Chapter 24
Eleanor could no longer remember the last time she had felt at peace, not truly.
There had been moments, of course. There had been the gardens, the quiet evenings when she had painted by the window and allowed herself to believe that perhaps Ashbourne could become a home rather than simply a place where she lived.
Those moments could not be denied, but they had become harder to hold onto.
Everything else had grown louder, and she had been suffering with a constant fear that every conversation that she shared with her husband was one wrong word away from breaking what little remained between them.
She paced across her sitting room while Bessie stood nearby, watching her with growing concern.
“I cannot do this anymore.”
The words came out before Eleanor could soften them. Bessie immediately looked up from the ribbon she had been folding.
“Your Grace—”
“No, Bessie. I have tried. I have tried to be patient. I have tried to understand him. I have tried to convince myself that this is simply how Alexander is, that eventually he would let me see what is beneath all of it, but I do not know how much longer I can continue standing outside a door that he refuses to open.”
Bessie’s expression softened.
“You love him.”
The words made Eleanor freeze. She looked away.
“I do not know if that is true. That is the worst part.”
She moved toward the window, staring out at the gardens below.
“I thought I knew what I wanted. I spent years believing I knew exactly what my future would be. I believed that if Julian returned, if he truly regretted everything, then perhaps I could finally have the life I once imagined.”
Bessie remained quiet. Eleanor wished that her maid would interrupt, because then she might have had to question what she was saying.
“But then I came here,” she continued, “and somehow, after everything, in spite of how impossible Alexander can be, despite how often he frustrates me, I found myself wanting things I never expected to want.”
Eleanor looked down.
“I wanted him to smile at me. I wanted him to ask about my day because he wanted to know, not simply because it was polite.”
Her eyes filled.
“I wanted him to choose me.”
Bessie’s smile saddened.
“But now?”
Eleanor turned away from the window. She forced her shoulders back, and it took more effort than it ever had.
“Now he looks at me as though I am something he regrets.”
“That is not true.”
“You do not know that.”
“I know what I have seen.”
Eleanor shook her head.
“You have seen what he has allowed you to see. Alexander has been tormenting my heart without even knowing he is doing it. One moment, I believe there is something between us, something real. The next, he closes himself away and reminds me that I was never anything more than an arrangement.”
Bessie moved closer.
“And Lord Sinclair?”
Eleanor closed her eyes. That name carried its own weight, and its own difficulties.
“Julian is different. He speaks to me. He looks at me as though I am truly there. He tells me what he feels, and that is something I never expected him to do.”
Bessie watched her carefully.
“But is that enough?”
Eleanor looked at her.
“I do not know.”
The uncertainty in her voice broke something inside her.
“I only know that I cannot continue living in this house feeling as though I am constantly waiting for my own husband to decide whether I matter.”
Bessie shook her head gently.
“Your Grace—”
“If there is nothing else for me here, then perhaps leaving is the only thing I can do.”
Bessie went still.
“Do you mean to say you are still considering leaving Ashbourne?”
Eleanor nodded slowly. The thought frightened her, but it also brought a strange sense of relief.
“There shall be no more wondering what I did wrong, and no more trying to understand a man who will not allow me to know him. Perhaps…perhaps peace is better than this.”
Bessie stepped closer. “Eleanor.”
The use of her first name made her look up.
“You must not make a decision because you are hurting.”
“But what else am I supposed to do?”
“Wait.”
Eleanor gave a sad smile.
“I have been waiting.”
“Not for him to change. For yourself. You do not know what is happening between yourself and His Grace. Neither do I, but I know this house is filled with things that are not being said.”
“That does not make everything better.”
“No,” she replied as she squeezed her hands, “but it means you should not believe that everything is exactly as it seems.”
Eleanor frowned.
“But what choice do I have?”
“You have the choice to give your heart time.”
Eleanor looked away.
“My heart is tired.”
“I know, but tired hearts can still heal.”
Silence settled between them. Eleanor wanted to believe her. She truly did, but hope had become something dangerous, something that made every disappointment hurt more, and Eleanor did not know how much more of that she could take.
“I think I need to write a letter.”
Bessie raised an eyebrow slightly, clearly curious about what Eleanor planned to do.
“To whom?”
Eleanor looked toward the desk.
“To my husband.”
The maid’s eyes filled with concern.
“Your Grace…”
“I cannot continue like this,” her voice trembled. “I need to tell him the truth. I need to tell him the truth about everything. I owe him that much.”
Bessie understood immediately, nodding and giving her an encouraging smile. Eleanor reached for the paper, her hands trembling slightly. There was so much that she carried in her heart that she wished for him to know, even if she doubted that it would change anything.
“I need to stop allowing everyone else to decide what my life will be.”
Bessie watched silently as Eleanor sat down.
As the quill touched the page, Eleanor stared at the blank paper before her.
She did not know whether the letter would save her marriage or end it.
She only knew she could no longer remain trapped between the past she had lost and the future she could no longer see.
The blank page seemed to stare back at her.
So much had happened within these walls, and there were so many things left unsaid.
She had spent months waiting for someone else to decide her future.
Everyone had held some piece of her life in their hands, and she had allowed it because she had been afraid of what would happen if she reached for it herself.
But she could not continue that way, not anymore.
“You must promise me something.”
“Anything,” Bessie replied dutifully.
“If anyone asks where I have gone, you will say nothing more than what is necessary.”
“Your Grace—”
“Please. I need you to do this for me.”
Bessie looked at her with sadness.
“You truly mean to leave.”
Eleanor looked down at the paper.
“I do not know what else to do.”
“That is not the same as wanting to go.”
Bessie was right, she did not want to leave Ashbourne. That was the most painful part.
She did not want to leave the gardens she had brought back to life.
She did not want to leave the rooms that had slowly begun to feel familiar.
She did not want to leave the man who had frustrated her, and yet had somehow become the person whose attention mattered most, but wanting something did not mean she could keep suffering for it.
“I am tired, Bessie. I am tired of waiting for someone to notice I am drowning.”
The maid’s eyes filled with tears.
“Your Grace…”
“I have spent my entire life hoping someone would choose me. My father never did. Julian chose me only when it was convenient. And Alexander…”
She stopped. She could not finish the sentence, because she did not know what Alexander had chosen. Perhaps duty, or pity, maybe even nothing at all.
“I cannot stay somewhere I feel invisible.”
Bessie stepped forward.
“You are not invisible.”
“Then why does it feel as though I am?”
The maid had no answer, and Eleanor knew that was answer enough. She folded the letter carefully once she had finished writing. The words felt like pieces of herself laid bare.
She had not accused Alexander, nor had she blamed him. She had simply told him the truth—that she had tried, that she had wanted to belong, but that she could no longer remain in a place where she felt like a shadow.
She sealed it with trembling hands.
“I will keep your confidence,” Bessie promised.
“Thank you.”
The decision after that happened almost too quickly, perhaps because if Eleanor allowed herself time to think, she would lose her courage. She instructed the servants to prepare her trunk, and she packed only what she needed.
By the time she stepped outside, the sun had begun to lower, casting a golden glow over the gardens.
She stopped at the edge of the path. For a moment, she could not move.
The garden had been neglected when she arrived, much like she had been, but she had seen potential.
She had believed something beautiful could grow from something forgotten.
A painful thought crossed her mind that she might have been wrong.
She walked slowly through the garden, her fingers brushing over the flowers she had planted. The roses moved gently in the breeze, and their petals brushed against her bare arms as she passed, soft touches that felt almost like farewells.
She tried not to cry. She failed.
By the time she reached the far end of the garden, tears blurred her vision. Then she saw it, a single rose. It was the first bloom of the season, perfect and delicate among the green leaves.
Eleanor reached for it carefully, and her fingers closed around the stem. She cut the rose gently and held it against her chest. It was a small piece of Ashbourne to carry with her, a reminder of what had almost been.
She left the house and found Julian in the grounds. When Eleanor saw him, her heart did not leap, and she could not help but notice that once, seeing him would have been enough for that to happen.
Once, his presence would have felt like home. Now, she only felt tired. She approached the carriage slowly, and Julian stepped down. She looked at him, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
“You came,” she greeted.