Perhaps we shall suit.
Perhaps, she thought, watching the dark house grow larger in the window,this is where I was always meant to be.
Chapter Six
“Welcome to Thornwood Park, Your Grace.”
The housekeeper stood at the top of the front steps, her posture as rigid as the stone columns flanking the entrance. She was perhaps fifty, her silver-streaked hair drawn back with severe precision, and her expression suggested she had been carved from the same grey stone as the house itself.
Eleanor stepped down from the carriage and felt the weight of the place settle upon her shoulders like a physical burden.
The estate was extensive—there was no denying it. The house rose three stories, its stone façade dignified by age and weather, its tall, numerous windows speaking of wealth that had been old when her grandparents were young. Yet there was a coldness to it that extended beyond the chill of early evening. The windows were dark. The gardens, visible on either side of the drive, bore the tangled aspect of things left too long untended. Even the air seemed heavier here, as though the house itself held its breath.
Immaculate but lifeless, Eleanor thought.Like a tomb that someone has remembered to dust.
“Thank you,” she said to the housekeeper, summoning the composure that had carried her through the wedding and the long journey. “You must be—”
“Mrs Harding, Your Grace. I have managed the household these twenty years.”
The words were proper. The tone was rather less so. There was a guardedness in the woman’s manner, a careful assessment in her eyes, that suggested Eleanor was being evaluated rather than welcomed.
She is protective of him,Eleanor realised.She has governed this house for twenty years, and now a stranger has arrived to take her place.
“I look forward to working with you, Mrs Harding,” Eleanor said carefully. “I understand the household has been admirably conducted in the absence of a mistress. I have no wish to disturb what already functions well.”
Something flickered in the housekeeper’s expression—surprise, perhaps, or cautious approval.
“Very good, Your Grace,” she said, and the frost in her voice thawed by perhaps a single degree.
Behind Eleanor, she heard Benjamin’s footsteps on the gravel drive—his uneven tread unmistakable even without turning to look.
And then—
Movement. A flash of grey darted across the drive directly in Eleanor’s path.
A cat.
It appeared from nowhere—from the overgrown hedges, perhaps, or the shadows beneath the front steps—and it moved swiftly, a blur of matted fur and wild eyes that registered only as danger in the most primitive part of Eleanor’s mind.
She recoiled.
The motion was instinctive, violent, entirely beyond her control. Her body jerked backwards; her foot caught in the hem of her travelling dress, and she stumbled—would have fallen, perhaps, had she not caught herself at the last instant, swaying as she fought for balance.
A sound escaped her. Something between a gasp and a cry. Something small, frightened, and shamefully uncontrolled, wrenched from her throat before she could suppress it.
The cat vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, dissolving into the lengthening shadows of the garden. But Eleanor remained frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs, her breath too quick, her hands trembling at her sides as she struggled to master herself.
Foolish,she rebuked herself savagely.Foolish, childish—it was only a cat. Only a small grey cat. And you are a grown woman—a duchess now—and you cannot—
“Your Grace?”
Mrs Harding’s voice—sharp with concern, or perhaps with judgment. Eleanor could not determine which.
She forced herself upright. Forced her voice toward steadiness.
“Forgive me. I’m not usually so—”
She stopped.
