“Nor am I,” she replied, tracing her thumb lightly across his knuckles, a small gesture that felt strangely momentous in the quiet dark. “But perhaps we might learn together.”
They did not speak again for a long time.
The moon travelled slowly across the sky, casting shifting lattices of light and shadow across the bed. Eleanor felt her own weariness pressing upon her—the late hour, the emotional strain of the night—but she did not permit herself to sleep. She simply remained where she was, her hand in his, her presence a silent assurance that he was no longer alone.
Benjamin’s breathing gradually steadied. His hold upon her hand loosened, though he did not relinquish it altogether. At length, his eyes drifted closed, and she watched as tension slowly abandoned his features while genuine rest—not troubled slumber, not restless turning, but true, peaceful sleep—claimed him.
He appeared younger in repose. Less guarded. The severe lines about his mouth softened, and the habitual crease between his brows eased into stillness. Even the scars seemed gentled by rest.
This was the man he might be,Eleanor thought,if he ever permitted himself peace.
She remained until the first pale light of dawn crept through the windows. Only then did she carefully disengage her fingers from his and slip quietly from the chamber, leaving him to wake alone but—she hoped—with the knowledge that solitude need not be inevitable.
***
He found her at breakfast.
She had expected awkwardness. Expected withdrawal, deflection, some careful reconstruction of the barriers that had fallen in the night. Most people were reluctant to be witnessed in such moments of vulnerability, and she had seen Benjamin at his most unguarded—had seen nightmares he likely believed no one would ever share.
But when he appeared in the breakfast room doorway, his expression held no distance.
It was gentle.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Two words. Plain. Unadorned. Entirely sincere.
Something unfurled within Eleanor’s chest—warm and fragile and faintly terrifying.
“You would have done the same for me,” she answered.
“I would.” He crossed the room and resumed his customary seat opposite her. “But that does not lessen what you have done.”
They regarded one another across the breakfast table—across tea cups and plates and all the ordinary rituals of morning. And something passed silently between them: acknowledgement, understanding, the quiet recognition that the previous night had altered them both.
“Tonight,” Benjamin said slowly, “if the dreams return—”
“Then I shall hear you.” Eleanor met his gaze steadily. “And I shall come.”
He inclined his head once. Something very near a smile touched his expression—not fully formed, not yet—but closer than she had ever seen.
“Good,” he said softly. “That is… good.”
And as she held his gaze, Eleanor realised that staying—through fear, through memory, through the long shadows of the past—had altered something between them in a way neither could deny any longer; nor, it seemed, did either wish to turn away from it.
Chapter Nineteen
“The solicitor has arrived, Your Grace.”
Eleanor looked up from the tenant correspondence she had been reviewing, a faint frown touching her features. “I was not aware we were expecting visitors.”
“Mr Carroway sent word yesterday,” Mrs Harding replied. “His Grace requested that he be shown directly to the study upon arrival.”
“Carroway?” Eleanor repeated. The name was unfamiliar.
“A new appointment, I believe. His Grace dismissed the former firm some weeks ago. Mr Carroway is said to have served with him abroad.”
“I see,” Eleanor said slowly, setting down her pen as her thoughts adjusted to this information. “Has luncheon been arranged?”
