Page 37 of A Shadow Amongst the Roses

She hesitated, then added, “Thank you for letting me see.”

His expression softened. “Anytime.”

She turned and walked back toward the house, her pace steady, her posture composed.

Behind her, Thomas stood where she had left him, the field stretching wide and open before him.

He did not pick up the shovel again until she was out of sight. And when he did, his movements were slower. More deliberate.

As though he were learning, for the first time, how to work around something that mattered.

Chapter Seventeen

Eliza became aware of it first in the shift of attention.

Not scrutiny. Not gossip. Something quieter. A glance held a fraction longer than politeness required. A pause before a question. The sense that conversations adjusted themselves once she entered a room.

She had learned to read such changes early. Thornhaven had taught her that awareness often arrived before intention.

She encountered it again that afternoon in the long gallery, where Clara stood reviewing a set of floral arrangements with a housemaid. The housemaid curtsied and withdrew when Eliza approached, leaving Clara alone amid vases not yet filled.

“You were outside this morning,” Clara said, her tone conversational.

“Yes.”

“At the lower pasture.”

Eliza met her gaze evenly. “There was a drainage concern.”

Clara smiled. “Of course.”

She lifted one of the vases and shifted it closer to the light. “Mr. Grey is thorough.”

“Yes.”

“And patient,” Clara added. “You’ve known him a long time.” Clara glanced at her, something speculative flickering across her expression. “Long before I did.”

The air between them tightened slightly.

“Care is visible,” Clara continued, her voice mild. “When it’s consistent.”

Eliza folded her hands loosely. “You sound as though you’re making an observation.”

“I am,” Clara replied. “Not a judgment.”

“Good.”

Clara set the vase down. “You’ve changed the tenor of the house.”

Eliza inclined her head. “That was necessary.”

“Yes,” Clara agreed. “But not easy.”

Eliza studied her then. Clara was perceptive in a way that did not demand acknowledgment. She saw patterns. She rarely named them outright.

“I assume,” Clara said lightly, “that you’re aware how closely people watch the spaces where authority and affection overlap.”

Eliza’s pulse slowed. “Affection is a generous word.”