Chapter 6
Gabriel remained in his study longer than necessary, though there was no pressing work left before him that could not have waited until morning.
The papers on his desk had been returned to order, the steward’s accounts briefly reviewed and set aside, yet his attention did not settle on it all for long. It returned, instead, to what he had already decided not to think about.
Eleanor Marbury.
The name had not lost familiarity with time.
If anything, it became more insistent with it.
Eventually, Gabriel rose and crossed to the small cabinet where his old correspondence was kept.
He did not open it immediately, instead standing for a moment with his hand resting against the wood, uncertain of whether continuing was the right thing to do. Nothing good would come of it.
Then he opened it anyway.
What he was looking for was not immediately obvious, and for a while he found nothing that answered any of his questions, especially pertaining to her predicament.
Julian Marbury had never been a man of consequence in the circles Gabriel had moved through at university, but there were things that he remembered about him that were resurfacing now that it mattered.
He had always been polished, and his exterior was faultless.
That was what had unsettled Gabriel; there were no flaws at all, and he knew it had to be too good to be true.
There had also been rumors that, if one did not agree with the gentleman entirely, he considered them an enemy.
Gabriel had ignored that at the time, but it was certainly something to consider.
By morning, he had made two quiet enquiries, one through an acquaintance in London who dealt frequently with matters of inheritance and settlement, and another through a solicitor whose discretion was reliable enough that nothing ever traveled further than the two of them.
He tried to convince himself that he would have done so no matter who had appeared in the household next to his, but he knew that he was doing so because it was Eleanor, and he wanted to help her because that had always been his instinct.
The answers did not take long to return.
He received the first in the late afternoon.
The wording was careful, but not uncertain.
There were proceedings already in motion, and the estate attached to Sophie Marbury’s inheritance was substantial enough to attract sustained legal attention, and more than sufficient to justify a contest of guardianship.
The trust had been structured to favor continuity of care, but there was no immunity from challenge. If Eleanor Marbury were discredited, even temporarily, the legal position would shift in ways that could not easily be reversed.
A second letter followed later that evening from his solicitor, who had been looking into matters for him at his request. It was more direct in its language.
There was an accusation of poisoning, the solicitor wrote, which would not need to be proven beyond all doubt to achieve its purpose.
In matters of guardianship, doubt alone was often sufficient.
Gabriel set the letter down and did not immediately move. It was not the accusation itself that held his attention but the design behind it.
He stood for a long moment by the window, looking out across the darkened garden. Somewhere beyond it, beyond the wall, lay the adjoining house. A child slept there, as well as a woman who had once been part of his life in a way he had not yet fully named again.
Before it was entirely dark outside, Gabriel sent for the solicitor directly.
The meeting took place the following morning in a small, unremarkable office in Bath, chosen precisely because it did not invite notice.
The solicitor was a man of middle years, efficient in manner and careful in speech, accustomed to clients who preferred discretion.
Gabriel did not waste time on the preamble.
“What is the risk to her position?” he asked once they were seated.
“Substantial,” he said. “The petition for guardianship can be advanced on grounds of moral fitness alone if sufficient concern is raised. In practice, that concern does not need to be substantiated to the degree people assume.”
“And the child?”
The solicitor hesitated only slightly before replying.
“The inheritance is considerable, more than sufficient to justify a sustained challenge. It is not uncommon in cases of this nature for extended family to pursue control under the guise of protection.”
“We have that in our favor at least. What of the accusation of poisoning?”
The solicitor shifted in his seat for a moment.
“That is damaging, whether it is true or not. It will not be treated as a criminal matter unless formally pursued by the Crown, but in civil proceedings it serves its purpose well enough.”
Silence settled between them for a moment, then Gabriel cleared his throat.
“Who stands to benefit most if she is removed?”
The solicitor did not answer immediately, though not from reluctance. When he did, it was with care.
“The uncle’s line, or those acting on its behalf. If the will is overturned or discredited, control would revert to the nearest male claimant or appointed guardian. In this case, that would be the petitioner.”
Gabriel did not speak at once. The room felt unchanged, yet something in it had narrowed. At last, he rose.
“Thank you,” he said.
The solicitor stood as well, sensing the end of the conversation.
“If you intend to act in any formal capacity, I would advise you to make haste.”
When he left, he did not return immediately to Ravenscourt. Instead, he walked along the quieter roads that led back in the direction of Bath’s residential edge, where houses gave way to gardens.
He did not stop until he reached the point where he could see, in the distance, the line of rooftops that marked the Pennington house. He remained there for a time.
The conclusion had already formed before he gave it words. Julian Marbury was not merely pursuing a claim, he was constructing one, and whether Eleanor Marbury knew it in full or not, she was already inside it.
When Gabriel finally turned back toward Ravenscourt, the decision had already been made. He would not remain an observer.
Beatrice’s note arrived just after midday, delivered by a footman who looked faintly amused by the errand.
It was brief, requesting Gabriel’s assistance with what she described as a small problem involving Sophie’s kite, which had become lodged in the upper branches of the tree that straddled the garden wall.
Gabriel read it once, then set it down without an immediate reply.
The request itself was simple enough, and under ordinary circumstances he would have sent word that a servant could manage it, yet he found himself pausing longer than the matter warranted, his attention drifting briefly toward the window as though the direction of his thoughts had already begun to take him there without permission.
By the time he reached the garden, Sophie was already beneath the tree, looking upward at the tangled kite.
Beatrice stood a short distance away, her hands folded.
Eleanor was present as well, though she stood slightly apart, her attention divided between Sophie and the movement of the branches above.
Gabriel crossed the gravel without haste and stopped at the base of the tree. Sophie turned immediately at his arrival, her expression brightening.
“It is stuck,” she announced.
“So it appears,” he replied, glancing up.
“It will not come down,” she added, as though this were a personal failing of the tree.
“That is terrible news, truly a tragedy,” he said.
Beatrice nodded and curtseyed in greeting, thanking him for coming, while Eleanor gave a brief, controlled acknowledgment that carried more restraint than warmth. Gabriel returned both with equal economy before stepping closer to the trunk.
Without further discussion, he handed his coat to Beatrice and began to climb.
The tree was older than it looked, its bark uneven beneath his hands, and the higher branches shifted slightly in the wind, making the ascent more difficult than it ought to have been.
He reached the kite after a few moments, working the tangled string free before securing the fabric itself.
From below, Sophie’s voice rose in immediate satisfaction as he loosened it.
“It is free!” she called.
“Almost,” he answered, adjusting his grip.
As he began to descend, the sleeve of his shirt caught on a sharp break in the branch. The fabric held for a moment before tearing cleanly, to which Sophie made a small sound of sympathy, while Beatrice looked up with a faint grin.
Gabriel paused only briefly, glanced at the damage, and continued down without comment. When he reached the ground, he handed the kite to Sophie, who accepted it with serious gratitude before immediately running toward the roses where she intended to test its freedom again.
Only then did Gabriel examine his sleeve. The tear was not extensive, but it was precise enough to be irritating. He had barely assessed it when Eleanor moved away toward the house and returned moments later with a small sewing kit.
A chair was brought to the garden table, and after a brief hesitation Gabriel sat. Eleanor took the seat opposite him and set the kit between them before threading a needle with steady precision.
For a time, neither spoke. Sophie’s voice carried intermittently from the roses, where she had already resumed her attempts to fly the kite with varying degrees of success.
Eleanor began to sew, her movements careful and practiced. Gabriel watched the stitching for a moment before speaking.
“You do not have to mend it.”
“I am capable of mending a sleeve,” she replied without looking up.
“That was not in question,” he said.
“I know,” she answered simply. “I only wished to point it out. It may be in doubt for some, but I am capable.”
Silence followed again, though it was not uncomfortable. After a moment, Gabriel spoke again.