Ravenwood(35)

“Some of the men?” she asked. “Not you?” To her knowledge, Caleb had been out late hunting on the first night of Elinore’s arrival, all day yesterday and part of last night. He could have been keeping that schedule for several days before her arrival for all she knew.

“I don’t fatigue easily,” Caleb answered. He ate his own food with efficient strokes - a sharp cut of the knife, a quick spearing of the meat followed by precise and economical chewing. “What are your plans for the day?”

“I thought I would look over some books in the library and I wanted to knit something for Alice to thank her for the loan of her dress. Perhaps some writing.”

“Letters to friends?” he inquired easily.

Elinore ran her fingers over her knife and fork, feeling the smooth edges of the cutlery. Dare she tell Caleb of her hobby? He was bound to find out eventually now that she lived at the manor. Her parents had indulged her hobby of writing graciously and she’d even written a few stories that they enjoyed. Stories of mild intrigue or happy coincidences. She saved the more gothic tales for her writings with Charlotte.

“Some,” she began. “I also… write stories.”

Caleb’s sharp eyebrows went up slightly. Not in a mocking or overly surprised way. More in an intrigued way that made Elinore feel warm and happy in her stomach.

“Are you an author, Miss Reed?”

Elinore chuckled. “I would hardly call myself such, but I do like to write. My friend, Charlotte, and I imagine grand tales together and then we each pen a portion of it, trading back and forth.”

“And what sort of tales do you and your friend tell?”

Elinore felt slightly nervous discussing her writing. Nervous, excited and delighted. “Oh, well, we’re rather fond of gloomy tales. Young ladies in large haunted castles or lost on the moors. Lonely ghosts wandering about cemeteries. Strange, rolling fogs and stormy skies.” She could feel her face flush hot. “I’m sure you think such things horribly foolish.”

“No. Not at all,” Caleb answered, his eyes clear and focused on her. “I’m quite intrigued. Perhaps you’ll let me read something someday?”

Elinore stammered, terrified to the core. “I’d have to ask Charlotte and she’s terribly shy with her work.”

“I wouldn’t have to read her writings. I could read just yours.”

She could feel her face breaking out in smile, her cheeks hurting from how wide it was. “Perhaps.”

“Then, when you are published and a famed author, I shall tell everyone that I was of the first to read your work.”

Elinore laughed, a bubbly feeling filling her chest. “I doubt the eyes of the world will ever see the works of a young lady.”

“Well, they wouldn’t have to know it was a lady writing the stories, would they?”

“What do you mean?”

Caleb shrugged a shoulder. “You make up your stories, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then why not make up the name of someone to write them. Someone male. If you fear they won’t publish your work because you’re female, be someone else.”

In that instant, it was as though an entire world opened up to Elinore. She sat back in her seat, jaw hanging open incredibly rudely and she could not care. Publish her work. Simply pretend to be a man and publish her work. A fantastical feeling was rushing through her blood at the idea - liberating and frightening all at once.

“Miss Reed? Are you quite well?”

She blinked a few times before coming back to herself. “Yes.” She leaned in closer to the table, to him. “Mr. Vollmond, I think you’ve just shown me my future.”

His smile broken open his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners and he was beautiful. Perhaps most people thought that men couldn’t be beautiful, they ought only to be handsome, but Caleb’s eyes were clear and bright, some sort of mixture of primarily blue and perhaps some green. They were framed fantastically by his sharp brows and his cut cheeks and jawbone and he looked so happy to have said something helpful to Elinore. Beautiful was the only word that came to mind.

“If that’s the case, then surely you must be able to call me Caleb,” he replied. “I am the supplier of your future, after all.”

“Yes, of course. Caleb,” she said, testing the word out on her lips and finding it wonderful and intimate. “Please call me Elinore.”

“Elinore,” he repeated.

She fought the urge to duck her head and hide her face. Instead she met his gaze and it seemed for a moment, they were apart from the rest of the room, the rest of the manor. It was just her and Caleb, perhaps in all the world.





Chapter Eight





Mrs. Thistlewaite came out after breakfast to inquire if Elinore enjoyed her meal and Elinore was embarrassed to admit she’d eaten all the food that Mrs. Thistlewaite had put on her plate plus two more rolls of bread. Caleb had off-handedly placed them on her plate while she was eating and truth be told, Elinore hadn’t noticed, but had merely snatched up the yeasty rolls and eaten her fill. She couldn’t recall a time she’d eaten so much.

“It must be the fresh country air,” Elinore declared. “And your fine cooking, Mrs. Thistlewaite.”

Mrs. Thistlewaite didn’t look as happy as Elinore would have expected upon hearing praises of her skills and Elinore was left feeling unsure of herself. She folded her hands together carefully in front of herself to keep her fingers from fidgeting with her dress.