James had shown her the attic.
He had let her see what he guarded.
He had kissed her as though it meant something.
She descended to breakfast with the steady conviction that whatever had troubled them before had finally begun to loosen its hold.
James was already there.
He stood near the sideboard, his back to her, hands clasped behind him. At the sound of her footsteps, he turned.
She greeted James, smiling. “Hello, husband.”
“Hello, wife,” James replied.
His tone was polite. Neutral. And was opposite in every way of hers.
Something in her chest tightened, though she could not yet name why.
They sat. Tea was poured. The routine unfolded with practiced ease.
For a few moments, Eleanor spoke of nothing of consequence. The garden. Mrs. Hargreaves’s plans for the week. A letter from her aunt. James listened, nodded, responded where required.
But he did not smile.
At last, Eleanor set her cup aside. “You are very quiet.”
“Yes,” James said.
“Have I said something wrong?”
“No.”
She studied him. His posture was controlled, his expression unreadable. It was the face he wore when he wished to be impenetrable.
Her pulse quickened. “Then what is it?”
James inhaled slowly. “There is something I must tell you.”
The warmth she had carried since waking dimmed at once.
“Oh,” Eleanor said softly.
He did not look at her immediately. “I will be leaving.”
The words landed with a dull finality.
“Leaving,” she repeated.
“Yes,” James said. “I will be staying at another estate for a time.”
Her fingers curled around the edge of the table. “Which estate?”
“That is not relevant,” he replied.
The answer stung more than she expected.
“And when?” Eleanor asked.
