Miles away, in the quiet, leather-scented confines of a London study, the Duke of Braemar sat behind his heavy mahogany desk, watching his younger brother review a stack of travel documents. The Duke leaned back, his tone casually observant.
"You should be entirely satisfied, Andrew. The carriage is arranged, the funds are drawn, and your schedule remains completely your own. No one is stopping your departure, and no one is demanding a single thing of you."
Andrew did not look up from the manifest in his hands. "I am perfectly satisfied."
His brother did not argue. He simply turned back to his own correspondence and murmured, "Of course."
A week later, the bright, elegant streets of Bath offered no comfort to Eliza. Standing in the bedroom of their leased townhouse, she tied the ribbons of her walking bonnet, preparing for a morning promenade with her aunt. She smoothed her gloves, checked her reticule, and then glanced at the small clock on the mantelpiece.
She paused. She was ready exactly fifteen minutes early.
She stared at the brass hands of the clock. Out of pure, ingrained reflex, she thought of the sweeping branches of the willow tree. And then, standing alone in the quiet room, the truth finally caught up to her.
During all those weeks in Scotland, she had not simply been taking her walks a little earlier to enjoy the fresh air. She had been deliberately hurrying, carefully adjusting her own routine, just to carve out a few extra minutes of time with him. She had been choosing him every single day, while pretending it was nothing more than a coincidence of the clock.
At that exact hour in London, Andrew stood inside the crowded, noisy office of a shipping agent. He had arrived early to finalize his passage across the channel. He stood near the window, waiting for the clerk to finish drafting his receipt.
He was fifteen minutes early.
He looked out at the busy street, watching the carriages pass, and realized with a sudden, hollow clarity that for the first time in weeks, waiting held no expectation. No familiar figure was going to appear on the pavement. No clever, observant woman was going to step into the room and look at him with that quiet, knowing smile. There was no one to look for.
He looked down at the itinerary resting on the wooden counter. He possessed exactly what he had always fiercely protected: the absolute freedom to leave. No one was demanding his presence.