Page 72 of A Shadow Amongst the Roses

Thomas reached Thornhaven as the sky darkened, the storm threatening to break. The steward met him at the gates, relief evident in his stance. They spoke briefly. Practical matters. Timber and stone. The lower wall. The drainage ditch that needed clearing before nightfall.

But as Thomas worked, something tugged at the edge of his awareness.

The feeling that something at Hartleigh had shifted the moment he rode away.

He would not know what until he returned.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The house would not let her sit still.

Eliza had tried. She had moved from drawing room to hallway and back again, set her tea aside untouched, turned pages she did not absorb, listened to the steady patter of rain against the windows. Yet each room felt wrong, crowded, unsettled, and faintly charged with something she could not name.

She stepped to the window and rested her hand on the sill. Outside, the air pressed thick and low against the glass, the storm hovering as though uncertain where to land.

A shift sounded in the corridor behind her, an old floorboard settling, a draft sliding along the runner. Eliza turned.

Nothing moved. No servants passed. No door opened.

Still, the sensation lingered. Not of being seen. Of being directed.

She drew a slow breath and tightened her shawl before stepping into the corridor. The silence there felt heavy. Lamps trembled faintly, though no breeze should have reached them.

“I only need air,” she murmured to no one, her voice barely above a whisper. “A few minutes outside.”

Margaret Lane stood a few doors down the corridor, Edmund pressed close at her side. She looked as though she had not long risen, her hair loosely pinned, her expression guarded but composed.

“Mrs. Lane,” Eliza said gently. “I was about to walk in the garden. You are welcome to join me, if you wish.”

Margaret hesitated, then shook her head. “Thank you, Lady Eliza. Mrs. Greaves brought some toys from the nursery for Edmund. I think we’ll play with them today.”

“Have a good day.” Eliza descended the main steps and crossed the courtyard stones. The sky had lightened to a thin gray, the rain turned into a mist. She expected the calm to ease her, but the moment she stepped off the final stair, a sharp gust pushed at her skirts, stealing her breath.

She staggered, caught herself, and looked up.

A gust caught at her skirts, sharp enough to steal her breath and turn her steps left instead of forward.

She slowed.

The slope of the ground took over from there, damp earth drawing her downward whether she resisted or not.

Toward the path that led down the slope toward the cluster of old trees. Toward the place she avoided.

Thomas’s cottage.

Her steps slowed. She had never crossed its threshold. She had seen its winter smoke, its late lantern glow, but it had always felt private. His. Not hers.

Another gust struck harder, caught the edge of her shawl and pulled it in that same direction.

Eliza turned back toward Hartleigh.

The great house stood silent, its windows reflecting the clouded sky. The moment stretched, strange and still, until she felt, absurdly yet undeniably, that the house was urging her on.

“Very well,” she whispered. “I’m going.”

The wind eased the moment she stepped onto the path, as though its work were finished. Even the trees seemed quieter there, the branches no longer thrashing but bowing softly overhead as she passed.

The slope felt familiar beneath her feet despite how seldom she walked it. The earth was damp, the greenery heavy with last night’s storm. The cottage emerged through the trees—small, stone, unassuming, its shutters weathered, its chimney cold.