The walk back to the townhouse passed in a blur. Mrs. Dawson kept up a steady stream of chatter, something about the quality of the linens they’d purchased, about the outrageous price of good preserves these days.
Eliza heard none of it.
All she could hear was Whitfield’s voice, smooth and patient and utterly certain. He still wanted to marry her, even though she’d vanished. He was no fool, he had to know that the story about a sudden illness was only a cover-up. Which only meant that she’d be found quickly enough.
I must leave. Before he finds me.
She didn’t realize she was shaking until they reached the servants’ entrance and Mrs. Dawson placed a gentle hand on her arm.
“You should rest, Miss Graham. Go lie down for a bit. I’ll tell His Grace you weren’t feeling well if he asks.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dawson,” was all she could manage
Eliza climbed the stairs to the servants’ quarters on legs that felt like water. She made it to her small room, closed the door, and collapsed onto the narrow bed. Eliza curled into herself, small and afraid, and wished desperately for someone to tell her what to do.
But there was no one.
Chapter Sixteen
“Arthur! Philip! Inside voices, please!” Miss Winslow’s patient but firm voice echoed through the entrance as the twins barreled through the front door of the townhouse.
Eliza watched from the shadows of the upstairs landing, a smile tugging at her lips despite the anxiety coiling tight in her chest. She’d missed the boys more than she’d expected to. Their uncomplicated joy, their boundless energy, the way they made everything seem simpler just by being their sweet little selves.
“MISS ELLIE!”
Too late, she realized as Philip spotted her.
“Oh Miss Ellie, you’re here!” Arthur joined his brother’s cry, and before she could retreat, both boys were racing up the stairs toward her.
“Young knights,” she said, laughing as they reached her, unable to maintain her proper distance in the face of their enthusiasm. “You’ll trip and hurt yourselves.”
“We missed you!” Philip declared, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“We told Aunt Imogen all about you,” Arthur added, beaming up at her. “About how you helped us build sandcastles and find shells and?—”
“Boys.” Miss Winslow had reached the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath but smiling warmly. “Let Miss Graham breathe, please.”
“It’s quite all right, Miss Winslow.” Eliza gently disentangled herself from the twins’ embrace. “It’s wonderful to see you again. All of you,” she smiled at Miss Winslow.
“And you, Miss Graham.” Miss Winslow’s expression held genuine warmth. “I hope you’ve been well?”
“Very well, thank you,” she lied.
“Miss Graham.” Morgan’s voice carried up from the entrance hall, formal and careful. He stood at the bottom of the stairs with Ambrose and Imogen, his expression neutral. “If you could see that the dining room is prepared? Our guests will be joining us for dinner.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Eliza curtsied, avoiding his eyes. “Right away.”
As she descended the stairs, she was acutely aware of three sets of adult eyes watching her. The Duke of Kirkhammer, unreadable. The Duke of Welton, curious. And the Duchess, Imogen.
Imogen was studying her with an intensity that made Eliza’s pulse quicken. Not hostile, exactly. But knowing and that was enough.
As though she could see straight through Eliza’s carefully constructed facade to the frightened girl hiding underneath.
Dinner was a strange sort of torture, but Eliza endured. She moved through her duties mechanically, serving courses, refilling wine glasses, ensuring everything ran smoothly, while trying desperately to remain invisible. But it was difficult when Arthur and Philip kept trying to catch her eye, grinning at her whenever she came near, clearly delighted to have her in the same room again.
“Miss Graham makes the best toast,” Philip announced at one point, apropos of nothing.
His Grace, who had been in the middle of discussing something political with the Duke of Welton, paused. “Does she?”
