Chapter 4
Gabriel told himself that Lady Marbury was no concern of his.
He did so in vain. It returned with inconvenient persistence, threading itself through the ordinary structure of the morning as though it had always belonged there. He had dealt with far more pressing matters than an unexpected neighbor.
Estates did not run themselves, tenants did not wait patiently for clarity, and William’s health remained as unpredictable as ever. And yet, beneath each of those familiar obligations, there remained the same unwelcome awareness: Eleanor Marbury was next door.
He stood in the corridor outside William’s rooms for a moment longer than necessary, one hand resting briefly against the polished banister, before pushing the thought aside at last and entering.
The sickroom was warm, but not comfortably so.
The fire burned steadily, yet the air still carried the faint medicinal sharpness that clung to long illness, softened only by the scent of linen and herbs.
Light filtered through the heavy curtains in muted bands, falling across furniture arranged for convenience rather than looking nice.
William lay propped among pillows that had been adjusted more than once that morning.
His face, once strong and animated, was drawn pale by fatigue, though his eyes retained their sharpness.
Cassandra sat beside him, her attention divided between her husband and the small tray of medicines on the table nearby.
The Dowager Lady Hartley occupied a chair slightly apart, her hands folded tightly in her lap, though her stillness was more anxious than calm. Faulks, the butler, stood near the doorway, present in the unobtrusive manner he always had, attentive without intrusion.
Gabriel took in the scene in a single glance before stepping fully into the room.
“Accounts from the steward,” he said, placing a folded paper on the table near the bed. “There are delays on the north boundary repairs. I will address them this afternoon.”
William made a faint sound of acknowledgment that might have been agreement or dismissal.
The Dowager Lady Hartley gave a small, worried exhale.
“Repairs again. It never ends, does it?”
“It does not,” Gabriel replied evenly.
Cassandra adjusted the blanket at William’s shoulder without looking up.
“He slept poorly again,” she said.
William’s mouth twitched slightly. “According to my wife, I do everything poorly.”
The exchange might once have carried humor. Instead, it sat more quietly in the room. Gabriel moved closer to the bed, his attention shifting briefly to William’s face.
“How are you this morning?”
“Alive,” William said. “Which appears to disappoint no one more than my physician.”
“Only mildly,” Cassandra replied.
The dowager gave a strained half-laugh that faded quickly. A brief silence followed, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. William studied Gabriel for a moment before speaking again.
“You look as though you have been taking on more than your fair share of trouble.”
“I assure you it is the usual quantity,” Gabriel said.
“Wasteful,” William replied. “You should ration it.”
Cassandra glanced at her husband. “Do not encourage him.”
“I am not encouraging anything,” William said. “Only observing that he has that look again.”
“The look?” Gabriel asked.
“The one that suggests you are managing the entire world,” William said.
The dowager shifted slightly in her chair. “He always has that look.”
“It is hereditary,” William replied.
Gabriel exhaled faintly, though not quite in amusement. William’s gaze sharpened a little, settling on him more deliberately.
“Speaking of managing things without informing anyone, there has been some commotion next door.”
Gabriel’s expression remained neutral. “There is always commotion somewhere in Bath.”
“Not in your rose garden,” William said.
A brief pause followed. Cassandra looked up at that, curiosity flickering but not yet voiced. The dowager frowned slightly.
“Next door?”
William continued, unfazed.
“The Penningtons, I believe. And their guests. A child was seen in your garden.”
“I was there,” he said.
“Were you?” William replied. “Then you are further involved than I expected.”
Cassandra’s gaze shifted between them. “What child?”
“The Pennington household is hosting a widow and her daughter,” William said lightly. “Or so I am told by servants who speak more freely than they should.”
The dowager’s attention sharpened immediately. “A widow?”
William hummed faintly. “Yes. Apparently of some recent notoriety.”
Gabriel’s gaze remained steady.
William watched him for a moment longer before continuing, his tone growing mildly amused.
“There was also mention of a shawl appearing in the household.”
Silence settled more firmly this time. Gabriel did not speak, and at that William’s expression shifted slightly, a faint glint of amusement returning.
“I assume you have it.”
“I do,” Gabriel said after a pause.
“Then why,” William asked, “is it still in your possession rather than returned?”
“It is a shawl,” Gabriel replied evenly. “It may be returned by footman.”
William’s brows lifted slightly. “A footman?”
“Yes.”
William leaned back a fraction against his pillows, studying him with growing interest.
“That seems like an unnecessary degree of distance for something belonging to a child who has already trespassed through your roses.”
“She did not trespass,” Gabriel said.
Cassandra’s attention sharpened slightly at that. Gabriel realized how quickly he had defended the little girl, but he said nothing. The dowager shifted again, though more out of curiosity than discomfort.
“You sound as though you know the household next door.”
“I do not,” Gabriel said.
William’s gaze held his. “You know enough to have retrieved a child’s shawl yourself.”
“It was convenient to remove it from the garden.”
William gave a quiet, humorless sound of amusement.
“Convenient,” he repeated. “Yes. That is what this appears to be becoming.”
Cassandra finally spoke, her tone measured. “You should return it, Gabriel.”
“I will see it done,” he said.
William tilted his head slightly.
“Personally. It would be a pity for the only interesting thing to happen in Bath this month to be handled by a servant.”
The room settled again into its usual rhythm, though something subtle had shifted in it. Gabriel remained still for a moment longer than necessary, then turned slightly toward the door. As he did, William’s voice followed him, quieter but no less pointed.
“Try not to look as though a child and a shawl have unsettled your entire estate, Gabriel.”
Gabriel paused at the threshold. “I do not.”
Then he left the room. The study at Ravenscourt was quiet in the way only heavily burdened rooms tended to be.
Gabriel sat at the broad desk with a series of papers spread before him, each one neatly arranged by the steward’s hand and each one, in its own way, demanding more than it gave.
He read without interruption, his pen occasionally marking a margin or correcting a figure. The numbers did not surprise him.
They rarely did anymore.
A knock sounded once before the Dowager Lady Hartley entered without waiting for response, as she had done since long before Gabriel had any authority to object. She paused just inside the room, her gaze already moving to the papers on the desk.
“You are working yourself into an early grave,” she said.
“I am working through accounts,” Gabriel replied without looking up.
“The distinction is becoming increasingly small.”
He set the pen down at last, though only briefly.
“Is there something you require?”
The dowager stepped further into the room, her hands folded in front of her.
“There is talk in Bath.”
“There is always talk in Bath.”
“This is not the usual variety,” she said.
Gabriel looked up at that. She hesitated for a moment before continuing.
“A widow has arrived, as you know.”
His gaze did not move. The dowager studied him more closely now, as though measuring the effect of each word.
“She is said to be the same woman who has been spoken of in London. The one accused of poisoning her husband.”
A pause followed.
“Eleanor Marbury,” she said at last.
The name settled into the room without a sound. Gabriel did not move. Only the faintest tightening at the edge of his hand betrayed that anything had landed at all.
The dowager’s eyes did not leave him.
“You have not forgotten the name, then.”
“It is a name,” he said evenly. “That does not mean that anything must come of it.”
Gabriel’s gaze returned to the papers on his desk as though the subject had already been concluded. The dowager stepped closer, though not intrusively, her attention far more focused than before.
“Six years ago, there were Marburys in Bath. A younger daughter was placed into society after some difficulty at home.”
Gabriel did not respond. The silence that followed was a sufficient answer.
“It is her, then.”
Gabriel’s pen remained still on the desk. He did not confirm it, nor did he deny it. The dowager exhaled slowly, as though deciding how much further she ought to press.
“Then she is the woman next door.”
“Yes,” Gabriel said at last.
The word was controlled, measured, and entirely devoid of any emphasis. The dowager studied him for another moment before speaking again.
“And the accusation?”
Gabriel’s attention remained on the papers, though he was no longer reading them.
“I have not concerned myself with it,” he said. “Julian Marbury has taken charge of it all now, from what I have heard.”
The dowager frowned slightly.
“Who is that? I recognize the name.”
“A distant connection, if memory serves. We went to university together, and shared a few acquaintances.”
“Nothing more?”
“No,” he said.
The answer was immediate. Too immediate, perhaps, for anything resembling indifference. The dowager did not comment on that. Instead, she nodded slightly, as though filing the information away for later consideration.
“The name has begun to circulate,” she said. “If he is pursuing a claim against her, Bath will not remain quiet for long.”