Chapter 5: The Man Beneath the Mask
The library at Ashvale was unlike any Eleanor had ever seen. The air held a dignified stillness, as though each volume whispered its own secrets, tucked behind spines of cracked leather and faded gold. Tall windows let in gray afternoon light, casting long shadows across polished wood and velvet armchairs.
She hadn't meant to wander there.
After the cold tension of breakfast — after Lady Catherine's sudden mention of Lord Everett and the painfully obvious attempt at a match — Eleanor had stormed through the halls of Ashvale with no destination in mind. Only after her feet slowed, her breath caught, and her thoughts cleared, did she realize where she was.
And she wasn't alone.
In the far corner, by a low-burning hearth, sat Nathaniel Blackmoor. He didn't look up as she entered. He merely turned a page in his book with the same quiet intensity he always seemed to carry — as if the world around him was a painting and only he lived within it.
Eleanor hovered near the door.
"You're following me now?" Nathaniel said, still not lifting his eyes from the page.
"I might ask you the same," she replied, crossing her arms. "You seem to be in every room I escape to."
At that, he finally looked up — and smiled. "Perhaps we're running from the same things."
"Are we?"
He closed the book slowly and set it aside. "What are you running from, Eleanor?"
She hesitated, caught by the sound of her name on his tongue. It came softer than it should have — not flirtatious, but personal.
"I'm not running," she said.
"Liar."
She stepped closer, drawn in by the gentle confrontation. "And what about you? What is a man like you running from?"
His smile faded. "Truth."
There was something raw in his voice then, and for a moment, Eleanor didn't know what to say. The air between them shifted — not in hostility, but understanding. For the first time since her arrival, she felt they were standing in the same story.
Eleanor moved to the window seat. "I found something," she said quietly.
Nathaniel's posture tensed. "Where?"
"A narrow passage. Behind a door between the portrait alcoves in the east corridor."
He inhaled sharply. "The locked room?"
"It wasn't locked."
He turned away, jaw tightening. "It should have been."
"I found a journal," she said, ignoring the warning in his voice. "It belonged to someone named J.A."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I know who it was," he said. "Jonathan Ashvale. My father."
Eleanor felt her breath catch.
"I don't understand. Lady Catherine never said—"
"She wouldn't." Nathaniel's voice was low. "She was never one for sharing. Especially not the truth."
Eleanor studied him. "What happened to him?"
"He drowned," Nathaniel said simply. "In the garden fountain."
"I read that in the journal," she whispered. "But… he didn't sound mad. He sounded like a man in pain. Like he was hiding something."
Nathaniel nodded slowly. "He was."
He crossed the room, standing now with his back to the fireplace.
"My father was never what this house expected. He was emotional. Intuitive. He loved music, painting, the garden. He married Lady Catherine, but their union was arranged, like most. He tried to make it work. But something changed after I was born."
Eleanor listened, heart heavy.
"He stopped going to London. Spent days walking the grounds. Writing. Speaking in riddles. Some say he was mourning. Others believed he was losing his mind." Nathaniel's voice dropped lower. "I believe he fell in love with someone else."
The fire crackled.
"I think she loved him back," he added, "but something went wrong. And I think my mother found out."
Eleanor's pulse raced. "You think Lady Catherine—?"
"I don't know." He turned to her fully now. "But I know what I saw. I remember her standing over his coffin and not shedding a single tear."
Eleanor stood from the window seat, the weight of truth pressing on her chest. "She's hiding more than grief."
"She's hiding history," Nathaniel murmured. "And if that journal holds the pieces of it, she'll do anything to keep it from being read."
Eleanor nodded slowly. "Then we read it."
Nathaniel met her gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Together?"
"Yes."
The air between them changed again — not with tension, but trust. It wasn't quite intimacy. Not yet. But it was the beginning of something fragile and real.
Nathaniel stepped closer. "This is dangerous."
"So is silence," she said.
He smiled faintly. "You're braver than you look."
"I'm braver than you think."
Another silence. Another shared moment that neither could explain.
Then Eleanor turned to go. "Tonight. After supper. My room."
Nathaniel nodded once. "I'll come."
---
Dinner passed with unbearable slowness. Lady Catherine, for once, made no mention of marriage or social expectations. She was all smiles and wine, asking casual questions about Eleanor's reading habits and her thoughts on the garden.
It was worse than her scolding.
Eleanor responded politely, but each glance across the table met Nathaniel's, who remained silent, offering only small nods and subtle looks that seemed to say, wait.
As the meal ended, Eleanor stood first.
"I have a headache," she said. "I'll retire early."
"Of course, my dear," Lady Catherine said sweetly. "Do rest. You look quite pale."
Eleanor met her aunt's eyes for a second too long.
You're hiding something, she wanted to say.
But instead, she curtsied and left.
---
Nathaniel arrived an hour later, just as the candles in her room had burned halfway down.
He said nothing as he entered, only locked the door behind him. Eleanor retrieved the journal from beneath the floorboard.
Together, they sat on the rug, the fire casting soft light across their faces as Eleanor opened the book to a middle page.
> "She told me she would leave. That she had no choice. But I saw it in her eyes — she didn't want to go. She was protecting me. Or protecting something far worse."
> "Catherine has grown cold. She watches me with the eyes of a stranger. She doesn't speak of love. Only of legacy."
> "I will leave the truth here, in this book. If Nathaniel ever finds it, let him know: I tried to protect him. I tried not to lose myself. But love… love always leaves a mark."
Eleanor stopped reading.
Nathaniel sat very still.
"She was real," he said.
Eleanor nodded. "And so was the love your father felt."
He looked at her. "And the cost of it."
Eleanor closed the journal gently. "What now?"
"We keep reading," Nathaniel said. "We find out what happened. Who she was. Why this house became a tomb for the living."
He reached for her hand — not boldly, but slowly, asking permission.
She let him take it.
And in the quiet flicker of firelight, Eleanor understood something she hadn't before.
The story of Ashvale wasn't just buried in pages and stones.
It was still being written.
And she was now a part of it.
---