Chapter 3
The walk back felt longer than the way there had, because all Eleanor could think of was the fact that she had left Gabriel behind.
Eleanor kept one hand firmly around Sophie’s, the other resting lightly at the child’s back to ensure she could not slip away again. The rose garden behind them faded quickly, swallowed by ivy and stone and the illusion of separation that the wall had once provided.
Only when they were fully back within Beatrice’s small garden did Eleanor slow. She bent slightly, smoothing Sophie’s hair with careful hands that betrayed nothing of the tremor beneath them.
“Sophie,” she said softly. “You are not to wander off like that again.”
“I know, Mother, but I could not help it! Roses are so nice, and that garden was filled with them. They were lovely, were they not?”
Eleanor almost smiled, but she managed to stop herself.
Her daughter had a talent for charming her way out of trouble, but Eleanor could not allow it to happen this time.
Instead, she straightened and guided her daughter back toward the house.
She would not let anyone see that something was troubling her, but it was a lie.
Gabriel Hartley.
She had not expected to see him there. Her aunt had promised her—
Her thoughts stopped there, refusing to complete the sentence.
There was no point in dissecting it, not when his voice still lingered at the edges of her mind alongside the sight of him standing among the roses.
She had missed him so much, and part of her longed to see him again, but she knew better than to want such a thing.
She did not deserve it, even if she ached to speak with him more.
Inside the townhouse, warmth met them at the door.
None of it felt altered, and yet Eleanor moved through it as though she had returned from somewhere else entirely.
Sophie, however, did not share her silence.
The moment she was freed of her cloak, she turned immediately, eyes bright with all of her unanswered questions.
“Mama,” she began at once, “who was the man in the garden?”
Eleanor paused. “The gardener?”
“No,” Sophie replied with certainty. “The tall one. The one who knows the roses.”
Eleanor’s hands stilled for the briefest moment as she removed Sophie’s boots.
“He knew everything,” Sophie continued, undeterred. “About red ones and white ones and the quiet ones. And he showed me how not to hurt them.”
She frowned slightly, as though that was the most important detail.
“He was very serious about flowers,” she added.
Eleanor set the boots aside and straightened.
“That is good,” she said.
“Can we go again?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly. Eleanor softened it a moment later.
“We are not to trouble our neighbors.”
Sophie looked unconvinced, and in spite of everything Eleanor could not blame her for that; she was not even convincing herself that what she was saying was the truth.
“He did not seem troubled by me being there.”
“That is not the point.”
There was a pause, in which Sophie considered what she was being told. Eleanor knew what her daughter meant. He was not at all burdened by her presence, but that was before he had seen Eleanor.
“He has sad eyes.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed slightly at that.
“That is enough, Sophie.”
“But—”
“Sophie.”
The child fell silent, though not without reluctance. Eleanor exhaled slowly, turning away as she began to undo the fastening of her own cloak. Her movements were precise, yet her mind remained elsewhere.
He has sad eyes.
The phrase followed her with irritating persistence, refusing to be dismissed as childish observation, for she had seen them too, and she had not been prepared for how unchanged they were.
Sophie, apparently deciding that she had only been told not to ask questions, was not quiet for too long.
“He said I could hold the roses properly,” she added demonstrating with her small hands. “And he knew their names. They were very difficult names.”
“Yes,” Eleanor murmured absently.
“And he lives there.”
“I know.”
“And we are next door.”
“Yes.”
Eleanor hoped that by not engaging with her, the conversation might end sooner, but it did not seem to help at all.
“That is very close.”
Eleanor’s fingers stilled briefly at the edge of Sophie’s collar.
“It is,” she agreed quietly.
A silence followed, more thoughtful on Sophie’s part and more guarded on Eleanor’s.
“I think I like him,” Sophie said eventually.
Eleanor did not answer immediately. When she did, her voice was carefully even.
“You have known him for less than an hour.”
“That is enough time to know if someone is kind,” Sophie said with absolute certainty.
Eleanor could not quite refute that. Instead, she guided Sophie toward the stairs.
“Come. You need to rest.”
Upstairs, in the quiet of the small bedchamber Beatrice had prepared for her, Sophie was coaxed into softer clothing, her earlier excitement gradually giving way to the natural heaviness of a child who had not yet fully recovered from travel and emotion.
Her questions slowed, then softened, then faded into intermittent murmurs as sleep began to claim her again. She would adapt eventually, but like Eleanor the little girl had been restless of late, and if sleeping often was what she needed then it would be afforded to her.
Eleanor sat beside the bed for a while longer than necessary, one hand resting lightly on Sophie’s hair, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing until it settled into deeper rest.
Only then did she stand. The room felt too still without the child’s voice in it. Eleanor moved to the window, though she did not truly see the street beyond it. Her thoughts were elsewhere, circling the same point without any resolution.
Gabriel Hartley was there, and as soon as she saw him her fingers tightened briefly against the window frame.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and Beatrice entered quietly, immediately softening as she took in Eleanor’s stillness.
“Is she asleep?” she asked gently.
“Yes.”
Beatrice nodded, then hesitated, studying her great niece more closely.
“You look as though you have seen a ghost.”
“I feel as though I have, too.”
Beatrice’s brows lifted slightly. Eleanor turned away from the window at last.
“You told me he was away.”
For a brief moment, Beatrice said nothing.
“He was. Well, I believed he still was.”
“I see. Well, you were wrong about it, as my daughter found him in his garden. She spoke to him.”
Beatrice stepped further into the room.
“Eleanor—”
“It does not matter.” Eleanor sighed. “We will avoid him.”
Beatrice studied her for a long moment, as though weighing what should be said and what would only cause harm. Finally, she nodded.
“As you wish.”
When she left again, Eleanor remained by the window. Below, the street carried on with its indifferent rhythm, unaware of anything that had happened.
The house was quieter that afternoon, as though even Beatrice’s townhouse had learned to move more softly around Eleanor.
Sophie still slept upstairs, one arm loose above the blanket and her face turned into the pillow.
Eleanor had sat with her for some time after she fell asleep, and only when the child’s rest deepened had she finally left the room, closing the door carefully behind her.
Downstairs, Beatrice waited in the sitting room. She sat near the window with her sewing untouched in her lap, and she looked up as Eleanor entered and set the sewing aside without haste.
“Sit,” she said gently.
Eleanor did as she was asked, lowering herself into the chair opposite. She sat perfectly upright, but there was a stiffness about her that she could not avoid. Beatrice regarded her for a moment before speaking.
“Gabriel Hartley never married, you know.”
“That has not been a matter of concern for me.”
“No,” Beatrice replied, “though it is often remarked upon in families of his standing.”
Eleanor offered no response to that, allowing the silence to settle again between them. Beatrice turned slightly toward the fire.
“He has carried Ravenscourt for years. William’s health has never remained steady for long periods, and much of the estate has fallen to Gabriel since he came of age.”
Eleanor’s gaze shifted at that. Her aunt did not use their titles as she ought to have done, but then she had known them both since they were young boys. Eleanor felt much the same, though she would never admit it aloud.
“I heard that Lord Hartley was recovering,” she said after a moment. “He is married now, is he not?”
“He is, yes,” Beatrice said. “But that does not mean he is in good health. There are periods of improvement, but they do not last. I cannot count the times I have seen a doctor arrive this month alone.”
The fire gave a quiet crackle, marking the pause that followed.
Eleanor’s fingers tightened once against the fabric of her skirt before relaxing again.
William had always been kind to her, and he was one of very few people that had been able to make her laugh.
His brother was another with such talents.
Beatrice leaned back slightly, her expression thoughtful as she continued.
“There were years when Bath was full of families such as his. The seasons brought the same names again and again, and the Hartleys were always among them. Gabriel was present often during those years, and always with his family but never with a desire to be noticed.”
Beatrice’s voice softened as she looked at Eleanor’s hair, and Eleanor knew at once what that meant. She had, after all, inherited it from her father, and Eleanor knew that Beatrice missed her brother greatly.
“After my brother died, matters at home changed quickly. The debts were considerable, and your mother saw only one practical means of securing stability for the household.”
“I know,” Eleanor replied solemnly. “Fortunately for her, she had an unmarried daughter.”