The Ashcombes, for their part, did not respond. They sauntered past as though they did not hear the whispered words or see the sidelong glances. They did not lower their eyes or shrink into the background. They simply continued on, every step measured and dignified, until they reached their usual pew at the very back of the church — the one no one else ever seemed inclined to occupy.
Gabriel watched them settle there and felt an unexpected twist in his chest. There was something that he could not truly name, simply that he felt, that tugged at his conscience. Perhaps, he thought, Miss Ashcombe was entitled to her prickly nature. Because despite every appearance to the contrary, he knew that she was not as impervious as she appeared.
He had seen the disdain on more than a few faces — the subtle curl of lips, the faint widening of a gap between bodies there, as though mere proximity to the two women might be dangerous. Even those who offered polite nods did so with an unmistakably cool and detached civility. Of the sort, he thought, one reserved for an unavoidable nuisance. And yet, despite it all,there they sat, side by side in their little pew, their backs straight and their expressions composed.
They were there not because they were welcome, he realized, but because they had chosen to be present in spite of that. They were there because they refused to be erased, refused to be forgotten, refused to surrender their place in the community to small minded gossips and superstitious nonsense.
And for that — for their quiet dignity, for their stubborn resilience — Gabriel felt something dangerously close to admiration.
The service began, the familiar cadence of prayer and scripture echoing through the small chapel. He tried to focus on the words, but his attention kept straying to the back pew. More than once, he caught himself glancing over his shoulder, and more than once he found her gaze already there, watching him from beneath the soft sweep of her lashes.
Their eyes met across the distance — a long, suspended moment that felt somehow removed from time and place.
And then she looked away.
A faint flush crept into her cheeks as she dropped her gaze to the small, clasped hands resting in her lap. It was a small thing, almost nothing at all, but it struck him with surprising force. There, beneath the calm and the confidence, was something softer. Something that matched the strange, unwelcome pull he felt every time she was near.
It was, he thought, a strange place to feel such a spark. And yet there it was. Preoccupation had shifted into something more for him. Her quickly averted gaze and flushed cheeks told him that he was not alone in that. For such a realization to occur in a church, of all places, was ironic.
And for that attraction to be to a woman whom half the congregation thought was in league with the devil, no less. He was half convinced she might be. For surely there could be noother explanation for the way she had invaded his thoughts — and, God help him, even his dreams.
The hymns rose and fell, the sermon droned on, and still she lingered there — not in the back pew where she sat, but in the space behind his ribs, a presence that refused to be banished.
When the final amen was spoken and the congregation began to stir, Gabriel remained in his seat for a moment longer, staring straight ahead but seeing none of it.
Something had shifted. He could feel it — subtle, undeniable, and entirely beyond his control. And though he did not yet know where it might lead, he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
Eliza Ashcombe was no longer merely a puzzle to be solved.
She was a complication. And one he could no longer pretend to ignore.
The service endedwith the final echo of the organ’s somber refrain lingering in the rafters. The congregation rose as one, a polite rustle of skirts and murmured farewells filling the chill air of the small stone chapel.
Gabriel turned instinctively toward the back pew where Helena and Eliza Ashcombe sat. Even in the modest confines of the church, they seemed set apart from the others — Helena regal in her stillness, Eliza’s bowed head haloed by the pale morning light filtering through the leaded windows. He waited for them to rise, intending to intercept them at the aisle. He was not entirely certain what he meant to say, only that he wanted to speak to her — to see her expression when she looked at him without the barrier of polite distance.
But before he could take a step, a hand clapped his shoulder with unwelcome familiarity.
“My Lord! Blackburn, as I live and breathe!”
Gabriel turned to find himself confronted by a florid-faced man of middle years, broad through the middle, his expression one of practiced geniality. Despite that, he had the look of a predator. Or perhaps a confidence man.
“Walton Dabney,” the man announced before Gabriel could place him. “Of Dabney Hall, just beyond the western rise. We’re near neighbors now, and I’ve been eager to make your acquaintance.”
Gabriel inclined his head. “Mr. Dabney. Of course.”
“Fine service, was it not?” Dabney said, already talking over him. “Reverend Mullins may not be a firebrand, but he knows his scripture. Good man. God-fearing. Always best to keep the clergy content — they set the tone for the parish, don’t they think?”
“Indeed,” Gabriel murmured, glancing past him. The Ashcombes were rising now, Helena steadying herself on her cane as Eliza offered her arm. He could see their lips moving — a polite word to someone nearby — and then they began to make their way toward the door.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Dabney went on, seemingly oblivious to Gabriel’s distraction. “In fact, I was hoping to call upon you soon regarding a small matter of business. You see, I’ve recently acquired certain interests in a new venture — an enterprise promising handsome returns, provided one knows when to invest.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened. “I am not much of a speculator, Mr. Dabney.”
“Oh, come now!” Dabney laughed, as though the idea of declining profit were absurd. “Everyone’s a speculator these days! Railways, imports, shares in steam — it’s the future, my lord, the very engine of progress. I have associates in London who are?—”
He followed Gabriel’s gaze toward the door and smiled faintly, the expression far too knowing for Gabriel’s liking. “Ah. The Ashcombe ladies, I take it. Curious pair, are they not? No one knows quite what to make of them. Still, they keep to themselves and do no harm. The old woman’s clever with herbs, though, they say. And the younger one…”
Gabriel’s tone cooled. “Miss Ashcombe is a lady, Mr. Dabney.”
