They reached the dining room, vast enough for dozens. It felt cavernous in its emptiness.
“You and His Grace will dine privately unless guests are present,” Mrs. Hill said.
“Of course.”
A pause lingered.
“You find the arrangement agreeable, yes?” Mrs. Hill asked.
Margaret met her gaze. She did not think for a moment that she would be sharing meals with her husband, not when he had been so eager to leave her alone.
“It is practical.”
Mrs. Hill studied her carefully, though she did not press further.
By the time the tour ended, dusk had settled across the estate. Lamps were lit along the corridors. The house felt less imposing in softer light, though no less large.
“If you require anything this evening,” Mrs. Hill said at the threshold of Margaret’s chamber, “you need only send for me.”
“Thank you.”
The housekeeper nodded her head again and withdrew. Margaret closed the door behind her and stood still. The room felt the same as it had earlier; beautiful, ordered, and untouched. She removed her gloves and set them carefully upon the writing desk. The fire had been stoked higher. Someone had laid out a tray with tea she had not requested.
She sat again, this time in the armchair by the window. He had kept his promise. There had been no intrusion. As expected, had not even appeared at dinner; a message had arrived informing her he was occupied with estate accounts.
Occupied.
The days that followed unfolded in similar fashion.
Breakfast was taken separately, followed by a brief exchange in the morning room regarding household matters. He did not avoid her. He simply did not linger, though Margaret rather felt it was all the same to her.
She learned the rhythm of the estate quickly. She met the staff. She began making minor adjustments to the household books. She wrote letters to her mother assuring her that all was well.
And then each evening she returned to her chamber alone.
The quiet no longer startled her. It settled into something heavier, not oppressive, but present.
On the fourth afternoon, however, as she sat in the small library reviewing accounts, the sound of carriage wheels echoed up the drive.
Margaret rose and crossed to the window. A carriage stood before the entrance, and not one of theirs.
She waited. Moments later, voices drifted faintly through the hall below.
A woman’s voice, a young one at that.
Margaret moved toward the door, composed but alert. By the time she reached the upper landing, the front door had opened fully. She could see the entrance hall from above.
Nathaniel stood near the base of the staircase. Before him stood a young woman Margaret had never seen. She was striking, dark hair arranged simply but elegantly. She wore traveling attire but it was expensive all the same. There was nothing timid in her bearing.
Nathaniel took her hand briefly in greeting. Margaret’s breath caught before she could prevent it.
The young woman smiled at him, not shyly. Not formally.
It was familiar.
Margaret felt something tighten low in her chest. Nathaniel said something Margaret could not hear. The young woman laughed softly in response.
The sound carried upward.
