Chapter 2: The East Wing
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A leashed dog cannot run far. Edmund Whitmore.
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The east wing of Ashford Manor opened onto a long corridor lined with tall windows overlooking the formal gardens. Moonlight fell through the glass in pale shafts, catching on the polished oak floor and sharpening the shadows. Eleanor followed the maid up the wide staircase, her footsteps softened by thick carpet runners the colour of aged burgundy. The house seemed to breathe around her — the creak of settling beams, the faint tick of distant clocks, the low murmur of servants below stairs.
Her rooms lay at the far end: a suite of three chambers linked by double doors. The drawing room held a marble fireplace already laid with kindling, a writing desk placed beneath a tall mirror, and two wing chairs upholstered in deep green velvet. Beyond it lay the bedroom, dominated by a four-poster bed hung with heavy damask curtains, and a dressing room lined with wardrobes that smelled faintly of cedar and lavender.
The maid, a neat young woman named Mary, curtsied once she had lit the lamps and drawn the drapes. "If you require anything in the night, miss, there is a bell-pull by the bed. Breakfast is served at eight in the small dining room unless you would prefer a tray sent up."
"Thank you, Mary. That will be all."
Alone at last, Eleanor removed her gloves and laid them neatly on the desk. She crossed to the window and parted the curtain just enough to look out. The gardens stretched away in perfect order: clipped hedges, gravel paths, a fountain whose basin reflected the cold stars. Beyond the low wall the land fell gently toward the dark line of the moors. No lights showed from Ravenford; the little town lay quiet beneath its own blanket of cloud.
She let the curtain fall and turned back to the room. On the mantel stood a small oval portrait: a solemn boy of perhaps ten standing beside a seated man whose features were unmistakably Sebastian's. The father's hand rested on the boy's shoulder in a gesture that looked more possessive than fond. Eleanor studied it a moment, then turned away.
A soft knock sounded at the outer door.
She opened it to find Charlotte Beaumont in the corridor, a fine cashmere shawl draped over her shoulders against the draught. The older woman's expression was calm, but her fingers twisted the fringe of the shawl once before she stilled them.
"May I come in for a moment?" Charlotte asked.
"Of course."
They moved into the drawing room. Charlotte did not sit; she remained near the fire, hands clasped loosely before her.
"I wished to speak with you privately," she said. "My son is… careful. He has been raised to believe that order preserves what is most valuable. That belief has served him well in many ways, yet it can make him inflexible. I do not ask you to yield to him blindly — only to understand that his manner is not born of disdain."
Eleanor met her gaze steadily. "I have no wish to misunderstand him, Lady Charlotte. But I also have no intention of setting my own judgment aside."
A faint, almost approving smile touched Charlotte's lips. "That is precisely what I hoped to hear. The alliance between our families is necessary, but necessity alone will not make a marriage bearable. Mutual respect may."
She paused, then added more softly, "Sebastian carries burdens he does not speak of. His father's expectations weigh heavily upon him. Edmund means well — he always has — but his ways are… unyielding. Do not mistake my son's reserve for indifference. He feels more deeply than he shows."
Eleanor inclined her head. "I shall remember that."
Charlotte studied her a moment longer, then moved toward the door. "Sleep well, Eleanor. Tomorrow we shall walk the grounds together, if you wish. The air here is clearer than in Harrowgate."
When the door closed, Eleanor remained standing. She crossed to the writing desk, opened the small drawer, and took out a sheet of heavy cream paper. She wrote a brief note to her mother — nothing of consequence, merely that she had arrived safely and that the house was every bit as grand as promised.
She sealed it, hesitated, then carried the letter back to the window. The fountain had fallen silent; the water lay still now, a black mirror beneath the moon.
In the library below, Sebastian stood before the fire, one hand resting on the mantelpiece. His thumb moved slowly back and forth across the cool marble, testing its unyielding smoothness. The ledger lay open on the table behind him, yet he had not turned a single page.
He kept seeing the small rebellious curl that had escaped Eleanor's pins. The steady warmth of her fingers in his when most young women would have lowered their eyes. The quiet challenge in her voice: Protection can sometimes feel like confinement.
His thumb stopped. He flexed his fingers once, then closed them into a loose fist.
A leashed dog cannot run far.
His father's calm, certain voice echoed in his mind.
Sebastian turned toward the tall window that faced the east wing. A single lamp still burned behind the curtains of her drawing room. He watched it for several heartbeats, jaw tight, breath measured. The thought of her up there — free to think, to judge, to decide how much of herself she would offer this house — sent a strange tightness through his chest. Not anger. Something nearer to hunger. And beneath it, the old, familiar fear that if he did not set the boundaries now, the boundaries would simply disappear.
He exhaled sharply, turned from the window, and took three steps toward the door. His hand hovered above the latch. The fingers curled back without touching it.
No. Not tonight. Not yet.
He returned to the fire, lifted the brandy decanter, and poured. The liquid caught the firelight like liquid amber. He raised the glass, paused, then took one slow sip. The burn steadied him.
This was a political marriage. Nothing more.
Yet as the clock on the mantel ticked onward, Sebastian found himself listening... half hoping, half dreading... for any sound from the floor above.