Chapter 23
Alton appeared moments later, silent as a shadow. He knelt beside her, his good hand hovering a moment before he touched her shoulder.
“Miss Aoife,” he murmured, gentle but urgent. “Come. Let me help you.”
Alton guided her to her feet carefully, bracing her as she swayed.
“Lean on me,” he said.
She took his arm because she had no choice. Her cheek throbbed with every heartbeat.
They walked toward her room. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, she was already steadier, and she pulled her arm away.
“You must understand,” he said at last, voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry. “His lordship is used to order and control. Before you came, nothing here was ever unpredictable. You’ve shaken things up, even when you don’t mean to.”
Aoife stopped walking. “He hit me.”
“He was angry that you stood up to him. Bringing your family here was a kindness. And you threw it in his face.”
Aoife almost laughed, but the motion hurt her cheek. It came out brittle instead.
“No,” she said. “He wanted to show them what he’s made of me. Prove to me and himself that he dictates everything about my life now. From whom I’m allowed to see, to what I’m allowed to say and do when I see them.”
A flicker of discomfort passed over Alton’s face. Aoife set off for her room again; Alton jogged a few steps to catch up.
“He dictates your life now. Wouldn’t it be simpler to recognise that? To stop fighting him?”
Aoife could have laughed again. He had no idea how often she’d bitten her tongue, how often she’d made herself small, how often she’d gone against her own morals in letting him behave the way he did.
“I’ve been as docile and compliant as I know how to be. And it isn’t enough.”
“You’ll learn. It takes practice.”
Aoife wanted to snap, to ask how many years of practice it had taken him to become so accommodating, but that was too cruel.
“Or he’ll beat the lesson into me, is that right?”
Alton flinched, almost imperceptibly.
“He didn’t mean to—”
“Yes,” she said, facing him directly. “He did. He couldn’t stand that I said no to him.”
Alton opened his mouth, then shut it again.
When she could breathe evenly again, she spoke softer. “It’s all been a performance, Alton. The library. The clothes. The jewels. They’re not for me.”
He frowned. “Of course they are.”
“No,” she said. “They are for the lady he wants me to be. They are for Florence.”
Alton’s steps faltered.
Aoife continued, her voice steadying as the truth settled. “All of it. Even the way he keeps correcting how I speak, how I sit, how I stand.” She touched her cheek and winced. “He isn’t trying to make me a lady. He’s trying to remake the woman he lost.”
Alton’s face sank. “You don’t understand what she meant to him.”
“No,” Aoife said. “I understand exactly. Florence left him, and now he’s determined that I won’t.”
Alton’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You’d have a comfortable life here. Truly. He’d protect you. You’d be safe. Fed. Warm. Provided for.”
Aoife shook her head. “Safe is not the same as free.”
They reached the landing outside her room. Clara’s voice drifted faintly from inside, humming as she laid out fresh linens.
Alton hesitated, his hand on the doorknob.
“Miss Aoife,” he said, “you could learn to be content with your lot here. Many would envy it.” He’d used that word again, content.
Aoife met his eyes, and he looked away first.
“I’m trying,” she said. “Truly I am. But I won’t stand by and be grateful while people are hurt. I won’t be a coward because it’s easier for him.”
Alton closed his eyes for a moment before he straightened and opened the door for her.
“Then,” he murmured, “you must tread carefully.”
He bowed slightly as she went inside. Clara took one look at her and ran over. “Are you all right?”
Clara opened her arms, and Aoife gladly fell into them. When she pulled away, Clara studied her face. “What happened?”
“Alton will tell you.” Aoife said shakily. “I’d like to be alone if that’s all right.”
“Of course,” Clara said.
Aoife grabbed her hand before she could leave. “Thank you.”
Clara smiled faintly and closed the door behind her.
Aoife slid down to the floor, pressing her hand to her bruised cheek. The floor was cold. The air was heavy and still. In the past few days she’d seen Cormac and her family again. Now she was further away from them than ever.
In the corridor, Clara’s voice came low and anxious. “What happened?”
“Do you think me a coward?” Alton asked.
“No, of course not.” Clara’s reply was muffled by the door.
Alton’s voice was barely audible. “What am I doing here, Clara? Hiding in a wolf’s den, telling myself the wolf keeps us safe. But it’s his teeth we fear the most.”
***
Aoife woke before dawn, though sleep had never settled properly over her. Every time she drifted toward it, the memory dragged her back: Halverton’s hand flashing, the sharp crack of it, her father’s stunned silence, the bloom of heat across her cheek.
It hadn’t stopped burning.
She had challenged him. Let her temper speak where silence would have served her better, and he had reminded her exactly who held the power in this house.
Aoife pressed her palm to her cheek.
Defiance had gained her nothing. Alton was right. Obedience was the only thing that had yielded results.
When she had played the part he wanted, he had softened. Even if the food to the village was a manipulation, a tool used against her, the result was the same. Her family and friends had eaten that day, because she had swallowed her pride and played a part.
The mistake wasn’t trying to change him. The mistake was trying to do it honestly.
Halverton dealt in control and appearances. Power and performance. If she wanted anything from him, she would have to speak that language.
Fine.
She would.
Aoife swung her legs from the bed, the decision settling over her like armour.
Let him think the slap had frightened her into obedience. Let him believe she was learning her place, becoming the polished little lady he seemed so determined to make of her.
If that was the role he wanted, she would play it.
And she would play it perfectly.
Because the better the performance, the less he would watch her. The more he believed she was bending to him, the freer she would be to move.
And while he admired his own work, she and Cormac would take the grain.
Halverton’s world was one of power plays, manipulation, and performing the role assigned.
If that was the game Halverton played, then he had no right to complain when she learned the rules.
***
Aoife forced herself through the motions of getting ready with a precision she had never bothered with before.
Hair parted cleanly. Laces straight. Not a wrinkle in the bodice.
She wasn’t sure whether the swelling at her cheek was noticeable beneath the powder, but she would not give anyone, least of all Halverton, any sign of weakness.
When she entered the dining room, Halverton was already there, reading. He did not look up as she sat. Aoife smoothed her skirts and folded her hands neatly in her lap. Her heart thudded painfully, but her voice, when she spoke, was calm.
“Good morning, my lord.”
He glanced at her, eyes flicking briefly to her cheek. No comment. No apology. Only a measured nod.
“Good morning, Eva.”
He’d pointedly used the Eldrossi form of her name again, spoken as though nothing had happened.
So she pretended nothing had happened.
She sat ramrod straight, gave James curt instructions for what she wanted, held back her instinct to thank him, and hoped it wouldn’t damage the progress they’d made. She ate slowly, never interrupting the silence.
When Halverton finished reading, he folded the paper and placed it beside his plate.
“My lord, I wondered if I might collect some flowers in the hothouse today.”
Halverton tilted his head. “Why?”
“Lady Severcombe mentioned that flower arranging is a popular hobby for noble Eldrossi women. I thought I might turn my hand to it.” It was the one hobby she thought she might be able to stand.
At least it was close to the herbal work she was used to.
There was nothing about music or art that appealed to her.
Halverton smiled. “A marvellous idea. I will send a message to the head gardener to expect you.”
He rose to leave, stopping behind her chair as he crossed to the door. “I am pleased to see you have not let yesterday’s incident derail your progress.”
The head gardener met her at the hothouse with a stiff bow and a pair of shears.
He spoke to her with a deference that made Aoife uncomfortable, explaining which blooms were in favour this season and which colours pleased Lord Halverton.
She nodded, asked careful questions, and let him guide her hand as she cut.
Mrs Harrow took over inside. She showed Aoife how to strip stems cleanly, how to make an arrangement that was pleasing and balanced.
“Don’t overdo it; too many and it looks cluttered,” she said, adjusting a stem. “Every choice should be deliberate.”
After lunch she sought James, finding him in the butler’s pantry, polishing silver until his reflection warped and reformed in the curved metal. He did not look up as she approached.
“James,” she said.
“Yes, miss.”
She hesitated. Was she going to do this? She’d only just started to build a bridge with him. Should she ask Kit instead?
She took so long to speak that he looked up at her. If there was anyone in the house who would not hesitate to correct her, it was James. She forced herself to speak. “I need help with my accent.”
James’ brows rose.
“Mrs Harrow is an excellent tutor,” she rushed to say. “But she’s decided it’s good enough; she’s stopped correcting me.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be good. I want to be perfect.”
James didn’t speak, and she knew she’d have to ask directly.
“Will you help me?”
He considered her for a moment longer, then returned to the tray in his hands. “Very well.”