Chapter 6: A Ghost in the Garden
It was well past midnight when Eleanor heard the knock at her window.
She sat up, heart in her throat. The manor was silent, the fire burned low, and shadows danced along the edges of the room.
Another knock.
Three soft taps.
She slipped out of bed and crossed to the window, heart pounding.
Nathaniel stood in the garden below, his coat buttoned high, the moonlight making his hair look silver.
He pointed toward the hedge maze, then stepped back into the dark.
Eleanor hesitated for only a moment. She dressed quickly, pulled on her boots, and grabbed her shawl. Every instinct screamed caution — but something deeper, more insistent, pulled her forward.
She crept through the manor's rear corridor, careful not to alert the servants. The back door was already unlatched, as if someone had opened it from the outside.
The night air hit her like a breath she didn't know she needed. Crisp, damp, tinged with roses and memory.
Nathaniel waited by the edge of the maze, his eyes soft with concern.
"You came," he said.
"You woke me."
He smiled faintly. "Sorry. I needed air. And I didn't want to walk through ghosts alone."
Eleanor's brow lifted. "Is that what we're chasing now? Ghosts?"
He offered her his hand. "Maybe not chasing. But listening."
She took it.
They stepped into the maze.
---
The hedge maze at Ashvale was old — older than the manor, older than the family name. Some said it had been built by a heartbroken lord centuries ago, desperate to confuse his grief into silence. Others whispered it was a trap — designed to keep spirits wandering forever.
Eleanor didn't believe in ghosts.
But she did believe in grief. And in secrets.
She followed Nathaniel through the narrow paths, the moonlight flickering between swaying branches. The roses here were pale and wild, almost white in the dark. The air smelled like forgotten things — dried petals and cold stone.
After several turns, they reached a small clearing at the center.
A stone bench sat beneath an iron arch, twisted with vines. A single rosebush bloomed beside it — red as blood against the night.
Eleanor stopped short.
She had seen this place before.
In the journal.
> "She met me in the center. Under the iron arch. Always in white. Always with silence in her eyes."
Nathaniel saw her face pale. "You've read this part."
She nodded. "This is where they met."
He looked around. "She was real, Eleanor. Whoever she was."
"She wore white," she whispered, her voice shaking. "She came here. Your father loved her. And then… she vanished."
Nathaniel sat on the bench, running a hand through his hair. "I keep thinking about that line: She told me to forget her. That she had no choice. What could she have meant?"
Eleanor sat beside him, their shoulders close. "She was protecting him. Or hiding something bigger than herself."
"Do you think it was an affair?"
"I think it was love," she said softly. "But not a safe kind. Not the kind this house — or your mother — would have accepted."
Nathaniel turned to her, his expression unreadable.
"Why do you trust me with this?" he asked suddenly.
Eleanor blinked. "What?"
"You could walk away. Pretend you never found the journal. You've no reason to stay tangled in this."
"I do," she said simply. "Because I care."
He stilled.
Eleanor looked down, her fingers brushing the edge of the bench. "I care that your father's story was buried. That someone loved and lost and was erased. And I care about you."
The words came out before she could stop them.
She dared a glance at his face.
Nathaniel's expression softened, surprise and gratitude warring with something deeper — something that made her chest ache.
He reached out slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
"I'm not good at soft things," he murmured.
"Neither am I," she whispered.
His hand lingered a moment too long, then fell.
But the air between them had changed again. No longer heavy with secrets, but laced with something fragile and unspoken.
---
On the walk back, Eleanor paused near the fountain.
The same one where Jonathan Ashvale had died.
The water was still again, its surface black as glass. A broken wing of the dove sculpture jutted from the basin, casting a sharp shadow.
Eleanor stepped closer.
Then stopped.
A figure stood at the other end.
White dress. Still. Watching.
Eleanor's breath caught.
She blinked — and the figure vanished.
Her voice trembled. "Did you see that?"
Nathaniel turned. "What?"
"There was someone… there."
He looked where she pointed. "No one's there."
"I saw her," Eleanor insisted. "She was in white."
Nathaniel moved closer to her side. "You're sure?"
"I know what I saw."
His expression darkened. "Then we're not just chasing ghosts."
---
The next morning, Eleanor rose early.
She returned to the journal, flipping through its pages with shaking hands. And there — near the end — she found it.
> "I fear she is still here. I see her in the mirror. In the garden. In the white light that slips beneath my door. Catherine says I'm mad. But madness would be kinder than this mourning."
> "I can't let Nathaniel find her. Not like this. Not ruined."
Eleanor stared at the page.
The woman in white was not only Jonathan's lover. She had remained in some form — memory, madness… or something else.
She had not left.
Which meant the truth — the full truth — was closer than they thought.
---
Later that day, Lady Catherine summoned Eleanor to the parlor.
The tension was immediate.
"You've grown quite close to Mr. Blackmoor," she said, pouring tea with perfect grace.
Eleanor kept her tone even. "We've spent time together, yes."
Lady Catherine set down the pot. "People speak, Eleanor."
Eleanor met her gaze. "Let them."
The older woman's smile was thin. "You're not in Surrey anymore. Here, reputation is everything."
"I'm not ashamed of anything I've done."
Lady Catherine leaned back. "You remind me of someone. Bold. Soft-hearted. Reckless."
Eleanor stilled. "Who?"
Lady Catherine's gaze flicked to the window. "Someone who learned too late that this house devours weakness."
The air went cold.
"You know what happened to her," Eleanor said quietly. "To the woman Jonathan loved."
Lady Catherine didn't answer.
Eleanor stood. "I'll find the truth. With or without your blessing."
Lady Catherine watched her go, her teacup trembling ever so slightly.
---
That night, Eleanor met Nathaniel again in the library. The journal sat between them, its weight more symbolic than physical now.
"She didn't die," Eleanor whispered. "Not when she vanished."
Nathaniel nodded. "I believe it."
"She may have stayed in hiding. Or… your mother may have—"
He held up a hand. "I know. I've thought it too."
Eleanor hesitated. "What if she's still here? Not alive. But… not gone."
Nathaniel looked into the fire, voice barely audible. "Then she's waiting for someone to listen."
Eleanor reached for his hand.
"I'm listening," she said.
And in that moment — surrounded by shadows, secrets, and embers — they were no longer just unraveling a story.
They were becoming part of it.
---