by Karen Ranney
How very odd that she hadn’t been consulted.
She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn’t see one of the maids standing in the doorway with her morning tea.
“Miss Eleanor, is something wrong?” Norma asked.
Eleanor shook her head. “Thank you, Norma, I’m fine.”
Norma entered the library and placed the tray on the corner of the desk.
“Can I bring you anything else, miss?”
“No, nothing. Thank you, Norma.”
What she needed or wanted, Norma couldn’t provide. A little respect, perhaps. A little consideration.
When the maid left, Eleanor picked up the letter again, and read it once more.
Deborah and Michael had set a date. She didn’t have anything to do with the decision. Nor, did it appear from her aunt’s comments, was she going to have much input about the ceremony.
It wasn’t the first time Michael’s actions had disconcerted her. He was an earl and, as Deborah repeatedly said, given to a certain autocracy of manner.
“He’s of the peerage, my dear. You mustn’t expect him to act like other people.”
Did being an earl mean that he didn’t have to consult anyone else? She wasn’t a piece of statuary to be moved from the mantel to an occasional table.
Does no one ever talk to you?
Logan’s words came back to her. How had he known? She pushed thoughts of him from her mind. The very worst thing she could do now was think about him.
He might not be a shepherd, but she didn’t know who he was. A friend of the duke’s. He could be anyone. A former soldier, except he hadn’t claimed to have been in the military. No, the man was an enigma and the sooner she forgot him, the better.
That was easier said than done.
She had thought about the kiss all night. At first she told herself it was a guilty conscience that kept her awake. Then, after she recalled their entire conversation, word for word, she realized it was something far more dangerous. She remembered the glint of laughter in his eyes and his soft smile. Perhaps he had ridiculed her, but it didn’t feel that way. Instead it was as if he coaxed her to be herself.
Reveal yourself, Eleanor. Show the world who you are. Don’t hide yourself from anyone, however much you might fear their words.
He truly had no right to say such things to her. Yet they were true, weren’t they? The letter proved that. Was she a nonentity to her family? Some gray, amorphous creature who occupied a place at the table, who walked through the corridors, who occasionally spoke?
Her father had paid attention to her, but when he died it was as if she’d become invisible. How strange that she only realized that now. Or the fact that people noticed her once more when she’d become engaged to an earl.
She didn’t know what to do about the situation, which was why she went to her room, changed to her riding skirt, and headed for the stable.
Only to encounter Mrs. Willett.
She’d forgotten about the inspection of the storerooms, always done when she arrived at Hearthmere for her month. The housekeeper was set for doing that now and Eleanor couldn’t think of a justifiable reason to delay. Her foul mood was not an adequate excuse for failing to do her duty.
Therefore, she was three hours past the time she wanted to go riding before she got to the stable. There must’ve been something in her expression because Mr. Contino didn’t say a word to her, merely waved her toward Maud’s stall. After the stable boy assisted her in saddling the mare, she was finally away. She deliberately rode in a new direction, unwilling to go near the cottage or accidentally see Logan McKnight.
Fred Steering stood at the open door of the crofter’s hut and stared inside. One side of his lip curled slightly and there was a contemptuous look in his eyes.
Strange, how some people instantly disliked certain individuals or situations. What Logan always thought ironic was that the object of their dislike was someone similar to themselves. He’d noticed that plump women were critical about other plump women. Cutthroat politicians identified that trait in their contemporaries. In this case, Fred was sneering at the obvious poverty in the cottage. The man had grown up in one of the poorest parts of London and had educated himself through a series of happy accidents, namely that he’d nearly been run over by the Duke of Montrose’s carriage. The result was that the duke himself had taken on the care of young Mr. Steering.
Logan had hired him as his secretary and he’d been well pleased with the young man’s ambition, knowledge of people, and common sense.
Logan sat there watching, his finger in a book, taking note of where Fred’s eyes lit. He examined the small kitchen, the wooden dowel where Old Ned hung his coat. The sofa sagged. The chair next to it, where Logan sat, was surprisingly comfortable. Ned had built it himself and had carved wolves and other animals on the arms and back. No sheep, however.
“Sir?” Fred said, finally seeing him. “Are you ready to leave?”
“I am. And you, as usual, are right on time.” He motioned to his valise and the briefcase where he’d kept those papers that he needed to read in the past two weeks.
“Yes, sir.”
“I take it you’ve brought me more work,” he said, glancing at the leather case under Fred’s arm.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Disraeli has some documents that he would like you to look over and give him some input on. Some things to do with Scottish law, sir.”
“Immediately, I take it?”
Fred nodded.
At least he’d been able to get away for a while. The respite had allowed him some time to think, to examine the path his life was taking. Like Fred, he’d been guided by the Duke of Montrose. Now he was a member of Parliament, duly elected and expected to serve.
He’d often had the thought that life wasn’t predestined like some religions believed as much as the result of an ongoing battle. Maybe angels were on one side and Fate on the other. The angels decreed that a man be kind. Fate gave him an enormous inheritance. The result was a benefactor lauded by society for his generosity.
In his case he thought that the angels might have given him the ability to talk someone into anything. In turn, Fate decreed that he should believe wholeheartedly in Scotland. Therefore, he was an evangelist of sorts destined to clash with his peers in Parliament on an ongoing basis.
He’d taken his nationality for granted until he’d gone to London. There, it had been pointed out to him, at every possible turn, that he was slightly less acceptable than an Englishman. While he’d always thought being a Scot gave him an advantage, it was all too obvious that some Englishmen—including a few of his fellow members of Parliament—didn’t feel the same. Disraeli had been cunning enough to have figured out his irritation. The man didn’t hesitate to take advantage of it on an ongoing basis. Therefore, he asked Logan for a Scottish point of view on any proposed legislation remotely involving Scotland.
When he stood, Bruce, who’d been sleeping next to the chair, stretched and yawned.
Fred stared. “You have a dog, sir.”
“Actually, he’s more of a puppy at the moment, Fred.”
“Are you taking him to London?”
“No,” he said. “We’re going to take him home.”
He hoped Eleanor would understand. She’d named the puppy, which was a sign that she didn’t dislike him as much as she said. Plus, Bruce needed a home. Perhaps raising the puppy would help her overcome her fear of dogs. If nothing else, Bruce would create a bond between Logan and Eleanor Craig.
He didn’t want to forget her, an unusual reaction since it had never happened to him before. He hadn’t the time for relationships of any sort, let alone one with a woman living in Scotland. Perhaps they could begin a correspondence, one with her castigating him and him teasing her.
Eleanor Craig interested him.
She seemed entirely without artifice or vanity. She hadn’t worn a hat. Therefore, she didn’t have any concerns about deepening the shade of her complexion. Her riding
habit, altered to allow her to ride astride, was old, and he doubted it was in fashion. She hadn’t seemed to care whether her thick brunette hair had come loose from its bun. Nor did she fiddle. She didn’t look for a mirror or constantly press her hands against her clothing, face, or hair. She didn’t simper. Yet Miss Eleanor Craig was not apathetic by any means. She almost vibrated with emotion, especially when challenged. Her blue eyes had flashed at him, her anger not difficult to interpret.
Bruce would serve as a bond between them. If not, then a wall. One way or another he wasn’t going to let Eleanor Craig slip out of his life.
When Eleanor returned to the house, it was in time to see a carriage pulling out of the drive and heading toward the road. She sat and watched it for a minute, wondering who could have visited Hearthmere.
It was Mrs. Willett who answered the mystery.
“You’ve had a visitor, Miss Eleanor.”
“A visitor?”
“Yes, miss. He seemed surprised that you weren’t in and wished to leave you a note.”
“Did he?”
Mrs. Willett nodded. “I let him use the library for a moment.” The housekeeper approached her, holding out an envelope of her own stationery. “I’ve sent the puppy to the stable.”
“The puppy? Bruce?”
“Yes, miss,” Mrs. Willett said, her mouth pursed into a moue of irritation. “He desecrated the carpet.”
Eleanor didn’t respond to the housekeeper. When she tore open the envelope there was only a single sheet of paper. The handwriting was bold and masculine.
Bruce cried most of the night and I think he missed you. I’ve brought him back because he needs a home and I think you need him.
Let me know how he goes on and how you do as well.
Then the aggravating man left his address in London.
She looked at the housekeeper. “Did he say nothing else?”
“No, Miss Eleanor.”
At least he didn’t comment on her voice this time.
She calmly folded the letter, tucked it into her pocket, and, before she could change her mind, headed for the stable. Like it or not, Bruce was her responsibility and she couldn’t turn over the care of him to someone else. Besides, there were a number of very large cats in the stable. He might well become their target.
She would retrieve the puppy and set about duplicating the conditions she had the other night. Once he was settled, she would make sure to write Mr. McKnight and let him know exactly what she thought.
He was an idiot if he believed he could get away with making decisions that impacted her. Who did he think he was?
She stopped on the path. Why was she so intent on correcting a stranger when she was allowing Michael to do the same thing?
For the second time, Logan’s words came back to her. Reveal yourself, Eleanor. Show the world who you are. Don’t hide yourself from anyone, however much you might fear their words.
Perhaps she should begin to show the world who she was, exactly, beginning with the annoying Logan McKnight.
Chapter Eleven
Five days had passed out of her precious fortnight of freedom. Five days that slipped by too fast. Eleanor hadn’t done half of what she’d wanted to accomplish and the week was almost done.
She was out walking Bruce when Mrs. Willett approached her, an oilskin packet beneath her arm.
“The papers are here, Miss Eleanor. Where would you like me to put them?”
“The papers?”
“Yes, miss. The newspapers from Edinburgh and London.”
“I thought we’d had those discontinued after my uncle died.”
“No, Miss Eleanor. They’ve been coming every week just as they always have.”
“Who reads them?”
The question wasn’t an embarrassing one, but the housekeeper’s face reddened all the same.
“The staff if they’ve time after their duties are finished. I’ve done so myself.”
No doubt she gave them to Mr. Contino, as well.
“Thank you, Mrs. Willett,” she said. “If you’ll put them in the library I’ll look them over later.”
“Yes, Miss Eleanor.”
If no one had read the papers Eleanor would have stopped them. Over the past five years she’d culled what she could in order to ensure that Hearthmere could support itself.
She took one of the London papers and went to sit on the bench beneath a sprawling oak. She and her father had often sat here in the evening. Bruce bounded up to sit beside her, making her smile. She held the length of rope with the loop at the end that she’d gotten from the stable. Surprisingly, however, the puppy didn’t need to be coaxed to come with her. He followed at her heels wherever she went. Nor did he run away once they’d gotten to the lawn. Instead, he went off to do his business and then returned to her, sitting at her feet and looking up at her as if he expected praise.
She’d given it to him, despite the fact that she knew she was probably spoiling him. Could you really be spoiled when you were so young and away from the rest of your family? She reached out her hand, and scooted him close to her, smiling again when he insisted on licking her fingers.
“You’ve already been fed, you silly thing,” she said. “And I know you ate everything because I watched you eat.” Bruce had inhaled his meal of minced beef and chopped carrots.
She didn’t know anything about dogs, other than that they were scary. Puppies, however, were a different matter. Bruce was a round little ball of fur with four legs and a tail that looked like it might become as bushy as the rest of him. When he barked it was a sound much larger than his size. Perhaps he had to grow into his bark.
They sat together as she read. Parliament was being stirred up by a firebrand. The reporter didn’t name names, other than referring to the MP as a tireless advocate for Scotland. The reporter was decidedly English and held Michael’s opinion about Scottish politics while she silently cheered for the firebrand. It was time Scotland had a champion or two.
Bruce gave up licking her fingers for chewing the end of her belt. She couldn’t help but wonder what her father would say about Bruce. He had tried to talk her out of her fear of dogs but she’d learned, early on, that rational discourse wasn’t a match for emotion. You really couldn’t talk someone out of what they were feeling.
She’d known that at eight years old.
No place in London gave her the feeling of freedom she was experiencing right at the moment. No one was insisting that she attend some event or another. She wasn’t being questioned by her aunt or cousins. She wasn’t obligated to be here or there. Her schedule was her own, not subject to anyone’s dictates.
What a pity she wouldn’t be able to live here all her life.
Why did she have to marry? Who had decreed that all single women were not fulfilled unless they had a husband? Who were the people who ridiculed spinsters? Were their lives so perfect that they could afford to make fun of someone else? Why was a man not considered strange if he remained unmarried?
“You’ve gotten to a certain age, Eleanor. You’re expected to marry.” Her aunt’s words.
Was that why she was marrying Michael? Not because of any undying love or attraction, but because she’d grown weary of hearing the same lecture?
Even her cousin had added her thoughts. “A woman has to marry, Eleanor,” Daphne said. “If she doesn’t, people look at her odd. They think there’s something wrong with her. You don’t want people to look at you like that, do you?”
She didn’t know if Daphne meant to be unkind. Her cousin was a creature of vibrant emotions. At least, that’s what her aunt had said, explaining, “Daphne is a bright butterfly in life.”
Eleanor could only suppose that she was a slug in comparison. Some pale creature who slid through life without being noticed by anyone.
That was fine with her. She would let Daphne and Aunt Deborah make dramatic pronouncements and weep at any provocation. Eleanor didn’t possess the temperament to be histrionic and found t
hat sort of person exceedingly tiresome to be around.
She preferred to experience life in manageable bites rather than consider it a feast to devour before it disappeared.
Yet if she didn’t marry, what would she do with her life? The answer had always been in the back of her mind. Live at Hearthmere.
Yet the die was cast, the Rubicon crossed, the marriage offer accepted. She was going to be wed, if only to continue basking in her family’s approval.
Family is everything.
The entire family was aflutter with the thought that she was going to be made a countess. A title wouldn’t change her. She wasn’t going to alter her character simply because she’d gotten married. If she said such a thing her aunt would give her another speech. Her cousin would toss her head and say that she didn’t appreciate her good fortune.
According to Daphne, Michael’s courtship, such as it was, was an accident. He couldn’t truly have chosen her, Eleanor, over other girls that season. Or perhaps he had done so because Daphne had already married.
Daphne was a natural beauty, according to one suitor. The stars in the sky, the sun, or nature itself had nothing on Daphne when she smiled at him. Another suitor had penned a song, one that detailed all the ways Daphne made the world a better place simply by being in it.
Daphne’s white-blond hair was so pale a shade that, by candlelight, it looked like a halo around her head. Her eyes, like her mother’s, were bluish green, a shade likened often enough to ocean waves that the compliment sounded trite and mundane. She was tall and willowy, exceedingly graceful, an excellent dancer, and, according to Aunt Deborah, a sparkling conversationalist.
In comparison, Eleanor’s hair was brown. It was simply brown with no redeeming features like red or gold highlights. Her eyes were blue, but not a remarkable shade of blue. She had her father’s eyes. Her eyelashes were long and curled of their own accord, not requiring any torturous devices to make them do so. Her hair, too, curled on its own, a little too much from time to time.
