Page 11 of A Legacy of Lies

The words brushed across Clara’s skin. She kept her gaze on the table. “I did.”

“You think it’s true.”

She reached for the gloves and found she could not bend her fingers. She set them down again. “I think the village carries stories the way ivy carries a wall. It grows where it can.”

“I asked what you think of me.” The question hung between them, soft but inescapable.

The breath in Clara’s chest would not draw all the way in. She lifted her eyes at last. The fire behind him had burned low, leaving him half in shadow, half in truth. “I think you do not answer what does not profit you to answer.”

He did not look away. The quiet between them increased. Outside, the rain wrote its script on the windows like a pen against parchment.

He spoke with care. “If I deny it, you will say I hide. If I confirm it, you will say you knew.”

“I will say I do not know you.” Her voice came low. “Not yet,” she added, and the words cost her more than she wished.

He closed his hand around the back of his chair. His knuckles whitened. The only other sign of his growing temper was a small line that cut deeper beside his mouth. It was carved by restraint. “So you see me as the rest do.”

Clara could not let that stand. Truth had teeth. She bared hers in return. She chose a single truth she could carry. “I see you as you have been at Hartleigh for one day. That is all.” She gathered the gloves again, and this time her fingers obeyed. “Good night, Your Grace.”

Eleanor’s cane touched the threshold. The sound was a command, not an inquiry. “Clara,” came her voice from the doorway, level as a drawn line.

Clara went to her at once. Eleanor’s gaze flicked past her to rest on Nathaniel and returned to Clara several hear beats later. “Come. You’ll attend me,” she said. She turned without haste. The taps of her cane set the pace.

Clara followed into the corridor. The house breathed around them, old timbers shifting as if aware of what had passed. Behind them, the door of the dining parlor closed with a quiet click, not loud enough to carry to the end of the hall, yet clear to anyone who had been listening for it.

Chapter Five

The storm had broken sometime during the night, leaving the morning pale and unsteady, and the sun a thin coin behind streaks of cloud. Dew clung to the grass, and the air carried the raw tang of overturned earth. The house seemed to breathe more freely, though its hush of mourning still seeped through the stones.

Clara entered the breakfast room early and found Eleanor already there, seated in black silk with her cane propped close at hand. Silence reigned, broken only by the measured lift of her cup until Percival set a dish on the sideboard. Edith moved in quiet command, the trace of lavender trailing where she passed.

Clara crossed to her place. She reached for the water jug, poured herself a glass, and set it down before unfolding her napkin. From the corner of her eye, she caught Percival’s small shift, the faint suggestion he might have stepped forward to assist. He did not. Eleanor’s eyes flicked toward her, cool and sharp, but no word followed. The moment settled and was acknowledged, without correction.

The pocket door opened, and Nathaniel stepped inside. He bowed to Eleanor, then to Clara, before taking the chair directly opposite her. A slant of pale sun struck his profile, carving the line of his cheek and jaw. He poured coffee, his hand steady, then set the pot back with care.

Clara’s eyes caught on his fingers, scarred across the knuckles yet precise in their motion. Even that small act carried assurance, enough to steady the table and, unwillingly, her. She looked aside, yet the impression clung, as though the room itself leaned toward that small touch.

“You must forgive Hartleigh,” Eleanor said, her hand still on the cane. “By day the house softens its face, yet its walls remember storms,” she drew a measured breath. “And so much more.”

Nathaniel lifted his gaze. It landed on Clara as much as the duchess. His eyes did not pass over her. They held. The force of it pressed tighter than the storm against the windows. For a breath, she was not merely a companion. She was seen.

Her napkin slipped in her lap. She smoothed it, though the cloth needed no tending, unwilling to let him see how the glance unsettled her.

“The house stands,” he said, his voice even. “Age does not rob it of that.”

“Age proves strength, if it still stands.” The words escaped before she could stop them. She caught her breath but did not retract them.

The comment fell quiet but carried. Eleanor turned, a flicker of interest kindling in her eyes. Nathaniel’s mouth curved a fraction, neither smile nor mockery, something unreadable. Heat rose beneath Clara’s collar, but she held her ground.

Percival poured coffee for Eleanor, the butler’s movements as precise as clockwork. At the barest nod from Edith, the maid advanced toward the bread, the silver knife clinking against its dish. Protocol resumed, yet the silence thickened, muffling like cloth pulled too tight.

Eleanor set down her cup. “You will walk the grounds today, Your Grace. Hartleigh shows its age, but you must see where it stands strong.”

Nathaniel inclined his head. “I intend to.”

Clara pressed her hands together in her lap. His composure, his eyes, his hands, revealed nothing, yet both had touched something unguarded in her. The restraint drew her as much as it unsettled her.

Percival signaled, and a maid stepped forward with the first course. A dish of stewed apples, faint with clove, was set near Eleanor. Steam curled in the weak sunlight. Clara reached to serve, but Eleanor lifted her hand, and Percival completed the task instead. The duchess’s glance reminded Clara that Hartleigh’s order was not to be disturbed, not even by kindness.