Chapter 6 #2
“You used to dislike gardens.”
Eleanor’s hand slowed slightly before continuing.
“That is not entirely accurate.”
“No, it was the roses,” he corrected.
A subtle change passed across her face at that.
“They take far too much care,” she said after a moment. “If you ask me, they are not worth the effort. My daughter would disagree, though.”
A brief silence followed, during which Sophie’s kite once again lifted briefly before falling into the roses with a soft rustle. A moment later, the child’s laughter broke the quiet as she ran toward it, undeterred.
Beatrice called after her, though without urgency, and Gabriel could not help but take in the peace of it all. He wanted it for himself, for in spite of the trouble Eleanor was facing, it somehow felt more manageable than his own troubles.
Then again, he supposed, he knew that she had his assistance and she did not know that yet.
Eleanor let out a small breath that might have been laughter, and she seemed slightly surprised by it.
“My aunt tells me you never married,” she said, clearing her throat.
It was strangely forthcoming for her, or at least how he remembered her.
“I did not,” he replied. “In all honesty, I—”
From the roses came another muffled complaint from Sophie as she attempted, unsuccessfully, to retrieve the kite once more, followed by Beatrice’s voice calling her back in mild protest.
The interruption broke the moment cleanly, as Sophie tumbled into the greenery with an indignant gasp before bursting into laughter. The sound carried across the garden, and whatever tension had begun to settle between them eased in response.
Eleanor’s expression softened before she seemed fully aware of it.
Gabriel watched her for a moment longer than necessary, then said nothing further, allowing the moment to pass.
He would have told her of his intentions then and there, but he had to admit that it was not the time nor the place for it, and so perhaps Sophie’s interruption had been a divine intervention of sorts.
By the time Eleanor finished the last stitch, afternoon had arrived. She tied off the thread, then checked the sleeve once more before setting the needle back into the small sewing kit.
Gabriel flexed his arm slightly, testing the mend out of habit more than necessity. The fabric held neatly, the tear drawn together so well that it was almost invisible unless closely examined. He looked down at it briefly, then back toward her.
“It will hold,” Eleanor said, still focused on the fastening of her kit.
“I have no doubt,” he replied.
Sophie’s voice carried over from the roses, though she was no longer in sight, and Beatrice had returned inside some time earlier, leaving the two of them alone together in a state that Gabriel could not quite make.
He rose, and Eleanor did the same a moment later. For an instant, neither of them stepped back from the table. When he reached for his coat, her hand moved at almost the same time to steady it. Their fingers brushed over the fabric, a brief point of contact that neither immediately withdrew from.
Gabriel was the first to move away, drawing the coat back, and Eleanor lowered her hand at once, as though the moment had never quite existed at all.
He put the coat on without comment, adjusting it once at the shoulder.
“I should return,” he said.
Eleanor nodded at that, composed once more. “Thank you for your help.”
“It was nothing requiring thanks,” he replied.
He turned toward the garden wall, and only when he had taken several steps away did he see Eleanor finally return to the house.
The interaction had been simple in structure and entirely unremarkable on the surface. A child’s kite, a torn sleeve, a conversation that had remained carefully contained throughout, and yet it lingered in a way he did not attempt to examine too closely.
Dinner that evening was taken in the family dining room, where William sat propped more comfortably than usual, with Cassandra beside him. The Dowager Lady Hartley sat at the head of the table, observing rather than participating until she chose otherwise.
She chose otherwise halfway through the meal.
“You seem less burdened than you have been of late,” she remarked, glancing toward Gabriel.
William gave an amused look over his glass. “Let him be. It is rare enough to observe improvement in him, and I would hate to ruin that by requiring justification for it.”
The dowager did not take her eyes from Gabriel. “It is not improvement I am speaking of. It is lightness.”
“Then you are mistaken,” Gabriel replied. “I am as I always am.”
“If you insist, though you must admit the child next door is evidently charming,” she said. “And the mother, though unfortunate in circumstance, appears to be managing well.”
Gabriel did not respond immediately. William glanced toward him again, his interest now more overt.
Cassandra remained still, though her attention had sharpened.
They knew who Eleanor was, and had they seen her themselves they would have pressed him as to why he had not told them she was there, but he was fortunate to only be pressed by the dowager in that respect, and she seemed willing to keep the secret.
“The girl speaks highly of roses,” the dowager added. “And from what I understand, she has already formed an attachment to you.”
“Children form attachments easily.”
“And yet,” she said, “you do not typically encourage them to do so.”
“There is no encouragement involved.”
The dowager regarded him for a moment longer before continuing more lightly. “In any case, it is good for the household to have pleasant neighbors. The last few years have not exactly been animated.”
William gave a quiet sound of agreement and the conversation moved on, but not entirely away from its earlier direction.
References were made to the household next door, to the child’s presence in the garden, and to the fact that Beatrice Pennington had always been a woman of good sense and better company than most in Bath.
Gabriel said little, but he noticed with increasing clarity how easily Eleanor Marbury could be spoken about without her ever truly being seen in the conversation itself.
By the time dinner concluded and the household dispersed, all that Gabriel could think was how unjust it all was. He knew Eleanor, perhaps not as well as he had once thought but enough that he knew she was no murderer.
But that was not enough to vindicate her. He needed more.
Later that night, as the house settled and the final lamps were lowered, a letter was delivered to Gabriel’s study. He almost left it for the morning, but he had a feeling that it was something important and so he opened it, only to immediately read it and drop it onto his desk.
His solicitor had sent word about Eleanor’s case, specifically because he thought Gabriel needed to know about it.
A date had been set for the first hearing.