“Because sometimes the world is complicated in ways that have nothing to do with how much two people care.” She looked at the faces turned up toward her, these children who had survived worse complications than a broken engagement, and she owed them honesty without burdening them with her grief. “It does not make the caring less real. It only means it takes a different shape.”
Billy tilted his head. “So, he still cares about us?”
“Very much,” Elinor said, and her voice held. “This building, your beds, your tutors, your meals. He built all of that because he cares. That has not changed, and it will not.”
Angelica considered this. “Does he still care about you?”
Elinor’s throat tightened. She smiled because the children were watching, and they had seen enough sadness in their lives without her adding to it.
“I believe he does,” she said. “In his own way.”
The lesson continued. She read them a poem about the sea, and Billy drew a picture of a whale that looked more like a potato, and Georgie asked if he could sketch her one more time. She said yes, and sat still while his small, serious hand moved the chalk across his slate, capturing her in lines that were uneven and earnest and full of love.
When the lesson ended, she held each child. She did not say goodbye because she could not bring herself to make it final again, not after the last time. She said, “Until next time,” and the children accepted it, because children understood the difference between a farewell and a pause.
Mrs. Neal walked her to the door. “You are always welcome here, my dear. Always.”
Elinor embraced her and stepped into the night. The hackney waited. She climbed in and watched Lyra House shrink through the window, the name above the door glowing faintly until the carriage turned the corner and it was gone.
But when Elinor stepped into Morland House, a voice echoed from the corridor.
“Come here, Elinor.”
Elinor froze.
“In the parlor, Elinor. Now.”
Gulping, Elinor made her way to the parlor, where Rebecca stood. The lamps were lit, the fire high, the room arranged as though the scene had been set before Elinor arrived. Her expression was calm and controlled like ice beneath glass.
Belinda stood by the mantel, arms crossed, satisfaction plain on her face. Gilbert lingered at the door, unnecessary but clearly enjoying the spectacle.
And Joanna.
She stood between them, tears streaming, hands clenched, her body shaking with the effort to contain her sobs.
Elinor’s blood ran cold.
Belinda shoved her forward. Joanna stumbled, caught herself, and looked up, eyes red and swollen.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Elinor, I’m so sorry. They made me. Belinda found out, and she told Mama. I tried not to say anything, but they kept asking, and I …”
“Stop sniveling.” Rebecca’s voice cut cleanly through the room. “Go to your room, Joanna. I will deal with you later.”
Joanna’s face crumpled. She cast Elinor one desperate look, then fled, her sobs echoing up the stairs until a door slammed.
Elinor stood in the doorway as the ground shifted beneath her. Every secret, every careful night, every lie collapsed into space between her and her stepmother.
“I told you already,” Rebecca said. “Sit. Down.”
Elinor did not move. She remained standing, cloak fastened, gloves still on, chalk dust clinging to her fingers.
“How long?” Rebecca’s voice was quiet. The quiet was worse than shouting. “How long have you been sneaking out of this house at night?”
“Stepmother, I can explain?—”
“Belinda.” Rebecca did not look away from Elinor. “Tell her what you saw.”
Belinda’s arms uncrossed, and her chin lifted with the righteous pleasure of an informant. “Gilbert and I followed you tonight. Mama has suspected for weeks that something was amiss, and she asked us to watch. We trailed you to that orphanage. The one the Duke of Fairmont built.” Her eyes glittered. “You were inside for over two hours.”
