The Woodhouse dining table, polished to a mirror sheen, reflected the flicker of beeswax candles and the taut smiles of its occupants. Mrs. Eleanor Woodhouse had outdone herself: pheasant in port wine sauce, truffled potatoes, and a syllabub so airy it seemed to defy gravity. Yet the true centerpiece of the evening was Mr. Theodore Ashford, seated across from Eliza, his presence as unyielding as the mahogany beneath his hands.
Eliza had resolved to avoid his gaze, a task complicated by the *Camilla* hidden beneath her embroidery hoop. The book's spine seemed to burn through the linen, its inscribed note—"*For the ghost in the library. —T.A.*"—a provocation she could neither ignore nor acknowledge.
"Do you hunt, Mr. Ashford?" Mrs. Woodhouse inquired, passing him a dish of braised leeks with the reverence of a priestess offering a sacrament.
"Only when necessity demands," he replied. "I find the sport… overrated."
"How singular!" Mrs. Woodhouse trilled. "My brother, Sir Reginald, adores hunting. He once tracked a stag for three days in the Scottish rains!"
"A testament to perseverance," Mr. Ashford said dryly. "Or obstinacy."
Marianne, radiant in primrose silk, leaned forward. "Do you prefer quieter pastimes, sir? Music, perhaps? I play the pianoforte tolerably well—"
"Marianne is too modest," Mrs. Woodhouse interrupted. "Her playing is *divine*. Eliza sings too, though her voice is… *spirited*."
Eliza stabbed a potato. "Yes, I bark ballads like a tavern regular. It keeps the room attentive."
Mr. Ashford's lips twitched. "An underappreciated skill."
Clara, sensing an opening, blurted, "Have you read *Camilla*, sir? It's said to expose the follies of matrimonial ambition."
The table froze. Mrs. Woodhouse's smile hardened into a rictus.
Mr. Ashford set down his fork. "I have. Though I find its heroine more patient than I could ever be."
"Patience is a virtue," Clara pressed, "but secrets are more thrilling. Don't you agree?"
"Secrets, Miss Clara, are burdens. Their keepers grow weary of the weight." His eyes flicked to Eliza, who stiffened.
"How poetic!" Mr. Woodhouse interjected, rescuing the conversation. "Speaking of burdens, my roses have succumbed to aphids. Might I consult your gardener, Mr. Ashford?"
And so the talk veered to horticulture, a safe harbor for the remainder of the meal.
* * *
After the ladies withdrew, Eliza lingered in the hall, adjusting a wilting peony in a vase. The murmur of male voices drifted from the dining room—Mr. Ashford's low timbre, her father's amiable hum. She told herself she was not eavesdropping.
"—a sister, you said?" Mr. Woodhouse asked.
"Yes. Mrs. Margaret Hale. She arrives from Italy next week."
"Italy! How exotic. My Clara devours tales of Roman ruins."
A pause. "Margaret is… unwell. The climate here may… disagree with her."
Eliza frowned. There was a brittleness in his tone, a fissure in his usual ice.
"I'm sorry to hear it," Mr. Woodhouse said. "You must send for our apothecary, should she need—"
"No." The word snapped like a branch. "That is—she prefers solitude. As do I."
Eliza's curiosity flared. Before she could retreat, the dining room door opened. Mr. Ashford stepped into the hall, his expression shuttered.
"Miss Woodhouse." He inclined his head. "Does your surveillance extend to hallways?"
She met his gaze. "I was admiring the peony. It's flawed, but persistent. Much like your hospitality."
He stepped closer, the scent of claret and cedar sharp in the air. "You mistake obligation for hospitality."
"And you mistake candor for contempt."
For a heartbeat, his guard slipped. "Contempt would be safer," he muttered, almost to himself. Then, stiffening, he added, "Goodnight, Miss Woodhouse."
* * *
Dawn brought a letter.
Mrs. Woodhouse, clutching the parchment like a battlefield missive, burst into the breakfast room. "Margaret Hale arrives *today*! At Willowmere! We must call on her at once—Eliza, fetch your sprigged muslin. Marianne, the pearl combs!"
Mr. Woodhouse lowered his coffee. "Eleanor, the woman is unwell. Perhaps we should wait—"
"Wait? And let the Whitcombes swoop in? Never!"
Eliza skimmed the note over her mother's shoulder. The script was elegant but tremulous, as if penned by a frail hand. *Mrs. Hale begs indulgence for her abrupt arrival… Hopes to make the acquaintance of her brother's kind neighbors…*
"There's no mention of Mr. Ashford inviting us," Eliza noted.
"Details!" Mrs. Woodhouse waved the letter. "We shall be the soul of compassion. Marianne, practice your sympathetic expressions. Clara—no novels! They inflame the nerves."
As the room erupted into chaos, Eliza slipped outside. The sky hung low and leaden, threatening rain. In the distance, Willowmere Hall loomed, its chimneys piercing the clouds.
*What are you hiding, Mr. Ashford?* she wondered. A sickly sister, a shadowed past, a crest with a serpent and sword?
And why did the thought of Margaret Hale's arrival tighten her chest like a corset laced too tight?
She glanced at the garden arbor, where *Camilla* still lay hidden. Opening it, she found a new note tucked between the pages:
*"Truths, like roses, have thorns. —T.A."*
Eliza shut the book, her pulse quickening. The game, it seemed, was far from over.