Page 61 of A Legacy of Lies

“But you’re not the same girl he left behind,” Eleanor said softly.

“No. I’m not.”

Eleanor settled back. “Good.”

Clara’s gaze lifted. “You’re not surprised?”

“I’ve lived long enough to know a ruined man from a dangerous one. Your father, it seems, is both. But I’ve also seen enough to know what resilience looks like. And you, my dear, are standing in the middle of a fire and learning how to burn without turning to ash.”

Clara swallowed hard. “I don’t want Nathaniel hurt because of me.”

“Then see that he isn’t,” Eleanor said. “But you can’t shield him with silence. That never protected anyone.”

Eleanor’s tone softened, the steel beneath her compassion unmistakable. “You’ve both fought ghosts tonight. Now you must decide whether to face the living.”

Clara looked toward the window, where the mist settled on the glass, its pale breath smudging the reflection of firelight. For the first time in years, she didn’t turn away.

*

The latch clicked softly behind her. Nathaniel stepped into the morning room a moment later, the scent of tea and smoke still hanging in the air. Eleanor waited by the hearth, one hand on her cane, her gaze level and knowing.

“You asked for me, Your Grace,” he said.

“I did.” Her eyes drifted toward the door Clara had closed, then back to him. “Now we speak plainly. About the man who came here tonight.”

The fire snapped, the mist etched the windows, and the truth waited between them.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The second day of sun had not dried the gravel. Nathaniel’s boots struck the damp earth with every step. Yet it was not the mud that slowed him, but the weight of the folio in his arms and the hush that seemed to stretch from the stables to the edge of the trees.

The storm had passed. Four days of rain, wind, and restless shadows had ended, and now the world waited, holding its breath. The skies held no threat, only pale light. Yet the ground, like the hearts of those who walked it, had not yet dried.

“Your Grace.”

Nathaniel turned. Percival held out the duke’s riding cloak, the one Charles had worn into town, the one that had hung unused since. It carried the faint scent of cedar and something older, a memory of command worn thin with time.

“You’ll want this. The wind’s from the east.”

Nathaniel accepted it without protest. The wool settled across his shoulders, heavier than he remembered, a reminder that names carried consequence.

“The house approves of your deeds, Your Grace,” Percival added, eyes bright beneath his age.

A nod. “Let’s hope the village does as well.”

He passed beneath the arch and mounted. No escort. No fanfare. Only the quiet company of purpose. The folio lay secure under the strap, though he checked it once more, habit, not need. Once he had ridden to the village believing goodwill could ease neglect. Now he rode with silence as his witness. The Hall might forgive its heirs. The people rarely did.

*

Eleanor’s carriage waited near the drive. The horses steamed faintly in the morning chill, leather creaking under their harness. Clara stood beside it, the sun catching a sheen of bronze in her pinned hair.

“I don’t see the need for this,” she said tightly as Eleanor approached with her cane.

“You don’t have to see it,” Eleanor replied. “You only have to come.”

Clara folded her arms. “Is this penance?”

“It’s witness,” Eleanor said simply. “He has work to do. And you, my dear, have eyes.”