Page 75 of A Legacy of Lies

“It is not difficult.” Eleanor snapped the ledger shut, the sound decisive in the quiet. She studied Clara for a moment, and something softened in her gaze. “Your mother had the same look when she puzzled over things too large to name. I found peppermint often helped. Fetch some from the garden, if you please. It will be good for us both. For you, to center your mind, and for me, to ward against damp air. I would rather not feel it in my bones.”

Clara rose, grateful for the errand, though her heart still carried the warmth of his remembered lips. She wrapped her shawl close and stepped into the corridor, the air inside the Hall heavy with the hush of stone and storm. Each echo followed her like a heartbeat, each shadow a whisper of him.

The echoes of the Hall faded behind her when she stepped into the garden. There, the world spoke differently. Moist air touched her face, cool and new after the storm. She took in the hush of dripping leaves, the sharp perfume of peppermint, and the shimmer of droplets catching at the clouds’ thin light. The sky still held its gray edges, but light fought through bravely.

Clara stooped to pluck the leaves, the sharp minty scent rising as water cooled her fingertips.

She tried to steady her thoughts with the simple task, but her mind slid elsewhere, as it had so often these last days. Nathaniel, not his mouth, not his hands this time, though that memory hovered always at the edge of her breath, but the way he had stood before the villagers, listening. No bluster. No distance. He had offered them more than decrees. He had given them respect.

And when her father had confronted him, broken and bitter, Nathaniel had not struck back with scorn. He had held his ground with the steadiness of a man who knew himself. Strength without arrogance. Authority tempered by compassion. The steadiness had undone her more completely than any kiss.

The crunch of boots on gravel broke into her thoughts. Mr. Chillington approached, lantern swinging, though the day was still fair.

“Miss Clara,” he said, inclining his head. “Out in the damp?”

“Her ladyship sent me.” She held up the peppermint with a smile. “She swears by it.”

“Aye, she does.” Chillington crouched, plucking a leaf to crush between his fingers. “His lordship once talked of tearing this patch out, paving it for a drive. Lady Eleanor told him if he touched a sprig, she’d make him eat every leaf.”

Clara laughed, the sound quick and warm. “And he relented?”

“He laughed with her and left it. She has more steel than most men I’ve known.”

They gathered the sprigs together, rain thickening as they worked. The air grew heavy with damp earth, the garden darkening beneath swollen clouds. Chillington straightened, frowning at the sky, then motioned her toward the ivy-grown wall.

“There’s shelter close by,” he said. He brushed aside the vines to reveal a narrow stone arch. Cool air drifted from within. “An old passage. It opens into a chamber. Three tunnels run from it. The one on the right leads to the study, the left one to the gallery, and the middle one’s barred. It leads to the turret, which is on the verge of collapse. Leave that one be.”

He held out the lantern. “Take this. It’s black as a cellar inside.”

Clara accepted it, the iron cool in her hand. She looked into the shadowed mouth, a thread of curiosity stirring where fear should have been. A day ago, she might have hesitated. Not now. There was no fear, only the flicker of something long buried. It was the same spark she had felt as a girl exploring secret corners, imagining adventure.

“The walls carry sound,” Chillington said, his voice gentle. “If you call, I’ll come.”

Clara smiled, lantern light catching her eyes. “Thank you.”

She gathered her skirts and stepped inside. The air folded around her, cool and close, as though the Hall itself held its breath.

*

Nathaniel entered from the passage, shrugging into a dry coat, his hair still damp from the earlier rain. He meant only to fetch tea before returning to the study, though the pull toward the morning room was stronger. Habit, perhaps, or honesty. Her presence drew him more than rest ever could.

“You escaped the tenants, then?” Eleanor asked, her tone brisk but edged with humor.

“Escaped is a poor word,” Nathaniel replied, a faint curve at his mouth. “We finished peaceably enough.”

Eleanor adjusted her spectacles. “So peaceably that the widow in town thought to bring me another blanket this morning. She said the village feels different.” Her eyes lifted, sharper now. “She did not mean only the storm.”

Nathaniel paused, caught by her meaning. “Different how?”

“Hopeful,” Eleanor said simply. “It has been some time since I have heard that word spoken of Hartleigh.”

He absorbed the significance of it in silence, the word was a benediction he did not deserve. The fire crackled between them, steady and low. Something in his chest tightened, unfamiliar and sharp.

The doors flew back on their hinges, wind and rain sweeping in with the man who burst through. His hat dripped, his coat clung dark with rain, and mud spattered his boots to the knee.

The magistrate bowed quickly, breath sharp from the ride. “My lady—my lord—Willie’s slipped us.”

Eleanor’s hand closed on the head of her cane. “Slipped?”