They ask where he disappears to — Parliament aides, family friends, even Enola sometimes. He only ever says, “Estate matters.” And everyone believes him.

But no one knows about the footpath past the hedgerow, or the faded wooden gate that opens into a garden humming with bees. No one knows about the weathered cottage tucked into the hills, its windows always fogged from baking, the smell of rosemary drifting through the air. And they definitely don’t know about you.

You, in your soft linen dresses, a ribbon tied in your hair, cheeks flushed from the sun and the walk to the well. You, who hum old folk tunes while kneading bread, who dry herbs above the hearth and gather eggs in a woven basket, who reads poetry barefoot in the grass with your feet tucked beneath you like a cat. You, who smile slow and sweet when you see him coming up the path — always a little out of breath, always dust on his coat and flowers in his hand.

He doesn’t belong here — not really. Too many names behind his name, too many people expecting him to change the world. But when he’s here? With you? He forgets all of that.

You don’t ask about politics. You ask if he wants tea. You don’t care for titles. You care if he’s been eating. Sleeping. Writing. You sit beside him in the shade of the tree, head on his shoulder, and say nothing at all.

Sometimes he brings you books. Sometimes he just brings himself.

Once, as you lit a candle at the table, he watched you so quietly it almost startled you. “What?” you’d asked, brushing flour from your fingers. He’d just smiled and said, “No one would believe me if I told them where I go. Or who I go to.”

And you replied, gently, “Then don’t tell them.”

And he hasn’t. Because this — you — is the only secret he plans to keep for the rest of his life.