The morning sun filtered through the lace curtains of Ivy Cottage, casting delicate patterns over the breakfast table where the Woodhouse family convened. Mrs. Eleanor Woodhouse, still buoyant from the previous evening's triumph, stirred her tea with the vigor of a general reviewing troops.
"Well!" she declared, "I daresay Mr. Ashford found us all *most* engaging. Did you note how he lingered near Eliza during the quadrille? And Clara's remark about novels—quite original! Though perhaps a trifle *bold*…"
Eliza, poking at her eggs, suppressed a sigh. "He lingered near everyone, Mother. I believe he was calculating the quickest route to the exit."
"Nonsense! A man does not attend a ball unless he seeks society. And he *did* speak to you in the garden—"
"For all of thirty seconds."
"Thirty seconds," Mrs. Woodhouse repeated, undeterred, "in which you might have charmed him with a demure smile, yet you chose to debate the merits of… what was it?"
"Agricultural reform," Mr. Woodhouse supplied, hidden behind his newspaper.
"Agricultural reform! As if a man of ten thousand a year wishes to discuss *turnips* on a dance floor!"
Marianne, pale and pensive, set down her cup. "He did not dance with anyone. Not even Lady Denham's niece, and she wore pearls worth a fortune."
"A sign of discernment!" Mrs. Woodhouse insisted. "He is not easily swayed by finery. A *virtue*, mark me."
Clara, her nose already buried in *The Italian*, mumbled, "Or he has a wooden leg."
"Clara!"
"It's a plausible theory! In *The Castle of Otranto*, Manfred's limp concealed a—"
"Enough of limps and Manfreds! We must focus on practical matters. Eliza, you will accompany me to the village. We must call on Mrs. Whitcombe—she is hosting a picnic next week, and I intend to secure an invitation for us all. Mr. Ashford is sure to attend."
Eliza groaned. "Must we campaign so brazenly? If he wishes to know us, let him call *here*."
"And if he does not? We shall be the laughingstock of Maplewood! Three daughters, *all* overlooked—"
"I would rather be overlooked than orchestrated," Eliza muttered, but she rose to fetch her bonnet. Resistance was futile.
* * *
The village of Maplewood was a tapestry of cobblestone lanes and timbered shops, alive with chatter that morning. As Eliza and her mother passed the milliner's, a familiar voice trilled behind them:
"Mrs. Woodhouse! *What* a delight!"
Mrs. Genevieve Whitcombe, a woman whose lace cap quivered with perpetual excitement, swept toward them, her daughter Penelope in tow. Penelope—a petite blonde with a laugh like a startled hen—curtsied with excessive enthusiasm.
"Have you heard?" Mrs. Whitcombe gasped. "Mr. Ashford has been sighted riding toward the Grange! Some say he is surveying the land, others that he seeks a hunting party. But *I* say he is scouting bridal prospects!"
Mrs. Woodhouse's smile tightened. "How… enterprising of him."
"Indeed! Penelope has been practicing her quadrille all morning, just in case he calls. Though I daresay your Marianne has the advantage—her complexion is so *fresh*."
Eliza, sensing the barb, interjected smoothly. "Penelope's talent for quadrille is renowned, Mrs. Whitcombe. I'm sure Mr. Ashford would be struck dumb by her… footwork."
Penelope blinked. "Do you truly think so?"
Before Eliza could dissemble, a clatter of hooves echoed down the lane. All turned as a rider emerged—Mr. Ashford himself, astride a sleek bay mare, his coat dark against the dappled sunlight. He reined in his horse, tipping his hat.
"Ladies."
Mrs. Whitcombe surged forward. "Mr. Ashford! You are out early! Do you ride often? Penelope adores riding—she has the gentlest hand with a sidesaddle—"
"I ride to be alone, madam," he replied, his tone polite but edged. "A habit that persists despite my neighbors' enthusiasm."
Eliza bit back a laugh. Mrs. Whitcombe faltered, but Mrs. Woodhouse seized her moment. "We shan't detain you, sir! Though if you ever wish for company, my Eliza is a keen rider. *Almost* as fond of solitude as yourself."
His gaze flicked to Eliza, one brow arched. "Is that so, Miss Woodhouse?"
"I ride to escape poetry readings," she said. "A vice I share with your horse, it seems."
The mare chose that moment to snort and sidestep, as if in agreement. Mr. Ashford's stern expression softened. "Then I shall recommend her your company. Good day."
He spurred the horse onward, leaving the women in a wake of dust and speculation.
* * *
That afternoon, Eliza retreated to the ivy-draped arbor at the far end of the garden, a book of Rousseau's essays in hand. She had scarcely read a page when a shadow fell across the text.
"Does Rousseau advise on evading maternal scheming?"
She looked up. Mr. Ashford stood at the garden gate, his riding gloves tucked carelessly into his coat.
"You've trespassed, sir," she said, feigning calm.
"Your gate was open."
"A flaw in our defenses."
He stepped inside, surveying the tangled roses. "Your father's work?"
"His *capricious mistresses*, yes."
A silence settled, broken only by the hum of bees. Eliza waited, determined not to speak first.
At last, he said, "You think me arrogant."
"I think you… deliberate. As though every word is weighed for consequences."
"And you," he countered, "speak as though consequences do not exist."
"Perhaps I trust in the resilience of my neighbors' pride."
He smiled faintly. "Or you delight in rattling it."
"Is that your diagnosis, sir?"
"Merely an observation." He plucked a rose, twirling it by the stem. "Your sister Marianne—she resents me."
Eliza stiffened. "She is seventeen. Her heart is tender, not resentful."
"And yours?"
The question hung, dangerous and intimate. Before she could reply, Clara's voice rang out from the cottage:
"Eliza! Mama says you must come at once—Lady Denham's footman has brought a letter!"
Mr. Ashford stepped back, his mask of indifference restored. "Duty calls, Miss Woodhouse."
She rose, brushing petals from her skirt. "Yours or mine?"
"Both, I suspect."
He left as abruptly as he'd come, the rose abandoned on the bench. Eliza stared at it, its thorns glinting in the sun.
* * *
The letter, as it transpired, was an invitation to Lady Denham's picnic—an event Mrs. Woodhouse declared "the pivot upon which our fortunes turn!" Yet as the family debated muslin versus linen for the occasion, Eliza slipped back to the arbor.
The rose was gone. In its place lay a small volume: *Camilla* by Fanny Burney. Inside, a note in sharp, slanting script:
*"For the ghost in the library. —T.A."*
Eliza's pulse quickened. Was this a peace offering? A jest? Or a challenge?
She tucked the book under her arm, her mind racing. Mr. Ashford was not a man to act without purpose. Whatever game he played, she would not concede defeat.
But as she walked back to the house, she wondered—when had she begun to care about winning?