The morning sunlight struggled to pierce through the heavy clouds and pour into our Drawing room, casting thin streaks of light across the dark wood floors. I sat slumped in one of the armchairs in front of the bay window, a cold cup of tea untouched on the table beside me. Sleep had eluded me, and now, as the clock struck eight, the weight of last night hung over me like a fog I couldn’t shake.

Eliza was in the dining room. I could hear the faint clink of china and the rhythmic scrape of a knife against bread as she prepared to bring me breakfast. The normalcy of it was almost jarring. Only hours ago, we had been standing on the precipice of ruin, flames licking at the edges of our carefully concealed lives. And now, she was taking care of me as if nothing changed.

I rubbed at my temple and leaned forward, my elbows resting on my knees, trying to will away the dull throb that had settled there. The cough might have waned, but the lingering fatigue hung like a specter, dulling my senses and weighing down my limbs. The firelight had made Eliza’s determination seem invincible last night, but in the pale morning, all I could see were the cracks. She hadn’t said much after Cameron left, but I knew her too well to believe she had moved on.

The sound of footsteps pulled me from my thoughts, and I looked up as Eliza entered the room. She carried a tray with tea, bread, and a small pot of marmalade, setting it on the table with practiced precision. Her gaze flicked to me, her brow furrowing slightly. “You look worse than yesterday,” she said, pouring a fresh cup of tea and handing it to me before I could protest. “You should still be resting.”

“I’m fine,” I said hoarsely, though my voice betrayed me, rough around the edges. “It’s just a bit of a cough now.”

She arched an eyebrow but didn’t argue, pushing the tray closer to me. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

I nodded, though my appetite was scarce. “Did you sleep?”

She settled into the chair beside me and poured herself a cup of tea. “Not much,” she admitted, taking a sip. “But enough to keep going.” I didn’t press her. We both knew sleep would be scarce until the dust truly settled—if it ever did. “Do you think he’ll contact us?”

I didn’t need to ask who she meant. “Bennett? No. Not unless something goes wrong.” Her gaze flicked toward the window, where faint light filtered through it. The set of her jaw was as rigid as it had been last night, but there was something in her eyes—something raw and unguarded—that made me pause. “We’ve done everything we can. There’s nothing left that ties us to any of this.” I said, leaning forward.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, I thought she might argue. Instead, she looked down at her cup, her fingers tightening around the handle. “Nothing except ourselves,” she said softly. She took a sip of tea, her hands trembling slightly. “We should leave London,” she said suddenly. “Disappear. Start over somewhere they can’t find us.”

“Eliza...”

“I mean it. Staying here—it’s a risk we can’t afford. We can’t trust Bennett. We can’t trust anyone.”

I sighed, taking a sip of tea to soothe the scratch in my throat. “And where would we go? Disappear into the countryside? Find some quiet village where no one knows us?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “Anywhere but here.”

“And if we run, what then? Spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders? That’s not freedom, Eliza. That’s just another kind of prison.” Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing, her gaze dropping to the tea in her hands. I coughed again, a harsh rasp that made her wince, and set the cup down. “If we leave now, we look guilty. Bennett knows that as well as we do. Let’s give it some time. See how things settle. If anything goes wrong, then we deal with it. The same way we’ve dealt with everything else.”

She hesitated, searching my face, then nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But if you’re wrong, I won’t wait for you to change your mind.”

I gave a faint smile, though her warning left a bitter taste in my mouth. “Fair enough.”

Eliza rose, gathering the empty teapot and tray. “You should stay inside today,” she said without looking at me. “Get some rest.”

“I’ll think about it,” I murmured, though we both knew it wasn’t in my nature to sit idly.

As she left the room, the lingering scent of tea and bread remained, but so did the unease. I leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. Eliza might have been right about leaving. Because no matter how tightly we’d tried to bury the past, I couldn’t help but feel the ground shifting beneath us. And this cold—persistent and nagging as it was—felt like the least of my worries.

I rose to my feet and grabbed my cane, which was leaning against the window. The taps of it rang out through the house as I entered the Morning room. The garden beyond the glass, usually vibrant in the summer sun, looked dim and damp as if it had been painted in shades of gray. The air in the house matched the mood outside—cool and heavy, tinged with the faint metallic scent of rain that had fallen earlier in the morning.

I ran my fingers along the bookshelves, brushing the spines absently. After a moment’s thought, I selected Persuasion. There was something comforting in Austen’s steady hand, though I suspected my own thoughts would be too restless to focus. I tucked the book under my arm and turned toward the door, but the feeling of being watched made me pause. I glanced over my shoulder at the shadowy corners of the room. Nothing stirred, but the unease lingered. The cane tapped harshly against the hardwood as I climbed the stairs. The air felt colder here, the kind of cold that crept into your bones despite the season. Passing Eliza’s room, I saw the door was still ajar, but the curtains inside had been drawn tight, casting the space in shadow. I considered knocking but thought better of it and continued to my own quarters.

 

In my room, the gloom seemed even thicker. The windowpane was streaked from the early morning rain, and the view of the garden was blurred, as though it had been smudged by an inattentive artist. I tossed the book onto the bed and went to the window. The air outside hung heavy, promising more rain to come, and the wind stirred the trees with a sound like distant whispers. I turned away, restless, and tried to busy myself by lighting the candlestick on my bedside table. Its warm glow pushed back the shadows slightly, but the flickering light only seemed to amplify my unease. Sitting on the bed, I opened Persuasion, skimming the first few pages before my mind finally eased and it let me get lost in another world of Jane Austen's creation.

The words flowed from the page, wrapping me in the quiet drama of Anne Elliot and her family’s misfortunes. Jane Austen had a talent for pricking the absurdities of society while unveiling the tender aches of the human heart, and her words carried me far from the confines of my room. For a time, my restlessness receded, replaced by the steady rhythm of the narrative. I was so immersed that I hardly noticed the knock at the door. It came again, sharper this time, pulling me reluctantly from the warm cocoon of fiction.

“Come in,” I called, marking my place with a scrap of ribbon.

The door opened, and Simon stepped inside with his usual unhurried grace. His dark tailcoat was immaculately pressed, and his light brown hair was neatly combed. He had the look of someone who belonged to the rare breed of men who improved with age—dignity etched in every line of his face.

“Excuse me, Sir,” he began, his voice calm but carrying a note of polite insistence, “Luncheon is served. Miss Geldart is waiting for you.”

I glanced at the clock on the mantel and realized with some embarrassment that the morning had slipped past me entirely. “Thank you, Simon. I’ll be down shortly.”

Simon inclined his head, his expression neutral as always, though I fancied there was a faint twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Very good, Sir. Shall I inform her you’re on your way?”

“Yes, please.” I rose, closing the book with a soft thud. As Simon turned to leave, I hesitated. “Simon?”

He paused, one hand on the doorknob. “Yes, Sir?”

I shifted awkwardly, searching for words. “Do you… Do you think it’s possible to grow restless without cause? To feel unsettled without knowing why?”

Simon regarded me for a moment, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. “I think, Sir, that the mind has a way of sensing changes before we’re fully aware of them. Whether it’s the weather, a visitor, or a shift within ourselves, the restlessness you describe is rarely without cause.”

Simon’s words hung in the air, quiet but heavy with meaning. I leaned on my cane, the creak of the old wood sounding louder than I expected in the stillness between us. "You think I’m sensing something coming?" I asked, my voice low, uncertain.

He nodded once, his gaze steady. “Not just something, but someone—or perhaps something you’ve been avoiding.”

A chill ran down my spine. His words struck a chord I hadn’t been prepared to face, and for a moment, I thought about brushing them off, dismissing them as the musings of a man too attuned to omens. But I couldn’t. "I don’t know," I muttered, though even as I spoke the words, the ache in my chest deepened—a feeling I couldn’t quite name but knew all too well.

Simon didn’t push me. He simply stepped closer, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. “The mind and the heart often know before we do, Sir. Pay attention to the restlessness. It’s telling you what your lips won’t.” With that, he turned and strode toward the door, his coat brushing against the frame as he paused. “If you’ll forgive my boldness, I’d suggest you prepare yourself—not for a visitor, but for a reckoning.”

Before I could respond, he was gone, leaving behind a silence so profound it felt like a weight pressing against my chest. The fire crackled faintly in the hearth, but the room felt colder now as if Simon had carried the warmth away with him. I turned toward the window, staring out at the gray horizon, my reflection barely visible in the glass. The unease in my chest hadn’t lessened—it had grown, wrapping itself around me like a tether. I didn’t know what was coming, but Simon was right.

 

I made my way to the door and down the steps as quickly as I could given my current circumstances. Before making my presence known by walking into the Drawing room, I peeked around the corner and saw Eliza. She stood at the dining room table, her lean frame illuminated by the pale light that filtered through the tall, mullioned windows. Her chestnut hair was pinned back neatly, though a few curls framed her face, giving her a softness that belied her focused demeanor. She was rearranging the flowers in a porcelain vase—a spray of roses, lavender, and sprigs of salvia—her movements deliberate and precise.

Eliza tilted her head slightly, assessing her handiwork with a critical eye before plucking a stem from the arrangement and repositioning it. Her pale blue dress, trimmed with a modest lace, swished faintly as she moved, and the faint scent of lavender clung to the air around her. There was something almost meditative about the way she worked as if this small act of order amidst the chaos of daily life brought her a measure of peace.

As I stepped forward, the sound of my cane announced my presence and Eliza looked up and gave me a soft smile. "Lottie has prepared something light, on account of your still improving health."

I nodded, pleased by the thought of a simple meal, though my attention remained focused on her delicate movements. Eliza’s elegance had always been effortless, a trait that I admired and, in some way, envied. She had the grace of someone who moved with purpose, who existed without ever seeming hurried as if the world itself adjusted to accommodate her pace. "Perhaps a bit of soup to start," she suggested, setting the last of the flowers in place. Her voice was calm, but there was an undertone of something I couldn’t quite place.

I smiled at her suggestion, the act of it, and the gentle rhythm with which she worked, grounding me in the moment. "Soup sounds perfect," I replied, taking my seat at the table. "Just the thing to carry us through."

She sat opposite me, smoothing the napkin across her lap, and for a moment, the world outside our dining room seemed far away. We’d had so few quiet meals like this in the past month, just the two of us, where the weight of everything else could be momentarily set aside. I took a sip of water, appreciating the calm. We spoke of trivialities at first, the kinds of things that filled the spaces between moments. How the garden fared in this hot but very wet weather, whether Lottie had finished the mending, and the books we’d read since last week. It was easy, comfortable. I could almost pretend the world was as it once had been

Before we moved on to some strawberry tarts, a soft rapping at the door caught our attention. It was only the post being delivered—something routine, something unremarkable. Or so it seemed, until Simon stepped forward, extending a silver tray with the letter perched on it.  As Eliza’s fingers hovered over it, the faintest tremor passed through her hand. She glanced at the thick, cream-colored paper—an envelope with an elegant, familiar script.

I could see the change in her expression before the letter was even opened: her lips parted slightly, and her breath quickened, though she tried to disguise it, as always. The moment had arrived, the moment we had dreaded since that night in the cemetery a month ago. It was no surprise, yet somehow it felt as though a shadow had crept into the room, dimming the warmth of our luncheon.

"Eliza," I murmured, my voice quiet, more to myself than to her, "you need not—"

She shook her head, her eyes were drawn to the words before she even read them, as though her mind already knew what the letter contained. With a deep breath, she tore open the seal, the rustle of the paper sharp in the stillness of the room. I couldn’t look away. As she read, the silence seemed to stretch between us, unbearable, thick with all the unspoken things that had settled in our lives since our secret was revealed to him, since his first proposal. I tried to focus on anything but her face, but the way her brow furrowed, the slight tension in her shoulders, betrayed the weight of the words she absorbed. There it was—the final summons. Bartholomew had finally insisted upon her presence. He would not wait longer.

“Ezra,” Eliza’s voice trembled just a little as she folded the letter with care. "He... he demands to see me early this evening."

I took a deep breath. We had always known this day would come, and we had feared it, even if we had tried to push it from our minds, convincing ourselves that we had more time. In truth, the clock had run out on us. “Then we shall go,” I said, trying to make my voice sound steady, though it cracked ever so slightly on the final word. “I will go with you.”

Eliza’s gaze lifted to mine, the soft blue of her eyes momentarily clouded with something I couldn’t name. “No, Ezra. You don't need—”

“Don’t ask me to leave you alone with him, Eliza. Not now.”

There was nothing more to say. She didn’t argue, though I could see the way the weight of the day bore down on her, and I hated that I couldn’t take that burden from her. We both knew what would happen once we arrived at the Griswold Estate. There would be no more pretense of civility, no more hesitation. Bartholomew’s persistence had led to this point, where his demands were no longer subtle, but as insistent as the ticking of a clock. What choice did she have? The same one I had always known: she would go, and she would face him, alone in all the ways that counted. We finished our luncheon in silence, the clinking of china somehow louder in the quiet tension. I noticed, with a slight pang, that Eliza’s appetite had disappeared entirely. Her thoughts, it seemed, were already miles away, to a place I could not follow. When the time came to leave, I watched her stand, gathering her shawl with an air of quiet resignation. I stood beside her, my hand hovering near her elbow, but I knew that this journey would be hers alone. There was nothing more I could offer her in this moment—no words, no assurances—that could ease the weight she carried. I felt helpless, standing there, as the soft rustle of fabric was the only sound between us.

 

With a final, almost imperceptible glance at me, Eliza moved toward the door. I followed, my steps trailing hers, but my mind remained fixed on the inevitability of what awaited us outside. The carriage was waiting, its dark form a silent reminder of the journey ahead. Eliza stepped into it without hesitation, her posture already stiff, as though bracing for the weight of the meeting to come. I followed her into the carriage, but as the door shut behind me, its finality struck me like a cold gust of wind. The carriage lurched forward, the steady clip-clop of the horses' hooves the only sound filling the silence between us. Eliza sat across from me, her face a mask of composure, though I could sense the storm beneath it. She didn't speak. Instead, her gaze was fixed out the window, her thoughts far from the present moment.

"Eliza," I began carefully, "I will not leave you to face him without some measure of support." Her eyes flickered to mine, though she said nothing. I could see the slight tension in her jaw, the way her fingers clutched the edge of her shawl. "I’ve been thinking," I continued, lowering my voice even further, "I’ll remain hidden—just outside the room. I’ll be there, but unseen. You don’t have to endure this alone. You can speak freely, and I’ll know what is said."

She hesitated, clearly torn. But after a long moment, she gave a single nod, her eyes softening. "Very well," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "But be discreet."

As the carriage rolled through the dirt roads, the familiar sights of the countryside blurring past, I could feel my heart quickening in anticipation. This was not the way I had hoped things would unfold, but I knew, deep down, it was the only way to protect her. To see the truth for myself. The road narrowed as we approached the Griswold Estate, the towering iron gates emerging from the surrounding trees, heavy with age and a kind of silent grandeur. The drive stretched out before us, a long, winding path bordered by medium sized bushes whose branches cast long shadows over the gravel. The estate loomed ahead like some impenetrable fortress, its stone façade half-veiled by the mist creeping across the lawn. It was a place of both wealth and isolation, its very presence a reminder of the power Bartholomew wielded in this world.

As the carriage continued up the drive, the walls of the estate seemed to grow higher, the mansion itself an imposing structure of marble and ivy, with the sharp angles of its architecture seeming to stretch upwards as if to touch the sky. I felt the weight of the place settle around me, a cold reminder of what Eliza was walking into, and I struggled to maintain my composure. The carriage came to a slow stop at the grand entrance, the horses’ hooves against the gravel the only lingering sound. Eliza was the first to step out, the swish of her dress the only sound as she moved toward the grand steps leading into the house. I followed at a distance, my eyes scanning the surroundings. The opulence of the estate was overwhelming, its wealth evident in every stone, every window, every meticulously tended flower.

The air inside was thick with the scent of polished wood, leather, and faint traces of cigar smoke. The entryway was vast, its high ceilings adorned with ornate chandeliers that glistened like jewels above us. The marble floors gleamed, reflecting the grandeur of the surroundings. The walls were lined with mirrors and portraits of long-dead ancestors, their eyes seemingly following us as we moved deeper into the house, trailing behind the footman who was guiding us to the drawing room. Yet, despite the overwhelming display of wealth, it was Eliza’s presence that seemed to fill the space. She moved with a quiet grace, her every step deliberate, as though aware of the eyes that would soon fall upon her. The weight of the moment hung in the air, and for a brief moment, I lingered at the entrance, reluctant to disturb her. Her concentration was absolute, her focus entirely on what lay ahead. I hurried along to catch up to them.

We stood in the corridor, the air felt thick enough to drink. Inside, the footman announced her name with the slow dignity of a man introducing royalty. For a moment, I noticed the polish on the door handles, the faint murmur of the fire, the genteel trappings of civility. But that quiet was paper-thin. Eliza’s calm was a deliberate performance, the stillness before the draw of the blade.

The servant departed. The latch clicked. Alone in the hallway—five pounds poorer for the privilege—I cracked the door and slipped into the shadows of the threshold. That was when I understood: I wasn’t merely watching this unfold. I was entangled in it. The Drawing room was opulence wrapped in candlelight. Mahogany gleamed, shadows pooled in the embroidered folds of the wallpaper, the faint tang of cigar smoke lingered like a ghost. The fire popped in the grate. Eliza stood at the marble mantelpiece like a portrait come alive—dark hair drawn back with precision, back straight, fingers grazing the stone as though claiming it. Across from her sprawled Bartholomew Collins, cane tapping lazily against his knee.

"Miss Eliza," he began, with the drawl of a man who already believed the conversation won, "I see no need for pleasantries. You know why you’re here. Your… extracurricular diversions have become the talk of certain circles. Not the gossips in the market, mind you. More refined company. The kind that enjoys ruining reputations over tea."

"And here you are," she said, "making yourself the delivery boy for scandal. A little beneath your station, isn’t it?"

His smile twitched wider. "I prefer to think of myself as a facilitator. And in this case, I can facilitate your brother avoiding a rather uncomfortable trial."

"You mean the part where you blackmail me into keeping him safe?"

"Blackmail?" he repeated, with exaggerated hurt. "I’m offering you an arrangement. A position as my companion. Discreet, of course. I’ve been told my company is pleasant."

"By whom?" Eliza asked, her voice as cool as frost. "People you’ve paid?"

His chuckle was low and feline. "You wound me. Most women would leap at the chance to be the focus of my generosity."

"Most women," she said, "have less self-respect."

The grin held, but only barely. "In return, your brother’s… unconventional profession stays between us. Resurrectionist, I believe the word is? How quaint. Industrious, even. But the law is not so romantic."

"And yet here you are, seeking to profit from it," she replied. "You call me desperate, but what sort of man barters threats for affection? Is it loneliness, Mr. Collins? Or just habit?"

He leaned forward, the firelight sharpening his cheekbones into blades. "You misunderstand me. This is not a request. I’ve already contacted the authorities. By dawn they could be at your door. But one letter from me—just one—and it all vanishes."

"That would be a pity," she said. "I so enjoy a good scandal. And when they discover nothing, they’ll find you far more interesting than me."

"Brave talk for someone standing on a trapdoor," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Do you think your little network of favors will hold against the Crown?"

She tilted her head, studying him like an odd specimen. "I think a man who threatens a woman for sport must be running out of real games to play. How small your world must feel."

That cracked him. The smile vanished, replaced by a darker heat. "Careful, Miss Eliza. You’ll find there’s little sport in destroying you."

"I’m sure you’ve practiced," she said lightly, "though I can’t imagine you’ve had many satisfying victories."

In two strides, he closed the space and caught her wrist. The move was sudden, sharp, and deliberate. I tensed in my hiding place, every muscle ready to spring. "Do you think I’m bluffing?" His voice was a whisper now, but it carried the cold weight of steel. "I could end you with a sentence."

Eliza didn’t flinch. "And yet, here you are, repeating yourself like a man afraid his threat will be forgotten."

His grip tightened. Her skin must have been aching under the pressure, but she did not pull away. She leaned in, closing the scant inches between them until her voice was meant for him alone. "Release me, or I’ll see to it that you’re not just ruined—you’ll be pitied. And there’s nothing a man like you hates more than pity."

For the first time, his eyes wavered. A flicker—barely there—of doubt. He held on, stubborn, but she smiled faintly, as if already victorious. "You’re not afraid of me," he said, though it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

"No," she replied. "I’m calculating."

They stood locked like that, the fire crackling between them, the air too tight to breathe. Seconds stretched, heavy and brittle, until his fingers loosened—not from mercy, but because he understood he’d already lost this round. He let go. Slowly. Straightening his coat, he tried to gather his dignity, but the shift in power was unmistakable. "You’ll regret this," he said, each word bitten off.

"Perhaps," Eliza said, turning her back to him and moving to the door. "But not as much as you will." She left the room without another glance, her steps unhurried, her head held high. Bartholomew stood there for a moment, seething, before storming out into the night and slamming the door behind him. I followed after her, my heart still pounding. Eliza turned to me, her expression unsettled. "He will come back," she said softly. "And next time, he will be worse."

The fight was far from over, but at that moment, I could not help but feel proud of my sister. Bartholomew Collins may have threatened us with ruin, but he had left diminished, his arrogance cracked and bleeding under the weight of her defiance.

 

As we stepped into the waiting carriage, the cool night air seemed to cling to us, heavy with the remnants of the confrontation. The door shut with a soft thud, and the horses pulled us forward, the quiet creak of the wheels the only sound at first. The carriage rattled over the uneven road, its lantern casting flickering shadows on the darkened trees. Inside, the silence stretched between us, heavy and unspoken, until Eliza finally broke it. "Do you think he will go through with it?" she asked, her voice low, almost lost beneath the steady rhythm of the horses' hooves.

I hesitated, glancing out the window at the shifting shadows of the countryside. "Collins doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to bluff. If he believes he can gain the upper hand by involving the authorities, he might try. But..." I trailed off, uncertain of how to finish.

"But?" she pressed, her gaze fixed on me now, searching for something to hold onto.

I sighed, leaning my head back against the cushioned seat. "But men like him thrive on leverage. If he thought reporting us would truly ruin us, he would have done it already. He’s calculating. He’ll wait to see if we break first—if fear forces us into his terms."

Eliza turned her gaze back to the window, her profile lit by the faint glow of the moon. "And what if you’re wrong? What if he’s already sent word like he said?"

I had no easy answer for that. The truth loomed large in the space between us, unspoken but undeniable. The possibility was very real, and we both knew it. "Then we face it," I said finally, my voice steadier than I felt. "If they come, they won't find anything connecting us to the crime we've been accused of. We’ll find a way to survive."

Her fingers tightened around the edge of her shawl. "We shouldn’t have to keep surviving, Ezra. I’m so tired of it. Of him, of all of this."

I reached out, resting my hand over hers. "So am I. But tonight, you stood your ground. You faced him and walked away. Whatever happens next, that’s not nothing. It means something."

Eliza turned to me, her lips curving into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "You always were the optimist."

"And you always were the realist," I countered lightly, though the weight of the conversation still pressed down on us. "Perhaps between the two of us, we can find some kind of balance."

The smile lingered for a moment longer before fading. "Do you think we’ll ever be free of him?" she asked softly, her voice barely audible.

I thought about the way Bartholomew had looked at her, the venom in his voice as he promised regret. I thought about his power, his reach, and the secrets he now held over us. But I also thought about Eliza—her defiance, her resolve, the unshakable strength that had carried us this far. "I don’t know," I admitted, the honesty tasting bitter on my tongue. "But I do know this: as long as we stand together, he’ll never have as much power over us as he thinks he does."

She didn’t respond right away, her gaze fixed on the shadowy horizon. Finally, she leaned back, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. "Then we’d better be ready for whatever comes next."

The carriage jolted as it hit a bump in the road, but neither of us flinched. Outside, the world was quiet, the countryside bathed in the soft glow of the moon. Inside, the tension remained, but there was something else now too—a thread of resolve, fragile yet unyielding, weaving its way through the uncertainty. As the lights of home appeared in the distance, Eliza let out a long breath, and for the first time that night, her grip on her shawl eased. We weren’t safe—not yet—but we were moving forward. And for now, that was enough.