“My lord… if you explained—”
He turned on her so fast that she flinched.
“Do not presume to instruct me,” he hissed.
She blinked, startled.
“I only meant—”
“You are always fussing,” he snapped.
The restraint was gone now.
“Always meddling.”
His voice rose.
“Do not think I do not know who told Aoife my history.”
Mrs Harrow went still.
“I am lord of this house,” he said.
Each word struck hard.
“And I do not require your counsel.”
There was a beat in which he seemed to grow taller, straightening his back and looking down at Mrs Harrow.
“I never have.”
She recoiled, taking a small step back.
Halverton’s voice climbed higher, rough now, jagged.
The housekeeper’s face fell, long-held beliefs crashing down.
“I… I’m sorry, my lord,” she stammered.
“I give orders. You follow them. That is the arrangement.”
Mrs Harrow looked at the floor.
“Get back in line.”
The words hung there.
Mrs Harrow continued to stare at the floor.
“Move,” Halverton snapped.
She didn’t. Alton closed the space between them and placed a steadying hand on her arm.
“We don’t see the world as it is,” he said.
His voice was quiet, meant just for her.
“We see it as we are.”
