She did not believe Rebecca. She knew her father. She knew his heart, knew his pride in her, knew that he would sooner see her a spinster than married to a man who spoke of women the way Lord Bramwell did.
But the doubt was there. Small and poisonous, planted by four years of careful cultivation, and Rebecca knew exactly how to water it.
Elinor swallowed. “Let me see the children one more time.”
Rebecca’s brow lifted. “Absolutely not.”
“One visit. In daylight. Gilbert can escort me. I will go, I will say goodbye, and I will come back, and I will never speak of it again.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she hated that it did, hated giving Rebecca the satisfaction of seeing the fracture. “Please. I am asking for one hour. After that, I will do whatever you say.”
Rebecca studied her for a long, silent moment. The calculation was visible. The cost of allowing it weighed against the benefit of securing Elinor’s compliance.
“Fine.” Rebecca exhaled through her nose. “Get it over with. Gilbert will accompany you, and you will be back within the hour. If you are not, I will send for Lord Bramwell myself and move the wedding forward.”
“Why are you crying, Elinor?” Angelica asked it with a child’s plain directness, arms wrapped around Elinor’s waist, her small face tipped up, brow furrowed.
Elinor wiped her eyes. “I am not crying. I am simply very happy to see you.”
“You are crying,” Billy said from his seat. “Your eyes are leaking.”
A laugh broke through, raw and unexpected. Elinor gathered the children close, pressing her face into their hair. They smelledof soap and chalk and warmth, all of it made possible by the building around them.
Newton sat on the desk, tail curled, enduring their attention with patient dignity.
Elinor released them and turned to Mrs. Neal, who stood in the doorway, hands clasped, eyes bright with tears.
“I need to ask you something.” Elinor took her hands. “I am to be married. To a lord in the north. He will not allow Newton, and I cannot …” Her voice faltered. She steadied it. “Will you keep him? Here, with the children. They love him, and he will be safe.”
Mrs. Neal’s face softened. She drew Elinor into an embrace that held months of quiet arrivals and shared purpose.
“Of course I will,” she whispered. “But, my dear, what is happening? This does not sound like a happy match.”
“It is not.” Elinor rested her forehead against her shoulder. “But I have no choice.”
“There is always a choice, Elinor.”
Elinor pulled back and looked at the children. Toby stroked Newton’s ears. Billy bent over a slate with Georgie. Angelica watched her, intent and searching.
She went to each of them. She held their hands, told them she was proud. Toby should keep asking questions. Billy’s letters were improving. Angelica must keep drawing. Georgie’s sketches were beautiful.
She lifted Newton and pressed her face into his fur. He purred, warm and steady.
“You be good,” she whispered. “Take care of them.”
She set him down. He watched her, tail flicking once.
From the corridor, Gilbert’s voice called, sharp with impatience. “Elinor. Mother said an hour. You have had forty minutes.”
Elinor looked at Mrs. Neal, at the children, at the drawings on the wall, the slates by the door, the name above the entrance she would see once more as she left.
She embraced Mrs. Neal again, pressing all she could not say into it. Mrs. Neal held her, then let her go.
Elinor walked out of Lyra House. Gilbert fell into step beside her, impatient, distracted. He did not notice when she paused at the gate and looked back at the lit windows, the painted name, the life she was leaving behind.
Newton sat in the schoolroom window, a small, still silhouette watching her go.
She turned and followed Gilbert to the carriage and did not look back again.
Chapter Thirty-Three
