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"You must prepare yourself." She had understood what he meant the moment she crossed the threshold of the Colonel’s chambers.

There was no disguising what war had taken from him; his eyes had turned cold, and he did not invite conversation with anyone besides Laurence. So, whenever she could, she chose to visit while he slept. She would sit quietly beside the bed with a book in her lap, sometimes reading aloud in little more than a whisper, sometimes watching the steady rise and fall of his chest with silent gratitude that there was still breath to fill his lungs at all.

Afterwards, she almost always found herself in the drawing room.

There she danced, allowing the movement to shake away the heaviness that clung to her after leaving Radnor's chamber.

Other afternoons she wrote long letters to her brothers and sister, and to the children she missed so dearly.

The evenings were the favourite part of her day. Each night, Arthur and Eliza would retreat to their separate chambers. Vinnie would help her prepare for bed before bidding her goodnight, and only when the corridor had fallen silent would Eliza carefully open the connecting door between their rooms and join her husband. On the second night of their routine, she had learned precisely where the ottoman stood and no longer risked significant injury as she stumbled through the darkness.

By the third night, Arthur had quietly placed lamps along the route, each one left burning just brightly enough to guide her safely to his bedside. He had never acknowledged doing so, and she had never thanked him.

She would slip beneath the covers beside him and wait. Another joy she savoured was that each evening, Arthur always spoke first, leading with a question.

Sometimes serious. Sometimes utterly ridiculous.

'What frightened you most as a child?'

'If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you go?'

'What is the worst book you have ever read?'

She answered.

Then it became her turn.

The game continued each day, question to question, answer for answer, until one of them eventually drifted to sleep.

Each answer was another brick removed from the great wall Arthur had built around himself, another glimpse of the man hidden beneath the title, the duty, and the formidable reputation. She collected them carefully, storing them away like precious treasures, convinced that with every passing night she was winning just a little more ground. She had learned that nothing had frightened him as a child, not storms, nor darkness, nor the prospect of being sent away to school. And finally she learned his favourite sport was fencing, not because of the competition, but because he admired the discipline it demanded.

To anyone else, such details might have seemed entirely ordinary.

To Eliza, they were priceless.

One night, her monthly courses began, and she was beside herself because she assumed Arthur would rather she remained in her own chamber while nature took its turn. Eliza settled herself at her dressing table and began composing a short note explaining why she would not join him that evening. She recalled having barely finished the first sentence before a quiet knock sounded upon the connecting door.

Looking up, Arthur stood against the doorframe, one shoulder resting lazily against the wood, his expression suggesting that he had been waiting, rather impatiently, to discover what had delayed her.

"Is all well?" he asked.

"Yes." she replied, glancing down at the unfinished note.

"I was writing to you. My courses have come, so I assumed it best that I remain here this evening."

Arthur's gaze drifted briefly to the letter before returning to her face. He said nothing. One dark eyebrow rose ever so slightly. It was not an expression of confusion. Nor disapproval. He pushed himself away from the doorway and turned back towards his chamber.

After several passing moments, he realised she had not followed, and she heard him call over his shoulder.

“Do you intend to delay us any further?”

The question carried just enough expectation to make her smile. Abandoning both the letter and the pen, Eliza gathered the hem of her nightdress and hurried after him, unable to suppress the flutter settling in her stomach every time she was near him.

Arthur had grown accustomed to falling asleep to the sound of her voice, to their endless questions, to the easy companionship that existed only in the darkness of his room.

For Eliza, the memories of the last few weeks had now found their way into the uplifting tune she hummed as she moved gracefully around the drawing room. She preferred the evening hour alone, when the last of the evening sunlight spilt through the tall window, setting the floor aglow. The house itself seemed quieter as dusk approached. Footmen disappeared to prepare for dinner, maids busied themselves elsewhere, and Winworth settled into the gentle lull that existed between the labours of the day and the formality of the evening.

It was her favourite time to dance.