The moment passed lightly but not unmarked.
“I should like to meet him,” Georgina said.
“Oh, you will,” Eliza promised. “Unless I’ve scared him off by being exactly myself.”
Mrs. Bainbridge reached for another slice of cake. “If he survives that, he might be worth keeping.”
Eliza laughed and leaned back in her chair. “Tell me something, either of you. What does it feel like when it’s right?”
The smile on Eliza’s face shifted, touched now by something more thoughtful.
“Just curious,” Eliza said lightly, but there was something behind the question, some shadow of her own wondering. “Were you jealous of Celia?”
Georgina blinked, startled by the question, then laughed. “Not in the least. We all knew each other well, Alex, Celia, Rowland, and I. Celia was lovely. Alone and with him. There was no need for envy.”
She sipped her tea. “And before you ask. Yes, he grieved her properly. And quietly. That’s the kind of man he’s always been.”
Mrs. Bainbridge gave a small, approving nod. “Grief doesn’t always need trumpets.”
Eliza looked faintly chastised. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Georgina said gently. “But I think it’s important to say.” She set her cup down. “You mean the kind that leaves a mark.”
Eliza nodded slowly, her smile softened by something quieter. “Exactly that. Not convenient. Not polite. Not a match on paper. I mean the kind that leaves a mark.”
Mrs. Bainbridge looked briefly toward the window. “You don’t notice right away. At least, I didn’t. I just found myself breathing easier around him.”
Georgina stirred her tea, watching the leaves settle. “You stopdefending the parts of yourself you thought you had to protect. And you realize someone saw them before you did.”
They lingered through the noon hour, letting time stretch. When the server returned with a final pot of tea and a plate of candied lemon peel, Georgina realized with quiet wonder that she was smiling more easily than she had in days. Not politely. Not as a defense. But from something nearer contentment.
When they parted at the carriage, Eliza kissed her cheek and whispered, “You haven’t vanished, you know. You’re just a little misplaced. We’re glad to have found you.”
Mrs. Bainbridge added, “And don’t pretend you didn’t need cake.”
Georgina laughed again, not because she meant to, but because something inside her had shifted loose. Something she hadn’t known was held so tightly. She returned to Ravenstock Manor warm from laughter, her cheeks tingling from the cold and the long-forgotten exercise of smiling.
The laughter still clung to her like warmth from the fire, a small ember she carried home.
The house felt different now. It was less like a monument, more like a home. She paused in the front hall, where the warmth of the day followed her inside. The sunlight spilled through the transom windows and caught in the polish of the banister like light caught in memory.
The air carried the faint scent of lavender from Mrs. Hemsley’s morning efforts, and somewhere in the distance, the clock in the front parlor gave a single, decisive chime. Her gaze flicked to the framed etching that had always hung by the staircase. It was Rowland’s taste, precise and humorless, and then she glanced at the vase on the console table, perpetually crooked and still just so.
Her hand brushed the doorframe as she crossed to the study. For a moment, she paused there, looking in. The desk was no longer a barrier. It was an invitation. A place waiting for something to begin.
Her boots clicked softly on the stone as she crossed the threshold.
She set her gloves on the desk, hesitating for only a breath. Her fingers hovered above the drawer that had resisted her earlier, as if the desk itself had finally decided to relent. It opened without resistance. She smiled, pleased with herself, reached inside, and removed the household expense ledger.
Her fingers closed around it before her mind caught up. It was a slip of paper folded with intention, worn thin at the creases. As she opened it, she remembered not the document but a moment. It was last autumn. Rowland was standing by the window, folding something just like this and sliding it into a ledger with quiet finality. She’d asked what it was, and he’d smiled faintly, said, ‘Something for later.’
At the time, she thought he meant a debt. Now she wondered if he meant a warning. This time, she found the list.
She brushed her fingertips over the folded paper tucked inside the household ledger as a place marker. She gently unfolded the paper. It was a list of names. No one would have thought to look for anything that important in the household ledger. But she knew Rowland’s habits. He’d always trusted his own codes over a locked drawer.
There were twelve names on the list, most of which she didn’t recognize. But one stopped her cold.
S. Mallory.
