Chapter 22
Eleanor had begun to recognize the sound of being avoided.
It was not something she had ever thought she would learn, nor something she ever expected to understand so well, yet over the past several days, she had noticed every small sign of Alexander’s withdrawal.
The pauses before he entered a room were longer, the conversations he had with servants ended the moment she appeared, and he looked at her as though he wanted to say something but always decided against it.
She considered asking him what had happened, but she did not know what to say, or even if he would be honest if she did.
The house itself seemed to reflect the distance between them. Her footsteps echoed against the polished floors as she walked through the rooms, the sound following her as a reminder that she was alone even in a house filled with people.
She slowed near the portrait gallery, her gaze drifting over the paintings lining the walls. Generations of Hargroves stared back at her, their expressions solemn and proud, each one belonging to a history she had been invited into but never quite felt part of.
She wondered if Alexander had always felt the same way, if he had spent years walking the halls feeling as though he belonged to them only because duty demanded it.
The thought should have comforted her. Instead, it made the distance between them hurt more.
Something had changed after the fête, and she did not know what. At first, she wondered whether he regretted the speech, but she knew it was more than that. It was her, or at least, that was what it felt like.
He had become colder, more distant, and every time she noticed him pulling away, she felt the same familiar ache she had carried for years—the ache of being unwanted.
Eleanor closed her eyes briefly.
She hated that Alexander’s silence affected her so deeply, but most of all, she hated that she had no right to demand anything different. Their marriage had never been built on promises of affection.
Alexander had never claimed to love her, and he had never asked her to love him, yet somewhere along the way, she had begun hoping, and that hope made every disappointment sharper.
She considered speaking to him several times, but every time she imagined approaching him, she found herself hesitating.
How could she ask why he was distant when she had kept something from him? How could she demand honesty from him while still carrying her own secret?
The truth about Julian remained between them, unspoken and growing heavier with every passing day. She knew she needed to tell Alexander; she knew she owed him that much, but the longer she waited, the more impossible it seemed, because there was another fear.
What if he already believed the worst? What if whatever had caused this change had nothing to do with her secret at all, and she confessed only to confirm the doubts he already carried?
By the time Eleanor entered the breakfast room that morning, she had convinced herself she would not let the distance affect her.
She would be composed, she would be polite, and she would behave as though nothing had changed.
Alexander was already there. He stood near the window, reading over a letter while his breakfast remained untouched. At the sound of her arrival, he looked up. For the briefest moment, their eyes met, then he looked away.
The small gesture hurt more than she expected.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
Eleanor took her seat across from him, attempting to ignore the emptiness that settled between them.
“How is your morning?” she asked.
“Busy.”
She waited. When he offered nothing else, she looked down at her plate.
“I see.”
Alexander folded the letter in his hands.
“There are several estate matters that require my attention.”
“Of course.”
Another silence followed. A week before, she might have tried to fill it, but suddenly she found herself afraid to.
He had always been reserved, but this was different.
Before, his silence had felt like a wall he had built around himself.
Now, it felt like a door he had locked shut after she had finally begun to believe he might open it.
“Are you well?”
The question surprised her.
“Yes.”
Alexander nodded once.
“Good.”
The conversation ended there. Eleanor stared at him, searching for some explanation, but she found none. He seemed distracted, as though his thoughts were somewhere far away, and no matter how much she wished otherwise, she could not reach them.
She wanted to ask him what was wrong. She wanted to tell him that whatever had happened, whatever had caused him to retreat, she would rather face the truth than continue living beside a stranger, but the words remained trapped.
She was not certain whether she was losing Alexander, or whether she had only imagined she had ever had him.
For days, she had tried to convince herself that she was imagining it.
She told herself he was busy, that the responsibilities of the estate weighed heavily upon him, but every time she entered a room and saw him leave shortly afterward, every time she attempted conversation only to receive a polite but distant reply, she doubted that that was all it was.
By the third morning of his coldness, Eleanor could no longer endure the uncertainty. She found him in his study after breakfast, standing behind his desk with several papers spread before him.
The room was quiet except for the faint crackling of the fire and the sound of the clock ticking steadily against the wall. For a moment, she stood in the doorway. She almost turned away—it would have been easier, after all.
But she had spent too much of her life allowing others to decide when she was worth speaking to. She could not do that anymore.
“Alexander.”
He looked up. The moment his eyes met hers, Eleanor knew she had been right. Something was different. His silence gave away nothing, but his gaze had become guarded in a way she had never seen before.
“Eleanor.”
Her name on his lips should have comforted her. Instead, it sounded formal. She stepped further into the room, her eyes not leaving his.
“I hope I am not interrupting. I wanted to ask you something.”
Alexander waited. She searched his face for some sign that he wanted her to continue. There was nothing, but that could not stop her.
“Are you well?”
The question sounded far smaller once spoken aloud. She hated how uncertain her voice had become.
“I am fine.”
The answer came too quickly.
“You do not seem fine.”
“I assure you, there is nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
“Nothing I need to concern myself with?”
Alexander looked back down at the papers on his desk.
“I am not trying to pry,” she continued. “I only thought perhaps…I thought perhaps something had happened.”
His gaze returned to hers. For a moment, she thought he might answer. She thought he might finally tell her what had changed. Instead, he remained silent, and that silence told her more than any words could have.
“Alexander,” she said softly, “if I have done something—”
“You have not.”
“Then why are you treating me as though I have?”
The change was only slight, but she saw it. There was a flicker of something she could not name, then it disappeared.
“I am not.”
“You are. You barely speak to me. You avoid being alone with me. You look at me as though there is something you want to say, but then you decide I am not worth saying it to.”
“Eleanor, I do not wish to argue with you.”
“I am not trying to argue.”
“Then what are you trying to do?”
The question was not angry. It was worse, because she heard the exhaustion behind it.
“I am trying to understand.”
For one brief moment, she saw the Alexander she had glimpsed beneath all his restraint.
Then the walls returned.
“I have pressing matters to attend to.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
Alexander gathered the papers on his desk.
“I am sorry.”
But he did not sound sorry. He sounded resolved. She watched him move around the desk, unable to believe he was simply walking away from the conversation.
“Alexander.”
He stopped, but he only looked at her for a moment.
“I will see you later.”
Then he left. Eleanor remained standing in the study, staring at the closed door.
She had wanted an explanation, anything that would allow her to understand what had happened between them.
Instead, she had been left with nothing, only the image of his back as he walked away.
Her chest tightened as confusion and hurt flooded through her.
The door closed behind Alexander with a quiet click. For several moments, Eleanor remained exactly where she was. She stared at the place where he had disappeared, almost expecting him to return, to open the door and admit that he had not meant to leave things this way.
She wanted him to tell her that he had not meant to make her feel as though she were standing on the other side of a wall he had built without explanation.
But the door remained closed, and he did not return.
Her breath caught painfully, and before she could stop it, tears filled her eyes. She pressed a hand to her mouth, attempting to hold herself together, but the hurt she had carried for days was too heavy, and the tears came freely.
She sank into the nearest chair, her shoulders shaking as everything she had tried to ignore overwhelmed her at once. She had endured her father’s absence, and the whispers that followed her marriage, but Alexander’s distance hurt in a way she had not expected.
She had finally allowed herself to believe that perhaps she had found someone who saw her, someone who might choose her, and now he looked at her as though she were a stranger.
A quiet movement near the doorway made Eleanor lift her head.
Bessie stood there. The maid’s expression was filled with sorrow, and Eleanor immediately realized she must have witnessed everything.
“Bessie…”
The young woman crossed the room without hesitation.
“Oh, Your Grace.”