor, holding the remaining cloth and ointment with uncertainty, her attention moving between them as though waiting for an instruction that would resolve the situation properly rather than leave it suspended.
Eleanor gave a small, controlled nod toward her, and after a brief hesitation, the maid lowered her hands and stepped back.
“I will return this to the house,” the maid said quietly, as if confirming permission more than announcing intention.
The maid withdrew along the garden path, her steps quickening slightly as she left them alone.
“Excuse me,” he said.
He turned and walked out of the garden without waiting for a reply, his pace steady and unbroken as he moved back to the house.
Eleanor remained where she was, holding the cloth loosely in her hands, watching him until he crossed the threshold and disappeared inside.
Only then did she lower her gaze slightly, her fingers tightening around the fabric before she released it again.
***
Later that day, when the light had begun to soften, Alexander moved through the corridor without pausing, passing servants who stepped aside instinctively as he approached.
No one spoke to him, and he did not acknowledge them, his attention fixed forward. That was how it was in his household, and it was how he liked it. If there were no distractions, they would all be far more efficient.
He reached the upper floor and entered his room, closing the door behind him.
Only then did he stop. For a moment, he did nothing at all, standing just inside the room as though needing to adjust to the idea of simply existing.
His injured hand lifted slightly, flexing once, and the motion drew attention to the cut again, though it was no longer actively bleeding.
He lowered his hand and turned away from the desk rather than sitting at it, moving instead a few steps further into the room where he paused again without settling.
He did not go down to dinner. He should have, and he knew that, but he could not bring himself to do so.
He could have allowed Eleanor to help him, to do something that might make her feel useful and make him feel better, too, but he had not, and he was feeling the effect of that.
Namely, the effect was in his hand, for he had not cared for it as well as needed.
Later, a servant came to the door with a tray, then knocked once. There was no response from within, and after a moment, they placed it on a side table nearby and left again, and it was only then that he took it and ate.
It was better that way, he decided, for when he tried to speak to others it only ever went wrong.
He went to bed without speaking to anyone, sleep pulling him under without him fighting it. He hardly ever dreamed, but nightmares were far more frequent.
That night was no exception. The war came first; sounds without a clear source, movement without any real direction, the sense of being surrounded by something that they did not understand.
They had to keep moving forward no matter the cost, no matter the wounds.
Orders were given, and they were followed.
Nobody had any choice in it, even if it led to their death.
And there was so much death.
Then a voice cut through it. Eleanor’s voice, carrying clearly despite the noise and fragmentation around it.
The sound reached him in a way that silenced everything happening around him.
The surrounding structure of the dream fractured in response, breaking apart without resistance as she called out to him, telling him that she was there.
He woke abruptly. His uninjured hand was clenched tightly in the bedsheets, fingers locked in a grip that had to be released deliberately, and even after he loosened them, the tension lingered in his joints for a moment before fading.
His breathing was uneven at first, but it steadied gradually as he remained still, allowing the immediate disorientation to settle.
He did not move immediately, remaining seated in the same position as he adjusted to the fact that the war was over and that he was home again, just as he did many nights.
After a time, he shifted slightly, enough to release the pressure in his arm and shoulders, lowering his hand to rest against his lap while the other relaxed beside him.
Before, he had suffered for hours after the fact, but his wife had stopped that.
Eleanor had stopped it all, and she did not know a thing about it.
He could not keep her away forever, even though he wanted to.