Page 9 of A Legacy of Lies

Eleanor’s cane tapped once on the floor. “You will remain,” she said. “Not in this storm. Percival, have two more places set.”

Verity’s mouth shaped a word that did not leave her lips. Her lashes flickered once, the only sign of retreat. Clara looked to the hearth. Nathaniel had turned. His face gave nothing away.

Rain beat a harder rhythm on the glass. The fire burned lower. Whatever came next would not be gentle.

*

They left the drawing room in quiet order. The storm clung to the stone, unwilling to let them go. Eleanor took Percival’s arm, and Mr. Penrose a respectful pace to her other side. Nathaniel gave his arm to Mrs. Penrose. Clara followed last. The corridor was long and cold, lined with portraits she barely noticed. Wax smoke curled above the sconces, sweet over the damp wool. Eleanor’s cane touched the runner in a steady rhythm. Portraits lined the walls, their varnish catching the light. Eyes in shadow watched them pass, portraits of the long dead studying the living procession. The storm bore down on every pane with a steady scrape and sigh.

They turned beneath the arch and entered the smaller dining parlor. Candlelight shone on the polished sideboard. Silver waited in neat ranks, each piece set as if a rule book had been opened on the table and followed to the letter. Edith stood near the hearth, a quiet general with her company of maids. At a glance from her, two moved to pull out chairs. Another set a fresh cloth where Verity would sit. Lavender drifted where Edith walked, a crisp thread winding through smoke and candle wax.

Eleanor took the head of the table. Her cane stood sentinel beside her chair, a symbol more than support. Clara settled beside her, companion’s place, a hand’s breadth closer than custom would require. Eleanor gave the smallest tilt of the head. It might have meant approval or simply endurance. Clara let out a breath she had not known she held.

Nathaniel bowed to Eleanor and Clara before sitting opposite. He smoothed his coat where he had brushed against the mantel. The gesture was spare and tidy. Nothing there for Clara to read, which only sharpened the ache behind her ribs.

Percival set the first course in motion. Bowls moved from hand to hand in a clean circle. The broth steamed, pale and clear. Clara lifted her spoon because the room required it. Salt touched her tongue. Heat rose into her face. She swallowed silence with the broth.

Across from her, Nathaniel tasted and set his spoon down. Verity took two careful sips and arranged her napkin with a flourish that suggested hunger had never once ruled her life.

“London spoils a person for the country,” Verity said, voice light, well-rehearsed for company. “In town, one hears music every night, whether one attends or not. Here, there is wind in the chimneys and bells on Sundays.”

Nathaniel’s gaze lifted a fraction. “Wind can be honest music,” he said, and the fire gave a low answer.

“Can it?” Verity sipped again. “I suppose so. It is not always kind to old windows.” Her gaze moved to the nearest casement, where the rain ran like beads on a string. “Do you find Hartleigh drafty, Your Grace?”

“It is an old house,” he said. “Old houses breathe.”

“Some of us hold our breath to keep from answering back.” Clara kept her attention on her bowl. The remark balanced between jest and warning; even she could not tell which.

Regis spoke at last. “The estate lies on sound ground,” he said. “Storms pass. The roof holds.”

Eleanor inclined her head. “It holds,” Eleanor said, the words closing the matter.

Service moved on. Bread was set down within reach. Butter in a small dish softened near the fire. Edith’s glance cut across the table when a maid hesitated with a tray. The girl corrected herself before Percival needed to clear his throat. The room’s rhythm settled around that small correction, as if an instrument had been tuned a notch finer.

Verity smiled as if she had not marked any of it. “You will find the county kind once people come to know you,” she said to Nathaniel, her tone sweet as cider left too long in the sun. “They love a story at the beginning. They love it more in the retelling. News grows a new coat each time. One must train it to sit.”

Clara’s spoon touched the bowl and rested there. She did not lift it again.

The second course arrived with a gentler clink of silver. Roast fowl, thin slices fanned with neat care. A small dish of preserved gooseberries gave off a sharp sweetness. Percival’s hand remained steady while a maid placed the platter before Eleanor. He stepped back a pace. Edith’s eye moved with the tray as it crossed to Verity. Nothing happened at that table without passing through their notice.

Verity breathed in and closed her eyes as though she wished to praise the cook. “Mrs. Barlow has improved her hand with the sauces. The village will be glad of that news.”

Eleanor’s cane moved the smallest distance on the floor. “Mrs. Barlow requires no village opinion,” she said.

“Nor would she thank Verity for one,” Clara said.

“Of course.” Verity bowed her head. Her smile did not fade, but it cooled a fraction.

Nathaniel lifted his knife. He cut as if the act required thought and care, not appetite. He ate a piece and set the rest aside. His shoulders drew a line that spoke of a long road and a burden he could never lay down in front of others. The sight loosened something in Clara that she did not wish loosened. She reached for her wine and let the dark edge of it burn calm into her throat.

“Will you remain through winter, Your Grace?” Verity asked, curiosity dressed as care. “Snow lingers along the ridge. The lane near the mill is the first to close.”

“I will remain,” he said.

“Friends from London may come to break the quiet,” she said. “You were much spoken of there.” The pause before the last line gleamed like a pin waiting to strike.

“I have business here.” He cut another piece and did not eat it.