Eleanor pressed her palms briefly to her cheeks, ensuring no trace of tears remained.
“I am much improved, thank you,” she called through the door. “Pray inform His Grace that I require only rest. I shall see him in the morning.”
A brief pause. “Very good, Your Grace. Shall I have a tray sent up?”
“No, thank you. I have no appetite.”
Another pause—longer this time, as though Mrs Harding considered pressing the matter further. At last, however, she said only, “Good night, Your Grace,” and her footsteps retreated down the corridor.
Eleanor released a breath she had not realised she held.
He is troubled about your headache.
Was he? Or was he merely fulfilling the role of a considerate husband, performing the part their arrangement required? How was she to distinguish sincerity from obligation? How was she to trust anything when the words she had overheard suggested that even his apparent warmth might be nothing more than gratitude for exceeding modest expectations?
She has been more than satisfactory.
The phrase echoed through her mind, cold and bitter.
Was she nothing more than a chair that proved unexpectedly comfortable? Did her worth lie in failing to inconvenience him as much as he had anticipated?
How gratifying for him, she thought savagely.How convenient that his practical bride has proven even more practical than anticipated.
The bitterness was unjust. She knew it. Benjamin had never deceived her, had never promised anything beyond the terms of their arrangement. If she had permitted herself to hope for more, the fault was her own, not his.
But recognising unfairness did not lessen its sting.
Sleep, when it finally came, was shallow and troubled.
She dreamed of her mother—Arabella seated at the window, fading gradually into translucence, becoming invisible even as Eleanor watched helplessly. She dreamed of Edmund Hale, his smile wide and hollow as he explained that she was lovely enough, but not enough for what truly mattered. She dreamed of Benjamin, his back turned, walking away from her down an endless corridor while she called his name and he did not turn.
She woke before dawn, exhausted and hollow.
The house lay silent around her, wrapped in that peculiar stillness that precedes the servants’ rising. She stared at the canopy above her bed and tried to imagine how she would endure the day ahead.
She would have to see him. Would have to sit across from him at breakfast, speak of household concerns, maintain the semblance of a marriage that had become something more than semblance—until yesterday, when she had realised that for him it might have remained semblance all along.
***
Breakfast was an exercise in performance.
Eleanor descended at her customary hour, dressed with habitual care, her expression composed into polite serenity that betrayed nothing of the devastation beneath. She had spent nearly an hour before her mirror disguising the evidence of sleepless tears, and she was confident no casual observer would detect the strain.
Benjamin was already seated when she entered.
He looked up at once, and something in his expression shifted—relief, perhaps, or concern. “Eleanor. How is your headache?”
“Much improved, thank you.” She took her place, poured tea, reached for a slice of toast she had no intention of eating. “I apologise for missing dinner. I trust my absence did not inconvenience the household.”
“Not in the least. I was merely concerned.” He studied her with the attentive focus she had come to associate with genuine worry. “You seemed perfectly well yesterday morning. I was surprised to learn you had taken ill.”
“These things arrive unexpectedly,” she said. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears—controlled, stripped of the warmth that had lately begun to colour their exchanges. “I am quite recovered.”
Benjamin’s brow furrowed faintly. “You appear—”
“I have a considerable amount of work awaiting me today,” she interrupted. “Several tenant matters remain unresolved. If you will excuse me.”
She rose, her toast untouched, her tea scarcely tasted.
