Chapter 16: The Hunter’s Table
For a month, the manor existed in a state of suspended animation. Teresa saw no sign of Patrick, not even a shadow at the end of a corridor or the echo of a closing door. He had vanished back into the silent heart of the house.
Her body, however, remembered how to heal. The soreness faded from a constant companion to a rare, weather-related twinge. Her strength returned in small, measurable increments. She could carry a full stack of books from the shelves to the table without her arms trembling. She could climb the grand staircase without pausing for breath on the first landing. The library became her domain, a project of order and light, the very opposite of the war room Patrick inhabited somewhere beneath the same roof. She organized the collection by subject, then by author, her fingers tracing the spines of histories, romances, volumes of natural philosophy she’d never dreamed of having time to read.
The silence from the rest of the house unnerved her at first, an emptiness where an apology or at least an acknowledgement might have been. But it also offered a perverse gift: freedom. There was no judgement in the portrait of the late lord, only oils and canvas.
“It’s unnerving,” Grace confessed one afternoon over tea in the warm, bread-scented kitchen. She was showing Teresa how to mend linen with an invisible stitch. “He often goes quiet for days, but never a month. Cho says he’s reading. Reading mountains of paper that arrive for him every other day, and writing just as much back out.”
“The research continues, then,” Teresa said, carefully drawing her needle through the fabric.
“He doesn’t eat in the dining room,” Grace continued, her tone implying the transgression was social, not nutritional. “He doesn’t receive visitors. Mrs. Tyrell in the village sent her condolences again on a fresh scone—he didn’t even come to the door.”
“Perhaps he’s preparing,” Teresa said, her voice soft.
Grace just sighed, an eloquent sound that spoke volumes about the difficulty of running a household for a man who didn’t wish to be part of one.
Escapes came in the form of Cho. The silent Korean became her quiet, efficient guide. He would materialize in the mornings, nod toward the gardens, and walk with her through the frost-burned rose beds and skeletal winter hedges, a comforting, solid presence. Later, he offered trips to the bustling new townsite.
“Supplies,” he’d say, his voice flat. It was never an invitation, always a statement of fact. She appreciated it; invitations could be refused.
On her third visit, the restored main street had lost none of its novelty. The crisp winter air was filled with the clang of the smithy, the sweet scent of fresh hay spilling from the livery, the shouts of children chasing a hoop. Teresa watched a fishmonger expertly fillet a glistening salmon, mesmerized by the flash of the knife. She breathed in the complex, gritty perfume of humanity, work, and commerce—so different from the convent’s quiet incense or the manor’s aged leather and wax.
They were standing near the cart, Teresa’s arms full of new threads and paper purchased from the chandler, when Cho cleared his throat.
“You need new shoes,” he stated.
Teresa blinked, looking down at her serviceable but battered leather boots. They were a pair of Stanley’s, salvaged years ago, stretched and patched until the original color was a memory. “Do I? They’re perfectly sound.”
Cho’s expression didn’t change. “They are not. His Lordship gave me money. A pair will be made.” He gestured with his chin across the street.“There. He’s a good shoemaker.”
A wave of resistance, born of a lifetime of frugality and the awkwardness of accepting gifts from an absent benefactor, stiffened her spine. “That’s very generous, but entirely unnecessary, Cho. I’ve made repairs myself for years. I can make these last another—”
“I have orders,” Cho interrupted, his dark eyes finally meeting hers with unnerving directness. “If you refuse, I am to take these away.” He gave a pointed look at her boots. “And leave you in your stockings.”
Teresa stared at him, her mouth slightly open. Was he joking? His face was an impassive mask. She couldn’t tell. The mental image of Cho, dour-faced, forcibly removing her boots in the middle of the muddy street, was so absurd a bubble of laughter rose in her chest, tempered by acute frustration.
“That’s… absurdly high-handed.” But she sighed.It was exactly the kind of thing Patrick would order. “Fine. To avoid a public spectacle.”
The trace of a smile—or perhaps just a trick of the light—touched the corner of Cho’s mouth for a second. He led the way.
The cobbler’s shop was warm and smelled gloriously of new leather, beeswax, and cedar. Small hammers tapped a gentle rhythm from a back room. Walls were lined with lasts and finished boots; the counter was a pleasing chaos of tools, tacks, and patterns. A portly man with kind, shrewd eyes and an impressive white apron looked up as the bell jingled. He took in Cho’s bearing and Teresa’s simple but clearly fine wool dress, and bustled over.
“Milady! Good day! How may I serve?”
Milady. The word jolted through Teresa. A wrongness, a role she hadn't agreed to play. She swallowed the automatic, sharp correction that rose in her throat. It tasted like leather and dust. She forced a small, tight smile and nodded her head slightly.
Cho spoke before she could. “New shoes for Lady Teresa. The best materials.”
“Simple leather, please. Something durable for walking,” Teresa said, her voice too fast. “Nothing elaborate.”
The cobbler and Cho exchanged a glance that wholly excluded her, a silent consensus between men that her opinion on the matter was a minor, irrelevant noise. “Of course, milady,” the cobbler said with the placating tone one uses on a child, already turning away to a set of deep shelves. He began bringing out treasures.
Not just hides of leather, though the buttery kid glowed softly. He unfurled small bolts of fabric on the polished counter with a practiced flourish. Velvet as thick and soft as moss, in deep moss-green and a midnight blue. Silks that shimmered with pearlescent light in cream and the palest blush. A small roll of elaborate silver-and-crimson brocade. He then placed a polished oak box beside them and opened it, revealing a small array of shining buckles—silver, polished steel, one with a tiny, tasteful cloisonné design.
Teresa’s protests died unspoken. She was mesmerized. She’d seen these fabrics on gowns from a distance at village fairs, on fine ladies passing in carriages. They were attributes of another species of being. She reached out, her fingers hesitating for a moment before she brushed the sage green velvet. The texture was shockingly plush and yielding, a living softness that made the wool of her own skirts feel like sackcloth. A quiet, indrawn breath was her only commentary. The silk, when she touched it, was cool and sly, whispering against her work-roughened skin.
“They’re lovely,” she managed, her voice hushed.
The cobbler beamed. “Now, a measurement, if you please, milady. Just a seat right here.” He indicated a sturdy chair near a sunlit window. Heat rushed to Teresa’s cheeks. Sitting before a strange man, preparing to remove her boot and stocking… it was strangely, profoundly intimate. An exposure. It wasn’t about her feet; it was about allowing a stranger access to a point of unadorned need, a testament to years of making do.
She sat, her movements stiff. Cho took up a position near the door, watching the street. The cobbler knelt on a small leather pad. He looked up, caught her blush, and smiled gently.
“It is merely business, milady. It is the first and most important thing—a good foundation. Do not fret.”
His easy professionalism eased a fraction of her tension. She removed her boot and stocking, tucking her foot back against the other ankle. The cobbler gently insisted, positioning her bare foot on a clean piece of parchment. His touch was impersonal and skilled as he traced around her foot with a slender piece of charcoal, noting points of her arch, the length of her toes. She kept her gaze fixed out the window at a sparrow pecking in the gutter, her face burning. Then it was over; he repeated the process with the other foot and rose.
Before she could speak, before she could so much as glance at the velvet again, Cho stepped forward from his post.
“Three pairs. One of black kid leather, for everyday. Sturdy, but fine. One of the sage velvet. One of the pearl silk.” He enunciated each word clearly. “Make them…” He paused, an unusual search for the right word. “Stylish. And feminine.”
The cobbler, entirely unfazed, beamed and jotted notes on a small slate. “Excellent choices, sir. Elegant. The black kid for tomorrow, the others in a fortnight?”
Teresa stared at Cho, her mind blank. She was tumbling, disoriented. He had chosen, with casual authority, colors and textures he thought she should have. A spectrum from practicality to a luxury she could not even fathom. It felt like being dressed by a force of nature. She opened her mouth to object, to insist on one pair, just one, but the cobbler was already collecting payment, discussing finer points of heel shape and trim with Cho, her presence rendered auxiliary.
Cho counted out a deposit, the coins clinking softly. The final amount would be settled on collection. The transaction, so simple, sealed it.
Teresa replaced her stocking and boot, lacing it with numb fingers. No one consulted her. No one asked if she wanted green velvet. They walked from the shop, the bell jingling a cheerful farewell. The cold air bit her flushed face. She was silent as Cho handed her up into the cart, silent as he clicked to the horse and they rattled down the street. Only when the last of the town’s sounds faded behind them, replaced by the whisper of bare branches and the horse’s steady trot, did she find a semblance of speech.
“Three pairs.” The words left her on a plume of frosty breath, a statement laced with awe, confusion, and a dawning, secret pleasure.
Cho flicked the reins. “Your old ones are beyond repair. You will need different shoes. For different things.”
She absorbed that. For different things. What things? Walks in the garden required the boots she had, not velvet. The white silk… a frivolity of a scope she had never considered. And yet, the feel of that velvet was etched on her fingertips. A substance of impossible softness chosen for her.
She looked over at Cho’s profile, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “Thank you, Cho.” It was inadequate.
He gave a single, short nod. “He was… specific about the colors.”
That was the only explanation offered. She leaned back against the wooden seat of the cart, a strange warmth in her core that had nothing to do with the blankets. The road wound on toward the darkening silhouette of Blackwood Manor, a place of secrets and grief and a man who, for a month, had been nothing but a whisper. A man who was apparently, from a distance, measuring her foot for a velvet shoe.
The cart’s wheels crunched over the gravel drive, the sound announcing their return to the manor’s consuming silence. Teresa carried the ghost of that velvet against her skin, a confusing trophy from a battle she hadn’t fought. Grace met them at the kitchen entrance, her eyes briefly dropping to Teresa’s unchanged, scuffed boots before flicking a question at Cho.
“The order is placed,” was all Cho said, brushing past to take the supplies inside.
Teresa gave a small, helpless shrug that only deepened the housekeeper’s curiosity. She retreated to the library, but the words on the page blurred. Her mind kept returning to the cobbler’s careful tracing, the specificity of green and pearl. It felt less like a gift and more like a tool being fitted to her hand, its purpose unknown.
In his study, Patrick was buried. Maps of London’s districts were weighted down with inkwells and pistols, layered over with scribbled notes about property titles and shipping manifests. He was cross-referencing a list of names from a society ledger against the passenger list of a ship called the Persephone that had sailed from Marseille a decade prior. His eyes burned from the lamplight and the fine print.
He didn’t hear the door open, only becoming aware of Cho’s presence when the man’s shadow fell across the web of papers on the desk. He looked up, his eyes taking a second to refocus.
“The shoes are ordered,” Cho stated.
Patrick nodded, a short, satisfied dip of his chin. “Good.”
He returned his gaze to the manifest, but Cho didn’t leave. Instead, he moved to the side table where the brandy decanter sat. The quiet clink of crystal against crystal was a deliberate sound. He poured two generous measures, carried them back, and set one squarely on a clear corner of Patrick’s desk. Then he walked around to the other side, took a deliberate sip of his own drink, and placed it down atop a map of Mayfair.
“Your plan is stupid.”
Patrick set down his papers slowly. “Which part of my plan is stupid?” he asked, his voice deceptively calm.
Cho held his gaze. “All of it.” He paused. “I am used to your stupid plans for yourself. This one, involving Lady Teresa, is a new level of stupid.”
Patrick sighed, the sound weary in the close, paper-filled room. He sat back in his chair, the leather creaking, and picked up the brandy. He studied the amber liquid, the way the lamplight caught in its depths. “It’s the only way. I’ve endured a London season before. When I was just an earl’s son, they pursued me like hounds after a fox. Now? A lord with a doubled fortune? I’d be mauled before I made it through the first ballroom door. I need space to operate, not a gauntlet of marriageable misses.”
“She will never agree,” Cho said, his voice flat.
“Probably not. Unless she’s properly motivated.” Patrick took a drink, the brandy a welcome burn. “If she marries me, I operate in town without hindrance. She gets the protection of my name. She’s made her aversion to marriage quite clear. This way, she can return to her brother’s manor one day without fear of Stanley renting her out again to settle a debt.” The words tasted foul as he said them, a metallic disgust on his tongue at the concept. “It’s a practical solution for us both.”
Cho stared at him for a long, silent moment. The only sounds were the pop of the fire and the distant sigh of the wind outside. Finally, he stood. “Very well,” he said, his tone conceding nothing. “But I’m not asking for you.”
He left his half-finished brandy on the map and departed, closing the door with a soft, definitive click. Patrick didn’t move. He swirled the liquor in his glass, watching the legs sheet down the crystal. A practical solution. He repeated the phrase in his mind, trying to bleach it of its cold, transactional resonance. It sounded like something his own father might have said.