Chapter 7
Seven
Two weeks later.
Dominic stood at the window of the study at Bramwell Park, watching rain streak the glass in jagged lines.
He tried to remember the last time he’d slept through the night, for the answer was the night before the festival.
It was before he’d seen her in green silk.
It was before he’d asked her for something true and she’d given it to him.
He remembered the pianoforte, the softness in her eyes, and the brief, unguarded moment when she’d looked at him like he might be worth knowing.
He’d destroyed it all with three words.
The decanter on his desk was half empty.
It had been half empty for days. He couldn’t bring himself to finish it or pour it out, so it sat there.
He hadn’t returned to the shop. He couldn’t face her.
Couldn’t face the memory of how she’d looked at him—the hope dying in her eyes, the shuttering of her expression, the careful dignity with which she’d backed away and disappeared into the crowd.
The door opened behind him with a soft groan of hinges.
“My lord.” Graves stood in the doorway, his hands clasped in front of his waistcoat. “Lady Philippa’s carriage has just come through the gates.”
Dominic turned from the window, his brow furrowing as he checked the mantle clock. “I was not expecting her until Christmas.”
“No, my lord.” Graves permitted himself the smallest twitch of a smile as he stepped aside. “I believe that was her intention.”
Commotion erupted in the entrance hall. A voice commanded servants with the authority of a general marshaling troops. Dominic barely had time to straighten his waistcoat before the study door swung wide and Lady Philippa Westmore swept into the room.
Travel dust clung to her deep blue pelisse.
Her silver hair had escaped its pins, disheveled from hours in a rattling coach.
But her eyes, sharp as ever and missing nothing, swept the study with the efficiency of a battlefield commander.
She noted the untouched correspondence, the half empty decanter, and the curtains drawn against the light though it was barely past noon.
Her mouth pursed into a thin line. “Nephew.”
“Aunt.” Dominic crossed the room to kiss her cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and road dust. She’d always understood him in ways the rest of his family hadn’t troubled themselves to try. “What has happened? Is something wrong?”
“Your mother wrote to me.” Philippa settled into the chair across from his desk, waving away his offer of refreshment with an impatient flick of her wrist. “Three letters in as many weeks. She is worried about you.”
Dominic snorted, dropping into his own chair and leaning back. “Mother hasn’t worried about me since I was in leading strings.”
“She worries in her own way.” Philippa’s voice softened, though her attention remained fixed on his tired features. “She says you’ve refused every invitation since returning from London. She says you don’t leave the estate and that the servants whisper about you pacing the halls at night.”
“The servants gossip too much.” Dominic looked away, his jaw tightening.
“The servants see what is in front of them.” She leaned forward, her weathered hands gripping the carved arms of the chair. “You are not well, Dominic. I can see it in your face. You look like you haven’t slept in a fortnight.”
He hadn’t. But he wouldn’t tell her why.
“I am fine.” He offered the lie, though it sat bitter on his tongue.
“You are hiding.” Philippa gestured at the stack of unopened invitations on the corner of his desk. “What are these? Lady Morton. Sir Russel.” She picked them up, sorting through the cream-coloured cards with brisk efficiency. “Will you decline them all?”
“I don’t like parties.” He offered a casual shrug, his expression remaining entirely unreadable as he looked past her toward the exit.
“You used to.” She retreated into a sudden, heavy stillness. “Before the war. Before Vivienne.”
He flinched at the name. It still cut him, even now.
Philippa set the invitations down and picked up one that had been separated from the rest. She examined it, her lips curving into a slow smile. “Sir Huxley’s autumn garden party. This afternoon.” She looked up, meeting his eyes with a challenge. “We are going.”
“Aunt, please.” He shook his head, a long, ragged breath escaping him.
“Don’t argue with me.” She rose, brushing the travel dust from her silk skirts. “I have just spent hours in a rattling coach because your mother was afraid you’d drink yourself to death. The least you can do is escort me to one garden party.”
“It will be tedious.” He felt his resistance weakening. It always did when she was involved.
“Then we shall be tedious together.” She paused at the door, turning back to rake her eyes over him one final time. “One hour. A clean coat. And shave, for God’s sake. You look like a highwayman.”
Nell stood in her kitchen, kneading bread she didn’t need to knead. She tried not to think about the harvest festival.
The shop was closed for the Sabbath. Upstairs, she could hear the muffled sounds of her children.
There was Lily’s occasional cough and the soft, repetitive scrape of Oliver’s whittling knife against wood.
It was quiet domesticity, yet this was the life she’d built, as it was the life that should have been enough.
She punched the dough harder than necessary, her knuckles dusting with flour.
The green silk was still in her wardrobe. She couldn’t look at it, yet she couldn’t give it away. She couldn’t decide which would hurt more: keeping it as a ghost or letting it go forever.
She is nothing of consequence.
She’d heard those words in her dreams for fourteen nights now.
She heard them in the creak of floorboards, in the jangle of the shop bell, and in the heavy silence between heartbeats.
He’d looked at her, or rather, he’d looked through her while Mrs. Pemberton giggled and the whole fragile fantasy she’d allowed herself to believe came crashing down.
The bell at the front of the shop rang. Nell’s hands stilled in the dough.
Her shoulders tensed and every muscle went rigid before she forced herself to draw a breath.
It wouldn’t be him; and he hadn’t come in two weeks; yet he was not going to come now.
Nell wiped her hands on her apron and made her way to the front of the shop.
Her heart hammered despite her best efforts to still it.
Dr. Hartley stood in the doorway with his medical bag in hand, his quiet smile already forming. “Mrs. Ashford. I hope I am not intruding.”
Relief flooded through her immediately. She pressed a hand to her chest and felt foolish for her earlier panic. “Dr. Hartley. You are back from London.”
“I arrived last evening.” He stepped inside, removing his hat and setting it on the counter with a gentle thud. “I wanted to check on Lily before anything else. How has she been?”
“The cough comes and goes.” Nell smoothed her apron, grateful for something to do with her hands. “It’s worse at night. The apothecary’s tonics don’t seem to help as much as yours.”
“Then let me examine her.” He gestured toward the stairs.
Upstairs, Lily was propped against pillows with one of her beloved novels open in her lap. Her spectacles had slid down her nose, but she pushed them up with one finger as Hartley entered, her face brightening.
“Dr. Hartley! Have you read The Mysteries of Udolpho?” Lily gripped the edges of the book, her eyes wide. “It’s ever so thrilling. There’s a castle and a wicked Italian, and Emily is trapped, and—”
“I confess I haven’t.” Hartley’s eyes crinkled as he set down his bag and pulled up a chair beside her bed. “But if you recommend it, I shall have to remedy that. Now, let me listen to your breathing.”
He was gentle and patient. He asked questions in a voice that never condescended. Lily, usually shy with strangers, answered him easily as she chattered about castles and villains.
Oliver appeared in the doorway, a half carved bird clutched in one hand and his dark eyes watchful.
He said nothing, but he leaned against the doorframe and observed the scene—and Hartley noticed the boy.
He finished his examination, tucked his monaural back into his bag, and turned to Oliver with a respectful nod.
“Oliver.” He gestured toward the carving. “That’s fine work you are doing.”
Oliver’s chin lifted as he tightened his grip on the wood. “It’s for Lily. She likes birds.”
“She is lucky to have a brother who looks after her.” Hartley rose from the chair and crossed to where Oliver stood, crouching slightly to meet him at eye level. “Your mother tells me you help in the shop. You carry flour sacks and mind the ovens.”
“Someone has to do it.” Oliver’s voice was guarded, his stare probing the doctor’s face.
“Indeed.” Hartley held the boy’s look without wavering. “A man’s job, that. She is fortunate to have you.”
Oliver’s expression eased by a fraction.
He nodded once, a sharp jerk of his chin, and retreated to his corner by the window.
Nell watched from the doorway, her throat tight.
She knew in her bones that Gabriel would never have spoken to his son like this — not with patience, not with kindness.
He would have used the boy the way he used everything, until there was nothing left worth using.
Perhaps it was a mercy that he’d died before the children were born.
Perhaps God had granted her that one small grace.
Downstairs, the back door burst open. Daphne tumbled through it, her cheeks pink from the autumn air and her eyes bright with excitement.
“Nell! Dr. Hartley!” She spotted them on the stairs and bounded up two at a time. “Have you heard? Sir Huxley’s garden party is today. Everyone is going. The Mortons, the Whitfields, even old Mrs. Crenshaw, and she never goes anywhere.”
“Actually.” Hartley descended the last few steps, reaching into his coat pocket.
“I was about to mention that. The Huxleys are old friends of my family, and Sir Huxley specifically asked me to attend.” He paused, glancing at Nell with a shy light in his eyes.
“I was hoping, that’s, I wondered if you might accompany me. Both of you.”
Nell hesitated, her hand finding the banister for support. “A garden party? I am not sure I would be welcome. I am just—”
“The Huxleys are good people.” Hartley’s voice was earnest as he took a step toward her. “Sir Huxley doesn’t care about titles or trade. He cares about conversation and kindness. And I,” he stopped and started again, “I would very much like your company.”
Daphne bounced on her heels beside them. “Say yes, Nell. When was the last time you did anything for yourself? Please?”
Nell looked at Hartley. She saw his kind eyes and the way he had spoken to her son as a person of worth. “All right.” The word escaped almost instinctively. “But I have nothing suitable to wear.”
Daphne’s grin spread from ear to ear as she grabbed Nell’s arm. “You could wear a flour sack and outshine every lady there. Come. I shall help you dress.”