Eleven
The journey to Ravenswood was mercifully short, though for Eliza it felt endless. The rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels over the rutted lane beat a steady counterpoint to the thoughts she could not quiet. Across from her, her grandmother sat with perfect composure, gloved hands folded in her lap and the faintest hint of satisfaction curving her lips. It was infuriating.
Eliza, on the other hand, could not be still. Every turn of the wheels carried her farther from the little world she knew, from the cottage that had always been her sanctuary. Each mile seemed to stretch the distance between who she had been that morning and who she was now — a reluctant guest in the grand house of a man she neither trusted nor understood.
When at last the carriage turned off the main road and passed between two great stone pillars, she could see the house clearly from an entirely new vantage point. She’d never had cause to walk up the lane to the front doors. She’d only ever seen it from a distance and through the trees.
It rose from the mist like something conjured — vast and austere, with gabled roofs and tall, mullioned windows with diamond panes glimmering faintly in the weak afternoon light.Ivy climbed its grey façade, and the great oaks that flanked the drive stood like sentinels, their bare limbs interlaced overhead to form a canopy. Or a cage. The house was magnificent, undeniably so, but it struck her less as welcoming than as watchful, its many windows seeming to observe their approach with cold detachment.
A groom hurried forward as the carriage rolled to a stop before the wide front steps. Gabriel was already there, having ridden ahead, his tall figure framed by the massive doorway. The wind caught at his dark hair, and for a fleeting moment, she saw not the Earl, but the soldier — a man accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed.
The footman opened the door, and Helena descended first, leaning lightly on his offered hand. Eliza followed, gathering her skirts and stepping down into the chill air.
“Welcome to Ravenswood,” Gabriel said. His tone was polite, but there was a gravity beneath it that made her wonder if he felt as ill at ease as she did.
“Your home is very fine, my lord,” Helena said, her eyes sweeping the façade. “It has the air of a place with a long memory.”
“It does indeed,” he replied, and for an instant, his gaze flicked toward Eliza before he turned toward the doors. “Shall we?”
Inside, the hall was vast and shadowed, the scent of beeswax and old stone mingling in the air. A fire burned in the great hearth, but it did little to dispel the sense of chill that seemed to linger beneath the high ceilings and within the wood paneled walls. Portraits of long-dead Hawthornes watched from their gilded frames, their eyes seeming to follow every movement.
Eliza felt them judging her.
She stood just within the threshold, her shawl drawn close about her shoulders, the hem of her plain gown brushing themarble floor. Everything around her — the gleam of polished oak, the glitter of crystal, the soft rustle of liveried servants — reminded her of what she was not. Never had she felt her low place in the social standing of Dunrake on Swale more than she did in that moment.
Helena, ever composed, thanked the butler with quiet dignity when he offered to show them to their rooms. Gabriel spoke briefly to a waiting footman, his voice low but carrying a tone of command that made the servant stand up straighter.
When his attention returned to her, she felt that peculiar awareness of him again — not the electric spark of their earlier encounters, but something steadier, weightier.
“I have had the east wing prepared,” he said. “You will find it comfortable, I hope. It is quiet there — and private.”
“Private?” she repeated, her voice a touch sharper than intended. “That sounds perilously like exile, my lord.”
He met her gaze evenly. “It is meant only as consideration, Miss Ashcombe. I thought you might prefer it to being bothered by the servants every moment of the day. I rather imagine you prefer self sufficiency as much as possible... and a lack of curiosity seekers as you and your grandmother do… whatever it is you do.”
A flush crept up her throat. “That is… thoughtful.”
“Merely practical,” he said. “Ravenswood has a way of magnifying everything that occurs within it. Best to keep its gossip from growing teeth.”
Before she could answer, Helena interjected smoothly, “Your prudence does you credit, my lord. I daresay we shall be quite comfortable.”
A maid appeared then to guide them upstairs. Eliza followed in silence, the hush of her footsteps swallowed by the thick carpets. Each turn of the corridor seemed to draw her deeperinto another world — one of wealth and power and hidden histories.
Her chamber was far finer than anything she had ever known: tall windows hung with heavy draperies, a massive bed that would easily have slept three with large, intricately carved posts hung with thick velvet and silk bed curtains. A fire was already burning in the grate. And yet, for all its elegance, the room felt foreign. She stood at the window for a long time after the maid had gone, watching the mist creep across the meticulously landscaped parkland below.
From this vantage, her familiar forest seemed very far away — small and distant, like something glimpsed in a half-forgotten dream. But she could feel it still, like a pulse beneath her skin. And somewhere beyond that quiet horizon, she was certain, danger waited.
A soft knock at the adjoining door drew her from her thoughts. Her grandmother entered without ceremony, her expression serene.
“Well?” Helena asked. “What do you think?”
“It is…” Eliza hesitated. “Overwhelming.”
Her grandmother’s eyes twinkled faintly. “Yes. Grand houses often are, at first. But one grows accustomed to them.”
“I doubt that very much,” Eliza said, turning back to the window. “I do not belong here, Grandmama. I feel it in every stone.”
“Nonsense,” Helena replied gently, coming to stand beside her. “You belong wherever fate places you. And fate has brought you here for a reason.”
