Page 2 of A Legacy of Lies

“Would you like to walk, my lady?” Clara asked. “Or go directly to the Hall?”

“A short walk. Through the garden, perhaps. I’ve neglected the late roses.” They walked a short distance in silence.

*

While Eleanor tended to the roses, Clara sat on the bench, hands folded in her lap, her thoughts adrift. There was a quiet dignity about Lady Eleanor, burying her husband and perhaps, in some silent way, her son once more. Clara had seen the way her ladyship’s gaze lingered on the plaque. That small, private moment when grief bent her head before she straightened again. Clara knew loss. Hers hadn’t come through illness but had been slower, deliberate. It was the steady collapse of a family into debt, madness, and the drink that blurred remembrance.

She shook herself. Self-pity served nothing. She had met others with similar stories, though not all had done as well. At least her mother had secured her a position with Lady Eleanor before death claimed her.

She shuddered at the memory, or was it only the crypt’s chill still clinging to her skin? If she were truthful, she could not leave that place quickly enough. The air bore down against her ribs like judgment itself. There were moments she swore the stones were breathing, heavy and patient, judging the living.

“Clara, would you like to sit out here longer?” Lady Eleanor stood before her, fussing with a basket of roses in her hand. “Or are you coming in? You seem to be far off someplace.”

Clara glanced at the basket, then up at Lady Eleanor.

“Thomas. He saw me at the roses and brought me a basket and shears.” Eleanor studied her closely, then set the basket on the bench and bent down. “Are you feeling well?”

“I am well, my lady.” She rose. “If you’re ready?”

They walked on together, their steps slow across the damp path.

“He should be here any day now,” Eleanor shared.

“Who, my lady?” she asked casually.

“Charles’s successor.”

Clara turned to her. With no direct heir, she, as the staff alike, had wondered who the 8th Duke of Hartleigh would be.

“Don’t look so surprised. He is a good man, a solicitor. He will see to the estate.”

Lady Eleanor walked ahead into the arbor with its leaves painted in every shade of dying summer.

Before she exited, Clara paused, turning at the sound of a soft footfall. No one stood there, only the leaves trembling as if someone unseen had brushed past. Her breath caught. Surely only her mind, overwrought by grief and sleeplessness, was playing tricks. The day had all been so stressful.

Lady Eleanor climbed the terrace steps as the church bell tolled, its echo lingering like a benediction.

Clara came beside her and turned away to give her ladyship privacy. In the tall window by the terrace, her reflection hovered as a shadowed figure, hair pinned too tightly, cool gray eyes a touch too wide. She looked like a woman who might vanish in the space between one breath and the next. Perhaps that’s why she belonged.

They entered the Hall, where Percival and Edith were preparing the drawing room for refreshments.

Edith set the teacups down hard enough that the saucers trembled.

“Mark my words,” she muttered, “this house knows.”

Percival, arranging a linen napkin, cleared his throat, the sound brisk and deliberate. “Houses do not speak, Edith.”

“This one does,” she said under her breath.

“Excuse me, my lady.”

Eleanor turned. “Yes, Mr. Carter.”

The footman stepped forward, a silver tray balanced in his hands, a folded note resting upon it. He bowed and presented it to Lady Eleanor.

She took the note and broke the seal with practiced calm, the paper’s crack loud in the quiet room. Her gaze flicked across the page, a faint lift of her brow the only sign of what she read.

“Thank you, Mr. Carter. That will be all.”