Diana smiled at her, grateful for the reprieve. “Here, My Lady,” Aunt Clarabelle said, “Come and see this dear little thing.”
“She’s absolutely precious,” Lady Albany declared. They all spoke in low voices. Lady Albany steered the conversation in the direction of Aunt Clarabelle’s journey. Finally, the nurse returned from her dinner. The ladies all returned downstairs, where they joined the gentlemen who were all in the parlor. Eleonora was ensconced in the corner, a book in her lap. Aunt Clarabelle sat down beside her.
“Will you come to Bolger Castle, Eleonora?” she asked. “It has been so long since you’ve come for a visit.”
“I cannot, Aunt Clarabelle,” Eleonora said, closing her book. “I’ve accepted a position as a governess in Somerset.”
“A governess?” Aunt Clarabelle’s mouth dropped open in shock.
Everyone gathered was listening. Diana caught Eleonora’s eye and smiled at her encouragingly. The two sisters had spoken of Eleonora’s plans at length. Diana approved.
“I’m going to be a governess for the Earl of Somerset’s daughters,” Eleonora explained. “I think it will be a good use of my talents.”
“Is this truly what you want to do, Eleonora?” Aunt Clarabelle demanded. “You could have a husband, and your own household, after all. You haven’t lost your looks.”
“This is what I want,” Eleonora replied, grinning at them all. “I’m very excited about it.”
“It’s so…bourgeois,” Aunt Clarabelle said, still doubtful about the whole business.
“A little,” Eleonora agreed with a laugh. “But I don’t want to marry. And I don’t want to burden my nearest relations.” She shrugged. “This way, I can be of use. I want my life to mean something, Aunt Clarabelle.”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Elijah piped in. Diana was proud of him. Though her sister’s choice of having a profession was out of the ordinary for a lady, they had both agreed to support her. Diana stood behind her husband’s chair, her hand on his shoulder.
“And then, if you need, I can come and help you with little Violet, and her siblings, in a few years,” Eleonora suggested.
“We would be pleased to have you back here and living with us,” Diana said. She was going to miss her sister, but understood her need to go out into the world. She understood her desire to be useful. Cambolton House reminded Eleonora of all that she had lost. Nicholas Saunders, in particular. His belongings were everywhere and there were several paintings of him throughout the house.
They all looked at Aunt Clarabelle, to gauge her reaction. She stared at Eleonora, her eyebrows raised. Finally, she laughed, throwing her head back. “Oh, my dear Eleonora! I’m so happy for you.”
There was a collective sigh of relief. The discussion then changed, and Diana caught her sister’s eye again. They both smiled at each other. For the first time since her accident, Eleonora seemed at peace. Diana was happy for her. Though being a governess would, no doubt, be difficult, Eleonora was going to live the life of her choosing.
The End?
Extended Epilogue
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Preview: Seducing the Perfectly Enchanting Marquess
Chapter 1
Seagulls swooped down and challenged both workman and travelers vying for a clear path on the dock. The docks were alive with people, masses of workers and travelers all buffeting each other with their great many trunks. The dirtiest, most whiskey-soaked dock men rubbed elbows with the finest of ladies in their silks. The yelling and banging of people and trunks drown out the drone of waves crashing against the shore. Amanda O’Neil’s nerves were frayed beyond soothing.
The Dowager Marchioness of Brubrun clutched her deep-brimmed bonnet despite the decided lack of wind, as if the din of the restless crowd would carry it away. “Oh, how I hate traveling. This is all too much,” the elderly lady’s shrill was lost among the commotion.
“Did you not say that you adore traveling?” Amanda asked, a wry grin touching the corner of her lips.
“Yes, yes, of course. I adore traveling, my dear. Couldn’t possibly love it any more than I do. But the docks!”
Amanda laughed. The old Dowager Marchioness was a lady of extreme opinions, which, despite her earnestness, were likely to swing wildly from one end to another. She was eccentric, but Amanda loved her and never grew weary of her quirks and oddities.
One such oddity was quivering atop the Dowager Marchioness’s head as she ordered her footman about. A large violet plume, the color of which could not possibly occur in nature on any bird no matter how exotic, jutted up from her hat like a mast. Amanda had to bite back a laugh when she had first seen it, but now she realized the advantage of such a silly hat. She would not lose sight of her chaperone as she slipped away to say her goodbyes to the only parents she’d ever known.
Siobhan and Patrick O’Neil were not Amanda’s parents from birth. They had never pretended to be, and Amanda had never been under any illusion that they were. But all the same, she regarded the poor, aging baker and his wife as her true family. She found the two of them, arm in arm and looking out of place, a few paces off from the Dowager Marchioness.
“Mother, Father,” she said, tears already in her eyes as she hugged them both in turn.
Siobhan was already crying. Her face was round and ruddy with health, but when she cried, she grew redder still.
“Oh, Amanda,” she wept, wiping her hands on the front of her dress as if to brush flour off of them. It was an unconscious fidget that came from years of working alongside her husband in the bakery. “I hate to see you go, my darling girl.”
Patrick put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. He was tall and slender, an almost comical foil to his short and robust wife, but the love between them was evident by their daily interactions.
“I must go,” Amanda insisted once again. “I simply can’t bear to stay here. Not with all of these memories…”
“There, there, Siobhan,” he murmured. “It will be all right, and our girl will be back before we know it. It is right for a girl her age to strike out into the world to make her own way.” Patrick smiled at Amanda, though there was a deep sadness in his eyes as well.
“I know, you’re right,” her mother sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve. “And I know it’s not much; certainly nothing like the Dowager Marchioness can give you, but we want you to take this…”
The stout woman produced a small pouch from the folds of her dress. The meager fabric jingled lightly as she pressed it into Amanda’s hand. She could feel the weight of hard-earned coins as she closed her fingers around the small bundle.
“Oh, no, I can’t. I don’t need it. The Dowager Marchioness is taking care of everything, and I’ll soon be making my own money.” Amanda tried to give the coins back, but her mother refused to receive it.
“We insist, my girl,” her father said. “You have blessed us more than we can ever possibly say. You must allow us to express our gratitude in what small way we can.”
There was a lump in Amanda’s throat. She knew all too well what a sacrifice even this small amount of money was to them. She brushed away a tear, masking the motion by also tucking a wayward strand of blonde hair from her face.
“You speak as if we shall never see each other again,” she said, as she was bumped by a busy-looking man in a tawny suit. The ship was boarding now.
“God forbid such a thing,” her mother said, grasping Amanda in another hug. Her father spoke a blessing over Amanda then, his voice lowering with reverence as he intoned the prayer calling on the Blessed Virgi
n to watch over Amanda as she traveled.
“Amanda!” the Dowager Marchioness interrupted just as Patrick said amen. “We must be going now!”
“Oh!” Amanda gathered her wits about her, dashing tears from her cheeks before wrapping her adoptive mother and father in one last embrace.
“Fear not, I shall keep a wary eye on this one,” the Dowager Marchioness said, clasping a maternal hand on Amanda’s shoulder, “and bring her back to you all of a piece.”
Amanda smiled. With quick final farewells, she and the grand old lady were seen up the ramp to the large, swaying ship. Amanda was caught up in the excitement of it, her eyes wide and darting around in an attempt to see everything all at once.
She and the Dowager Marchioness were brought to a suite of rooms that managed to be grand while still retaining the somewhat cramped atmosphere of life aboard a ship. Amanda’s room was a smaller one off the main one, but she marveled at having her own window. She gazed out of its glass, frosted over with the effects of many years of salty air pummeling it. The sea was wide and blue and seemed to stretch out before her into infinity.
“Amanda?”
She turned around, tossing her bag of belongings on the bed and scurried back out to attend the old lady.
The Dowager Marchioness was seated in an upholstered chair. Her tiny feet were propped up on an embroidered footstool, and she had thrown her hat onto a nearby table.
“You don’t get seasick, do you?” the lady asked.
Amanda stammered. “I never have…”
“Well, if you do feel the need to be sick, do it well away from me, if you please. The motion of the sea has never been offensive to my stomach, but the sight or, God help me, the sounds of someone else being sick has always disturbed me.”
“I will keep that in mind,” Amanda replied.
“Good girl. Now, fetch your work and come sit by me. I have called for tea, but with everyone all aflutter about departure, it may be an hour or more before anyone sees fit to attend to the whims of an old lady.”
Amanda grinned. She loved the old Marchioness, with her grand ways always tempered by a sarcastic sense of humor. She was quick to obey, finding her sewing basket deep in her one and only trunk and bringing it into the sitting room. She stationed herself next to the old lady and began to prick carefully at an embroidery she had been at work on for weeks.
The old lady leaned back in her chair, resting her head against its back and looking as though she would fall asleep at any moment. Amanda had never known anyone so adept as the Dowager Marchioness at falling asleep in chairs. While the lady took care of Amanda’s financial needs in exchange for companionship, Amanda often felt guilty for being paid to sit uselessly by while her patron napped.
Still, her embroidery skills had improved remarkably ever since she had been taken on as the Dowager Marchioness’ pet project. She gazed down at the daffodil blooming in silk thread under her hands with satisfaction.
The Dowager Marchioness did indeed fall asleep, and she began to snore quietly only a few minutes later. Amanda got up silently to push open the window, just a crack. Not enough to make the room too chilled, but just enough to let in a bit of the delightful sea air as the ship lurched out at last. A thrill went through her as she sat back down and, though she worked diligently on the turning of a long daffodil leaf, her mind was elsewhere. As much as the thought of the sea voyage thrilled her, they would never be terribly far from shore. They were setting off from Dublin, and the ship was to cross to Cardiff and make a short stop there. Then it would carry on along the southern edge of England before working its way up the channel to London. Hardly a trans-Atlantic expedition, but it was thrilling all the same.
The Dowager Marchioness had secured for Amanda a position as a governess in the household of the Marquess of Ethelred, a gentleman that Amanda had never laid eyes on but who had some distant connection with the Dowager Marchioness. Enough of a connection, at least, that the lady had the influence to convince the Marquess to take on an orphan girl of one-and-twenty years with no governess experience.
Despite all of her fevered preparations in the past few months, Amanda felt perfectly unsuited to the task. She had no experience with children and had only in the past few years been tutored herself. And yet she was to be in charge of the education and well-being of a child?
The Dowager Marchioness assured her ad nauseam that all would be fine. She would be living an hour away in her London estate while Amanda set off to a small town called Vicewood to meet this Marquess and his daughter.
Amanda wished that she would be staying in London as well. She was used to Dublin, used to busy streets and activity.
Ethelred Manor. Even the name of it sounds foreboding.
She imagined a stony castle in a vast countryside, with trees twisted from wind and rocky outcroppings as the only landmarks.
The slumbering lady awoke with a start, sniffing as though to pretend that she had never been asleep.
“Has that tea not arrived yet?” she asked impatiently.
“Not yet. Shall I go and see about it?” Amanda asked. Truthfully, her stomach was feeling a bit uneasy, whether from the motion of the ship or from her worrying, she wasn’t sure. She thought that a turn on the deck and fresh air might settle it.
“Thank you, dear,” the Dowager Marchioness said, settling back against her chair.
She will be asleep again in a minute.
Amanda carefully packed away her needlework and, throwing a light cape over her shoulders against the slight chill, she went above in search of a servant to whom she could make her lady’s complaints.
The brightness of the sun on deck dazzled her eyes and, forgetting for a moment her task, she wandered to the side of the ship and gazed out at the skyline. Above deck, her stomach settled as she breathed deeply the crisp air. She felt that this passage marked the end of one chapter of her life and the beginning of a new one. The idea was refreshing. Optimism welled up in her chest from time to time with such hope and excitement that it was difficult to contain. And yet, the shimmering thread of fear tied her down to thoughts of all the things that could go wrong.
Whatever happened now, whether Vicewood would be her salvation or a prison, it had to be better than the alternative of staying behind in Dublin where ghostly memories haunted every familiar street.
Chapter 2
It stormed the night before they were to arrive at the London docks. Amanda laid atop her covers, her stomach heaving with every toss of the ship. She stared up at the darkened ceiling, her taper guttering in the draft from the window. Fear gripped her, as her optimism had withered away in the face of dark clouds and a frightfully swelling sea. The storm seemed to be an omen.
Conor would have laughed at that.
“You’re superstitious,” he would have said, kissing her forehead and hugging her against him. She could almost feel the beating of his heart against her cheek as she laid there in the midst of that storm. Lightning crackled through the sky, lighting up the room for a moment before a bellowing peal of thunder rattled her nerves.
The thought of Conor’s smile brought tears to her eyes. Every time she thought that she couldn’t possibly have any more tears left in her for him, she was proven wrong. The storm was so loud she didn’t bother to stifle her weeping, turning her face into the feather pillow and sobbing. The wind and the crashing of the waves against the hull of the ship seemed to swallow her cries, her sobs joining in seamlessly to the general cacophony.
She had attended him on his deathbed even before they knew it would be his deathbed. She remembered him sitting up, covered with white blankets, the morning sun catching the glimmering strands of his hair. He’d been smiling.
“Come and sit with me,” he had said. She could hear it now. Perfectly. His voice, the tenor of it, the exact way his accent caressed each syllable. How she had loved him. She could never have guessed that the cold that sent him to bed, spoiling their plans for a picnic that afternoon, would prog
ress and transform into a fever that would burn him from the inside until his body could bear it no longer.
She had longed to kiss him as the fever worsened, but he kept her carefully at arm’s length. When she knew that he would die, she wanted to burrow herself against him, into the damp nest of the sickbed, in the hopes that she would catch whatever illness it was that was laying waste to his vitality.
“You want to die with me?” he had asked, even in his weakened state, he had smiled at her, his dry, pale lips cracking with the effort.
“Yes.”
“You read too much Shakespeare, my love,” he had murmured, his eyelids growing heavy. “To die for a man is a great and terrible waste of a beautiful woman. I want nothing less than for you to throw yourself away for my sake. You must promise me that you will live. Kiss handsome men and have fat babies. Travel. Write. Do everything you told me you wanted to do.” He had smiled again at this, though his eyes had closed.
How could she have stood on the bow of the ship only days prior and felt that surge of hope? It felt like a betrayal of the man she loved to feel anything but soul-deadening grief in his absence. No matter what he had said, no matter how he had entreated her not to cry for him, it felt wrong.
How could she leave him?
The white-marble headstone that stood at the base of the oak tree on the hill would have withered roses on it now. The last ones she had laid there the day before her departure. The thought of him, lying beneath the damp, cool earth, all alone with no one to water his grave with tears, shook her.
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