Chapter 2: Mr. Blackmoor
Eleanor Hartwood could not sleep.
The manor's silence was unfamiliar, too heavy, too complete. In Surrey, the wind creaked the shutters. Here, the wind whispered but never howled, like it was afraid of being heard. Eleanor lay beneath a heavy quilt, the fire long since faded in the hearth, her eyes wide in the dark. She tried to will sleep to come.
But her mind was full.
Not of Lady Catherine's words or the strange chill that lingered through the halls of Ashvale Manor.
No — her mind was full of him.
Nathaniel Blackmoor.
He had spoken only a few sentences since their introduction, but something about him clung to her thoughts. The way he watched people, like he was measuring them. The calm in his voice. The small, unreadable smile he gave her when their eyes met.
She had felt his gaze even after he'd left the room.
Eleanor turned over in bed, annoyed with herself. She didn't even know him. She didn't want to know him. He was a guest of her aunt's, probably a friend of the family or some cold business associate.
And yet...
---
The next morning, Eleanor rose early. She had never been one for sleeping late — and besides, the manor's emptiness was less frightening by daylight.
She dressed simply in a pale blue morning gown with white trim. Her hair was loosely braided down one side, and she pinned it back with a silver comb. There was no one to impress — not that she would try.
The breakfast room was quiet when she arrived. A pot of tea steamed softly on the table, alongside neatly stacked toast and chilled fruit. The fire had been stoked, and sunlight poured in through the tall windows.
But she wasn't alone.
Nathaniel Blackmoor stood by the far window, one hand holding a small book, the other curled around a cup of tea. He was dressed impeccably in a dark waistcoat and gray cravat, but there was something about him that seemed… unguarded this morning. Softer.
He turned as she entered, his gaze meeting hers. "Good morning, Miss Hartwood."
She inclined her head, unsure if she should sit or leave. "Good morning."
"You're up early."
"I usually am," she said, and hesitated. "Couldn't sleep."
Nathaniel's mouth curved slightly. "Ashvale does that to some."
"I suppose it's just unfamiliar." She moved toward the table, selecting a seat near the end. "Or too quiet."
"It is too quiet," he said thoughtfully. "Sometimes I wonder if the house remembers too much."
She glanced at him. "That's an odd thing to say."
Nathaniel took a sip of tea. "Maybe. But old places have long memories. They carry echoes."
Eleanor stared at her plate, unsure what to say to that. She wasn't sure if he was being poetic or simply strange.
He stepped closer, folding the book and setting it on the table beside her. "Lady Ashvale tells me you haven't seen the gardens."
"No," she said. "I only arrived yesterday."
"She's quite proud of them," he said. "Though I believe she hasn't set foot outside in over a year."
Eleanor looked up. "Why is that?"
He shrugged, though something flickered in his eyes. "Perhaps she, too, is haunted by memory."
That word again: haunted.
Nathaniel straightened. "If you'd like, I can show you the gardens after breakfast. The morning light does them justice."
Eleanor hesitated. "Alone? With you?"
His smile widened, but not mockingly. "I assure you, Miss Hartwood, I'm quite harmless."
"I never said you weren't."
"Then you were thinking it," he said gently. "I won't insist. But you might enjoy the fresh air. And I promise not to push you into a fountain."
Despite herself, Eleanor's lips twitched. "I suppose a short walk would be acceptable."
Nathaniel stepped back with a graceful nod. "Then I'll meet you in the east corridor in twenty minutes. Wear walking shoes. The paths are old."
And then he was gone.
Eleanor stared after him, unsure what had just happened — or why she was smiling into her tea.
---
Twenty minutes later, Eleanor found herself in the eastern corridor, her coat buttoned and boots laced. The manor's large windows let in morning light, and somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed the half hour.
Nathaniel was already waiting by the garden doors, hands in his coat pockets.
He opened the door without a word, letting her step out first.
The chill hit her immediately, crisp and clean, scented with damp earth and fading roses. The garden stretched wide, bordered by low stone walls and tall hedges. Arched trellises stood like sentries, half-covered in climbing vines. A gravel path curved between flower beds, many already wilting with the season.
"Lady Ashvale planted the rose beds herself," Nathaniel said as they walked. "Years ago. Before her husband passed."
Eleanor ran her hand gently along one of the rosebushes. Even in decline, the flowers were beautiful — pale pink, deep crimson, soft gold.
"I didn't think her the gardening type," she said.
"She wasn't," Nathaniel replied. "But she loved him. She began planting after he died."
Eleanor looked over at him. "You know quite a bit about her."
"She tells me things," he said vaguely.
"You must be very close."
Something in Nathaniel's expression shifted. "Not as close as she'd like, perhaps."
They walked in silence for a few steps.
"You speak in riddles," Eleanor said suddenly.
Nathaniel laughed — a quiet, rich sound that surprised her. "And you speak boldly, Miss Hartwood."
She flushed. "I didn't mean—"
"I rather like it," he interrupted.
They stopped at a stone bench. He sat first, gesturing for her to do the same. Eleanor lowered herself beside him cautiously, unsure of the space between them.
"I don't understand why you're here," she said after a moment.
Nathaniel tilted his head. "At Ashvale?"
"Yes. You said your father was a friend of Lady Ashvale's husband. But you don't seem like someone who belongs to this world."
He didn't take offense. Instead, he looked out over the garden, thoughtful. "That's very astute of you."
"You didn't answer."
Nathaniel turned toward her. "Would you believe me if I said I came to escape something?"
"No," she said honestly.
He smiled. "Good. I prefer honest women."
Their eyes met.
And for the first time, Eleanor felt it — something deeper than curiosity. A pull, as though the air between them had thickened, bending ever so slightly toward one another.
It was she who looked away first.
Nathaniel stood. "Come. I'll show you the old fountain."
They walked on.
But neither of them would forget that moment — nor the way their silence had said far more than their words.
---