Margaret rose abruptly. "I will not sit here and listen to this."
She left the room, her footsteps retreating across the marble hall. Julian remained standing as Eleanor slowly folded her napkin.
"Have the terms written plainly," she said. "I should like to understand exactly what my husband believes thirty thousand pounds will buy."
Julian hesitated. "You will have my answer by supper."
Eleanor rose and walked toward the door. She had almost reached it when he spoke again. "You understand that I am being generous?"
Her hand rested on the brass handle. "Yes, Julian," she said without turning. "That is precisely what troubles me."
The door closed softly behind her.
Julian stood alone beside the breakfast table, staring at the untouched document. Then he noticed the letter his mother had left beneath her saucer. It bore Percival Grant's name, and across the bottom, in Margaret's unmistakable handwriting, were four words:
"The road is essential."
"The road is essential." Julian read the words twice. His mother's handwriting was unmistakable, each letter pressed so deeply into the paper that the ink had nearly bled through. Beneath the note, Percival Grant had written a brief acknowledgement of their correspondence, thanking Lady Margaret for her assurances regarding the proposed access route.
Julian frowned. What assurances? He had instructed his agent to investigate the purchase of Eleanor's workshop, not to negotiate roads with his mother. He folded the letter and placed it inside the leather folder. There would be time to question Margaret after supper.
For now, he summoned his secretary and dictated the terms of the proposed arrangement: thirty thousand pounds from his personal funds to be settled upon Eleanor following her departure from Ashkam Hall; assistance in securing a suitable residence; her agreement to the workshop sale.
Julian paused over the final provision. "Make it clear that the payment depends upon her cooperation," he said.
His secretary's pen stopped. "Your Grace, the workshop is held for Her Grace's separate use under the marriage settlement. Her written consent will be required."
"I am aware." Julian's voice was sharper than he intended. The secretary lowered his head and resumed writing.
By late afternoon, the document was ready. Julian examined it in his study while rain tapped against the windows. He had expected relief. Instead, he found himself remembering Eleanor's face when she asked whether he was sending her away. There had been no tears. Somehow, that made the recollection worse.
At seven, Eleanor entered the dining room wearing a dark blue gown with a narrow lace collar. She carried nothing. Her hair was arranged simply, without the pearl ornament Julian had given her on their first anniversary. Margaret sat at the far end of the table, her expression carefully composed.
Julian rose when Eleanor entered. She acknowledged him with a slight inclination of her head and took her usual seat. Dinner proceeded with unbearable politeness. The servants brought soup, then roast pheasant. Margaret discussed the weather and a forthcoming visit from Lady Harcourt. Eleanor answered when addressed, but offered nothing more. Julian scarcely tasted his food. He had imagined a dozen versions of this conversation, and in none of them had his wife seemed so completely beyond his reach.
When the servants had cleared the final course, he placed the document beside Eleanor's plate. "The terms are as we discussed."
Eleanor unfolded it. She read slowly, turning each page with steady fingers. Julian watched the candlelight move across her face.
"Thirty thousand pounds," she said at last. "Provided I leave this house and consent to the sale."
"Yes."
"And if I refuse?"