She left the nursery again, intent on returning to her own room. But she hesitated in the hall, her desire to slide into her own bed and sleep brushed away by the knowledge that Mr. Halberd was home. She didn’t know what to do with the information, only that she wanted to hold onto it, hoarding it like a piece of treasure. Because she would not seek him out. No matter that she thought of it, and that a dozen different outcomes spiraled out from the very idea.

  She chewed at the corner of her mouth until it hurt. There would be no decent sleep for her tonight. Books would be a requirement. And maybe…

  No, she didn’t know where the wine was kept. But a drink would be more than welcome to smudge the edges of her thoughts and perhaps prevent her from doing something foolish. Or…

  … or it might fuel the foolishness into an action that might become all too regrettable.

  Julia turned herself around in the middle of the hall, as though she had somehow lost her way right outside of her room. Then she stopped, her gaze fixed on the dark blot of shadow that was the entrance to the servants stairs at the far end of the hall.

  Food, on the other hand, would not be responsible for any regrettable choices, at least apart from a touch of indigestion.

  Still clutching her candle by the copper ring of its holder, she worked her down to the kitchen area. The rooms below were quiet and empty for the night, the servants having already gone to bed in order to be up early for another day of work. She didn’t know her way around the kitchen as well as she would have liked, unsure of where the bread and cheese and jars of things would be kept in a larger house such as this. But she found the larder after a few minutes of poking around in the darker corners. The shelves were piled high with eggs and butter, tucked in beside half-eaten pies and tarts that would still taste good cold.

  She fetched a plate and picked out an assortment of food, bits of cheese and half of a hand pie stuffed with onions and potatoes and pears. There were also scones with dried cherries and cinnamon and-

  She stopped herself there, before she could attempt to drag half the contents of the larder back up to her room. Balancing the plate in one hand and her candle in the other, she left the kitchen and headed back towards the servants’ stairs. The light of another candle halted her progress. Julia blinked at the approaching glow, tucking the edge of her plate against her waist as Mrs. Holland blocked her path forward.

  “Mrs. Benton.” The housekeeper carried a small oil lamp in one hand and clutched her shawl tight about her shoulders with the other.

  “Oh, forgive me, Mrs. Holland. I didn’t realize anyone was still awake.”

  The housekeeper’s gaze dipped to the plate Julia held and returned to her face. There was judgment there, somewhere in the wavering shadows that passed over Mrs. Holland’s features. But whether it was because the woman didn’t think Julia should have been pilfering from the larder, or that she shouldn’t be carrying the food back up to her room, or that she shouldn’t have put cherry scones and a wedge of Stilton on the same plate, she neither knew nor cared.

  “I always walk through the house once more before bed,” Mrs. Holland explained, answering a question Julia hadn’t bothered to ask. “To check the state of the windows and make certain all the doors are bolted and secure. I hope I did not startle you.”

  “No, not at all,” Julia said. Because what else was she expected to say? She stood there, clutching her plate, feeling like a child caught in the middle of an indiscretion. “Um, if you’ll excuse me…”

  “I know you think me officious,” Mrs. Holland said, just as Julia would have stepped around her and continued on her way. “But I hold this house and its inhabitants in very high esteem. As you should as well,” she added, and switched her lamp from one hand to the other, blinding Julia all over again. “In a few years, Miss Halberd will be the most eligible lady in this county. If her father has her best interests at heart, he may even send her to London for a season. And allowing her to run around in the dirt, to climb trees and play with toy soldiers and behave with no more decorum than a common farm boy is no way to see her raised. If you—”

  “I am sorry you do not care for the way I instruct Zora,” Julia interrupted, mostly out of concern that Mrs. Holland would never cease her criticisms if she didn’t put a stop to it. “But she is startlingly intelligent, and at the moment she has no interest in becoming a proper lady touring around the ballrooms or drawing rooms or any other room of London society. And Mr. Halberd seems to have no complaint with the current course of her upbringing.”

  Mrs. Holland made a sound with her tongue and her teeth that sounded like a hundred unsavory words crashing against the back of her molars. “Mr. Halberd is a man. He does not know what is best—”

  “Mr. Halberd is her father.” Julia spoke louder than intended, her voice reverberating off the walls around them.

  And… oh. Something in Mrs. Holland’s face at that moment. If Julia had been asked to describe it to someone else, she would have failed. The change was too subtle, little more than a smudge of movement in the corner of her vision. But it was there, and Julia knew. Julia knew that Mrs. Holland knew.

  About Zora. About her parentage. About-

  “Her name is Isadora,” Mrs. Holland said, voice so tight it could have been plucked like a harp string. “It was her grandmother’s name, and it was Mrs. Halberd’s dearest wish to honor her own mother in such a way. And for you to twist it with that absurd sobriquet…”

  “It is what she wants to be called.” Julia felt as though she was pointing out something as simple as the sky above them and the earth below.

  “She is a child. She doesn’t know what she wants. If her mother was still alive—”

  “But she is not.” Julia drew in a slow, shaking breath. A late-night snack was all she had wanted, and here she stood, arguing with Mrs. Holland about nicknames and what a dead woman may or may not have wanted for her child. “God rest her soul,” she said, and stepped around the housekeeper and went up the stairs.

  She did not understand Mrs. Holland’s clear disapproval of her. Was it because she had stepped down from gentlewoman to servant in taking on the position as Zora’s governess? Or was it due to the freedom Julia gave the child in her learning, allowing her to climb trees and read upside-down and march back to the house with her skirt and stockings splattered in mud?

  Or did the dislike begin further back? She had never been a sociable creature in the first place, and years of suffering and grief had only made her retreat from the public further. Frederick had married her with expectations of her helping to organize events and the cleaning and decorating of the church and to simply be a visible part of village life in Barrow-in-Ashton. But Julia had failed at all of those things, never winning close friends or confidantes throughout her time at the vicarage. And so she had gone to Mrs. Cochran’s because there had been no other offer of help for her in the immediate vicinity, no neighbors or parishioners rushing forward to offer meals or a home or assistance.

  While Frederick had been alive, her sole contribution to the village had been her work at the school, teaching the poorer girls and young women of the parish. She suspected it had only been allowed to her because of how well her husband was esteemed and respected, and not because anyone with a modicum of power wished to see the daughters of local farmers and laborers taught about things beyond the boundaries of their village. Even Frederick had voiced his concern at educating the lower classes, that it was not their place to learn more than what was appointed to them.

  “Their safety is in their ignorance,” he had told her. “Let better, more learned men know what is best for them. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and will only harm them in the end.”

  No wonder Mrs. Holland did not like her. No wonder the other inhabitants of Barrow-in-Ashton didn’t bring her cakes and tea, or come to have a chat with her, or trade recipes and gossip about the latest fashions. And yet Mr. Halberd had still sought her out, had trusted her with his daughter’s care. Perhaps his time away in London had left him unaware of her place in the village’s hierarchy of middle-aged ladies. Or perhaps…

  … perhaps he simply didn’t care.

  She hesitated then, halfway up the stairs. She knew she should continue on to her room. She should slip into her nightgown and curl up on the bed with her feet tucked beneath her while she read and ate until exhaustion took her. To want more than that was too much. She had already gone too far the other night, kissing Mr. Halberd. As though she had any right to do so. No doubt he hadn’t brought up the matter in order to save her embarrassment. But if she was to seek him out again…

  No. She wouldn’t even think of it. Up to the top of the stairs, and she paused again. One way would take her past the nursery and to her own bedroom. The other would take her towards Mr. Halberd’s quarters, or where she believed them to be. Better for her not to know which room belonged to him, or else the temptation would be too great to walk up to his door, to knock and find out if he would let her in.

  But her moment of indecision cost her. The light appeared off to the left, out of the corner of her eye. A longer glance and she saw the distinct glint of another candle, of Mr. Halberd making his way to his own room from the direction of the main staircase.

  If she moved now, she knew it would draw his attention towards her. So she stood still, only turning slightly to the right to better shield the light from her candle. But she heard his steps, watched as his own candle grew in brightness as he approached her.

  “Mrs. Benton? Is something wrong?”

  She turned to face him. “No, I… I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

  His gaze darted towards her plate, and she thought she heard a soft chuckle from deep within his chest. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who contemplated a late excursion to the kitchen before turning in for the night.”

  She held up her plate for his perusal. “Do you want to take something?”

  He looked at her.

  Did she imagine the warmth there, in his eyes? Or was it merely the glow from his candle creating a reflection of something that didn’t exist?

  “Yes.” And that was all he said.

  She wished that one word meant more than it did. But he reached out and picked up a scone, and she held her breath as he brought it to his mouth and took a bite.

  “Well, goodnight, Mr. Halberd.” She said it in a rush, her voice still hanging in the air as she hurried the rest of the way to her room, as she stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

  A part of her wanted him to follow her, to knock and prevent the evening from already coming to an end. But she stood with her back against the door, her hands trembling with their burden of the candle and the plate as she listened for his receding footsteps in the hall.

  She had become a fool, she realized, imagining that every glance from him, every word held some deeper feeling than it did. It was because she wanted him to want her, but she suspected her desire for him was so strong it had begun to color his every look and action towards her.

  Because — God, yes — she wanted him. She had wanted him since that first day she’d met him twelve years before. Her lust for him had weighed on her conscience for every remaining day of her marriage. And it had been lust, strong enough to make her think of him when Frederick climbed atop her in the night, to make her seek out ways to find pleasure for herself when she was alone, when the nights were dark and her thoughts inevitably wound their way back to every memory she kept of him.

  And there, as expected, was the guilt. That she had committed adultery in her own heart, that she had coveted another woman’s husband. Yet here she was, all these years later, living in his home, caring for his child. Or his wife’s child, if what he had told her about his wife’s penchant for infidelity was true.

  Maybe she had no moral standing to think ill of Mrs. Halberd for breaking her marriage vows, when Julia had abandoned them every day in spirit. Perhaps her husband’s insinuations had been correct, that she had failed, and that her failure had kept her from having the family she had so craved.

  She banged the back of her head against the door, the pain reverberating through her skull. She was too tired to give leave to tears tonight. Indeed, she’d spent so many throughout the years of her marriage she wondered at her having any left to spare.

  “Damn.” Because it felt good to say it, that little morsel of vulgarity working to release some of the hurt inside of her. “Damn it all,” she said, those words propelling her across the room, towards her bed and the cold, quiet night that awaited her.

  Chapter Eleven

  * * *

  Julia’s lungs burned. The morning air was cold and dry, scraping in and out of her chest with every breath. There was daylight to the east, though the sun had yet to crest over the horizon. Above her rolled a silent line of clouds, lending an extra dose of chill to the air. She flexed her fingers inside her woolen mittens, her knuckles aching despite the heaviness of the yarn. But the cold helped to banish the restlessness she’d battled with all night, and a little bit of pain in her joints was worth the clarity of mind that came with it.

  She couldn’t see the house anymore. It sat somewhere behind her, up and behind the rise and the small wooded area that now lay between them. She breathed in again, long and deep, the cold filling her up as though it was solid, and exhaled with a droop of her shoulders.

  This felt like the first time she had been able to breathe properly in days. Her sleep the previous night had been nothing short of abysmal, and she wondered if she would’ve done better to abstain from trying to rest at all and instead accepted her sleepless fate. But after too many hours of tossing and turning and fighting with the blankets on her bed, she dressed in the same gown she’d worn the previous day, dug out all of her warmest and most woolen accessories, and escaped outside for a walk while only a faint glimmer of dawn lit up part of the sky.

  She had begun at a brisk pace, striding across the lawn to combat the pre-dawn cold. Her boots scuffed through the frost that coated everything, the dying grass crunching beneath her soles. She had considered walking along the road, towards the village and the more traveled lanes there, but decided she’d rather not encounter anyone along the way. She wanted to be alone, with her own thoughts, with the great open sky above her and the cold, solid ground beneath her feet.

  She halted beneath the trees, long enough to blow a breath into her curled hands and warm them up inside her mittens. She would have to return to the house soon, as Zora had a tendency to rise early, but there was a part of her that wanted nothing more than to wander around outside for the entirety of the day and not go back until darkness fell.

  It wasn’t that she wanted to run away, or — dare she even think it — return to the life she had before, at Mrs. Cochran’s. She was happy here at Langford, and spending her days teaching Zora coupled with her weekly lessons at the schoolhouse made her feel as though she was finally accomplishing something with her life.

  Except that being so near Mr. Halberd so many thoughts she had believed she’d already conquered. It wasn’t until she arrived here that she realized the years following Frederick’s death had been nothing more than the gray shadow of an already pitiful existence. And now she was faced with all of the guilt and passion and grief that she had hidden away for so long.

  For here was Mr. Halberd, who had lost his wife, just as she had lost her husband. And here was Zora, a motherless child, yet loved and adored by a man who knew he wasn’t her father. And there she was, Mrs. Julia Benton, a woman who had married out of desperation rather than for adoration, who had spent seven years of her life praying for her broken body to give her a living child, and all while her husband drew further and further away from her because of her deficits.

  Julia swallowed, hard. A pinprick of ice landed on her cheek, and she looked around, surprised to see a few soft, white flakes floating down beneath the mostly bare branches of the trees. As a child, she had loved the snow. The crispness of it, the soft whump of sound it made when walking across a pristine layer for the first time. The snowballs and snowmen and seeking out the perfect hill for sledding.

  Now it made her think of slick roads and the tumbling of a carriage down the side of a bank, snuffing out two lives at once as the flakes drifted down from the sky.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, gripping her shoulders as though she was about to break apart at the seams. Her pulse pounded in her ears as a stillness came over the area, the falling snow seeming to catch all the ambient sounds from the air and pull them towards the ground. She assumed it was why she didn’t hear the hoofbeats right away, muffled by the thin layer of white already accumulating everywhere.

  She knew it would be Mr. Halberd, not because of any gift of intuition on her part, but only because she doubted many other people aside from himself would be riding across his property this early in the morning. Her spine straightened as he approached, her arms dropping back to her sides as she lifted her chin. He stopped several yards away, sliding out of the saddle as flecks of snow sparkled on his hat and coat.

  “Mr. Halberd.” She spoke first, her voice sounding all at once too loud and too quiet with the trees and the snow surrounding them. It felt as though she was shut in all alone with him, despite the fact they were outside, without any walls or borders closing them in.

  And still, he said nothing. He looked tired. Probably as tired as she looked, though she hadn’t even bothered to glance in the mirror while getting dressed. But she knew she was in a state, clad in yesterday’s gown, her hair straggling over her shoulder in a braid that had endured several hours of tossing and turning. And there would be shadows under her eyes, along with a grayness to her pallor she always sported when she hadn’t slept well.

  He walked towards her, while his horse dipped its head and nosed at the clumps of grass sticking out above the snowfall. Only a few steps, and then he stopped with several paces still left between them.