Eleanor turned away as Aunt Lucy spoke and was again studying the sky, as she had been when they had come in.
Aunt Lucy nudged Matthew towards Eleanor. ‘See what you can do,’ she whispered. ‘I fear she is still in shock.’
Matthew drew a chair close to Eleanor’s and sat down as Aunt Lucy settled herself in a chair by the fireplace.
What to say? How to begin?
‘It will take time for you to come to terms with what happened yesterday,’ he said.
‘Did Aunt Lucy saddle you with the task of cheering me up? I fear ’twill be a thankless task, judging by how I feel right now.’ She glanced at him. ‘You have come to say goodbye.’
He should be relieved she had made it easier for him. Perversely, he felt worse.
‘Not simply to say goodbye. And it is only temporary, after all. I shall be back in London in a few weeks. It is, after all, my home. And I have my business...’ The words dried on his tongue. After the news yesterday, how much longer would he have the business? How long before the bank foreclosed on that loan? He coughed, to clear the blockage from his throat. ‘Not simply to say goodbye,’ he repeated, ‘but to apologise.’
‘Apologise? For what?’
He gazed into her eyes. They looked...defeated. His heart lurched, thudding against his ribs. Why could he not cast aside his pride? His troubles would certainly be over then. No sooner had the thought surfaced than he thrust it down with an inner snarl. He would not live off any woman. Especially his wife. It was a man’s place to provide for his wife and family.
‘If I had arrived on time yesterday—’
‘Then we would still not know who was behind the attacks,’ she said.
‘We would have known as soon as James arrived back from Stockport.’
‘It is possible,’ she said. ‘But it is also possible that you...we...would not have believed him. Suspicion might always have tainted my feelings for him and my memories of him. For that, I am grateful that yesterday happened, if not for the way it happened. James is part of my life again and he will be back at Ashby, where he belongs.’
What need would she have of a husband now? She had proved herself capable of managing the estates since her father died. Now, she would have James by her side. Although... Matthew almost laughed as the thought occurred. What a reversal of the customary reason for marriage within the ton. Her only need for a husband would be to provide an heir for Ashby. James would never, now, have a child with Ruth, which left Eleanor the responsibility of continuing the barony. What man would settle for such a role? Not him. But—and he knew it with a sinking certainty—there would be plenty out there who would. And probably spend their married life resenting it and making their wife suffer.
It was not his concern. Not any longer. He was further from her than ever, after yesterday’s news.
‘I should like to explain,’ Matthew said, raising his voice to include Lady Rothley in the conversation.
Eleanor’s chest rose as she inhaled. ‘It is unnecessary. It happened. But explain if you must.’
‘I told you of the two ships sailing from India?’
‘Yes. With your partner aboard one of them.’
His throat ached. Benedict—never again to see his quick grin, or to laugh at one of his dry remarks. ‘One of them, the Venetia, docked yesterday morning. The other—the Laura May—they lost her in a storm off the west coast of Africa.’
Lady Rothley gasped and Eleanor straightened in her chair...the first sign of animation since his arrival. ‘Oh, no! I am so sorry. Were there any survivors?’
‘No. After the storm, the Venetia turned back to search, but found nothing other than some wreckage floating in the sea.’ His voice cracked over his final words: ‘All hands are believed lost.’
‘And...Mr Poole?’
‘He was on board the Laura May.’ Matthew surged to his feet and took a swift turn about the room. ‘He is gone.’
The cargo was insured, but that was no compensation. And he had, maybe recklessly, presumed they would turn a large profit on the load, as they had done in the past, when he had secured his bank loan. His friend was dead and his business floundering.
‘I am going to Rushock first thing tomorrow,’ he said, halting by the door. ‘I shall call on you when I return, but then I shall resume my old life, so our paths are unlikely to cross.’
‘Then I trust you will have an uneventful journey,’ Eleanor said, rising to her feet, but staying by the window. ‘Goodbye, Mr Damerel, and thank you again for all your help.’
Matthew’s heart contracted painfully. She had already distanced herself from him. Despite it being for the best, despite it having been his intention when he called this morning, it hurt. Badly. He hated to leave this cold distance between them but he must.
He left the house with a leaden weight suspended in his chest where his heart should have been.
The heart he had left behind.
* * *
‘Well?’ The thrill in Aunt Lucy’s voice was plain. ‘Is it all you expected it to be?’
It was ten days since Matthew had left London and Eleanor had finally achieved her dream of attending Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Emily Cowper, true to her word, had intervened with the other ladies of the Committee and Eleanor’s name had been entered on the List, enabling her to purchase a much-coveted voucher.
She gazed around the grand ballroom and put as much excitement into her response as she could muster.
‘It is wonderful, Aunt Lucy. I am so pleased to be here.’
Over the past fortnight she had developed a certain skill in hiding her disillusionment and despondency behind a mask of enthusiasm and delight, but still from time to time she had caught Aunt Lucy watching her with a troubled expression, swiftly erased. Nothing had been said—at least, not to her. But she suspected neither Aunt Lucy nor Hugo had fully swallowed her performance. Even James, preoccupied as he was with Ruth’s future care and safety, had commented on her ‘enforced gaiety’. He had put it down to the trauma of what had happened and she was content for him to believe it.
The reality was that all pleasure had vanished from Eleanor’s world since Matthew’s final visit. Colours had leached into a uniform drabness; the sweetest sounds were now shrill cacophonies; and the parties and balls that had once been such a delight were now a dead bore. But Eleanor had thrown herself into the round of social pleasure with a smile plastered on lips that were numb and a false eagerness that saw her, night after night, out until the small hours. She groped her way through each day, counting the minutes until her head would touch her pillow and she might be alone with her thoughts. Her eyes burned with the effort of holding on to the tears she refused to shed, and from lack of sleep, but still she accepted each and every invitation that came her way.
Almack’s... She danced every dance, her partners forgotten the instant their allotted dance was over...she sipped at the weak orgeat, hiding her grimace of distaste...chewed with dry teeth and tongue at wafer-thin brown bread and butter that tasted of sawdust...this had been the pinnacle of her desire. Her goal when she had set out from Ashby all those weeks ago. This cavernous hall, with its small orchestra on a balcony, playing interminable country dances; its gilded columns and enormous mirrors that reflected the light from huge chandeliers; the fluttering young ladies, mainly in their first Season; the gentlemen, resplendent in their black-satin knee breeches, either very much younger than Eleanor, or old enough to be her father.
‘Good evening, my dear.’ Emily Cowper stood before her. ‘I am pleased to welcome you to our evening. I hope you are enjoying your first attendance.’
Eleanor smiled. ‘Thank you for adding me to the List, my lady,’ she replied, genuinely grateful to Lady Cowper for her help. It was, after all, what she had aspired to. It was hardly Lady Cowper’s fault it had come to represent a hollow victory.
‘Please, do not mention it,’ said her ladyship. ‘Now, are there any young gentlemen here with whom you are not acquainte
d? If so, I shall be happy to perform the introduction. At least here you may rest assured the gentlemen present have all met the approval of the Committee. A lady in your circumstances cannot be too careful, my dear.’
‘Thank you, but I believe I am acquainted with everyone.’ And not one of them matched up to the man who haunted her dreams.
‘Very well. I shall leave you to enjoy the evening.’ Lady Cowper tinkled a laugh and made her way back to the dais at the upper end of the room, where the other patronesses were seated, smiling and nodding at various acquaintances.
A young gentleman bowed before her. ‘I believe this is our dance, Lady Ashby?’
Eleanor smiled by rote. They had been introduced, but his name quite escaped her. They were all interchangeable. She took the young man’s hand and allowed him to lead her on to the dance floor.
* * *
‘It’ll cheer you up, Coz.’ Hugo flung himself on to the sofa next to Eleanor and plucked the novel she had been reading from her hands. ‘Say you will. It will be just the four of us. Well, to be frank, I had intended just you, Mama and me, but somehow Tidmungen has included himself. Not sure how that happened.’
‘Todmorden,’ Eleanor said. ‘It’s Sir Horace Todmorden.’
‘Well, whoever he is, he’s around here a sight too often for my liking.’ A scowl marred Hugo’s handsome face. ‘Damme if I know what Mama sees in him.’
‘He is kind to her,’ Eleanor said. ‘He listens to her opinion and he squires her about. She enjoys the attention.’
‘Hmmph. Can’t like the fellow, but don’t suppose anyone’ll listen to me. So, what do you say, Ellie? Is it to be Vauxhall tonight?’
‘Very well, then. But I am not in need of cheering up.’
‘If you say so,’ Hugo said.
* * *
That evening, Eleanor gazed around her in awe as they entered the gardens, having chartered a river boat from Westminster to Kennington on the south bank of the Thames. It was magical, lit by thousands of colourful glass lanterns suspended from the trees that lined the gravelled walks, and Eleanor marvelled at the marble statues, the picturesque caves and grottos, the cascades and waterfalls, the canal with its elegant bridges in the Chinese style and the triumphal arches that spanned the South Walk.
By chance, they met with some of Sir Horace’s acquaintances and were urged to join them for supper in their box. They feasted on cold chicken and wafer-thin ham, washed down with arrack punch and accompanied by the music of Handel, played by the orchestra. Afterwards, with Aunt Lucy and Sir Horace content to sit and natter with their friends, Eleanor accepted Hugo’s suggestion they walk off their supper.
As they strolled, Eleanor noticed ahead of them a group of young bucks loitering at the entrance to a dimly lit side path.
‘What is down there?’ she asked.
Hugo laughed. ‘Nothing suitable for your eyes, Coz. Wait until you’ve got a husband to stroll down there with. They’re no places for unmarried ladies.’
‘Well, if that is the case, I...’ Eleanor stopped in her tracks. The breath left her lungs with a whoosh. Her heart somersaulted, like the acrobats who had entertained them earlier.
Matthew was strolling towards them, with Arabella Tame on his arm. As Eleanor watched, they halted and Arabella gestured to yet another shadowy side path, laughing up at Matthew. Arabella, with her dainty figure and her porcelain skin, her golden curls and pouting pink lips.
Eleanor turned on her heel, tugging her cousin around with her. ‘Hugo. I am sorry. I am not well. Could we return to your mama?’
‘What?’ Hugo glanced back over his shoulder. When he spoke again, the surprise had left his voice. ‘Yes, of course.’
Eleanor swallowed her pain, gathered the cloak of her pride around her and walked away.
Back at their box, Eleanor pleaded the headache and they made their farewells. She looked neither right nor left as they returned to the mooring to take the boat back across the river. She didn’t want to see. She didn’t want to know. It was enough that he was here. In London. And he had not bothered to call on her.
She could no longer hang on to the fragile thread of hope that had been her only lifeline since Matthew had left London. It could be no clearer. She had no more hope, no more fight. The Arabellas of this world would always win.
It was time for her to go home. James was leaving for Ashby in the morning. She would go, too. There was no point in staying in London, for she had reached one definite conclusion. It was Matthew she wanted, or no one. Not one of the men she had met in London roused the feelings that Matthew could, just by looking at her with those bright blue eyes. If she could not marry the man she loved, she wanted nothing to do with marriage.
Chapter Thirty-One
Matthew turned on to the Cross Walk at Vauxhall Gardens, with Arabella, Lady Tame, clinging to his arm. Behind them strolled his brother, Stephen, escorting yet another Society beauty.
‘Why don’t you allow me to show you some of the other walks?’ Arabella purred, her fingers tightening on Matthew’s sleeve, indicating a dimly lit side turning. Stephen had told Matthew of them—Lover’s Walk, Druid’s Walk and others—perfect for privacy; for lovers’ trysts; a stolen kiss, possibly more.
He looked down into her upturned, laughing face. She was beautiful. There was no doubt about it. Just not for him.
‘Perhaps later,’ he said, without meaning it.
There was only one woman he longed to hold in his arms. Only one woman whose lips he wanted to taste. And she wasn’t petite, with golden curls framing a perfect heart-shaped face.
Eleanor. His heart groaned with the weight of his longing. He tried to push her from his thoughts, but the attempt was as futile now as it had been every day—and night—since he had last seen her. There she was. Constantly. Hovering at the edge of his mind, voicing her opinion, questioning his every move, reminding him she could not be so easily set aside or forgotten.
He had returned to London three days ago, happy to have seen his mother and his sisters, the raw ache that had plagued him for eight years finally soothed. He was back where he belonged. And yet...this pain was worse. Jagged. Sharp. A hole ripped in his soul. How many times had he nearly succumbed...swallowed his pride...gone to Eleanor and laid his heart at her feet? But he had resisted. He had to.
For her sake.
He knew, courtesy of Stephen, that she was as popular as ever. And, it seemed, making the most of that popularity. There was no event of note at which Lady Ashby—the Catch of the Season—was not present. She had even, finally, attended that most hallowed of all institutions. Almack’s. Nothing emphasised the gulf between them more—he would never be deemed suitable for that temple of the ton, tainted by trade as he was.
Eleanor gave little appearance of missing him as he missed her. He knew, though—and better than most—how adept she could be at hiding her true feelings. But what if she was not acting a part? He was aware she had thought herself in love with him. But she was inexperienced. Had it been mere infatuation, fired by those few stolen kisses? Was she, even now, celebrating her lucky escape? He must stay strong. Keep away from her a little longer. Give her time to know her own mind. Her own heart. And then, when he did see her again, pride or no pride, he would tell her the truth of his feelings and beg for her hand, even though it chafed that he must come to her as a supplicant.
He could not support Eleanor—his business would barely scrape by following the loss of the Laura May. Benedict. He ached at the reminder of his friend’s death. He still could not believe he was gone. It was far easier to imagine him still striding the deck, out there somewhere on the ocean, sailing the waves for ever.
He started. ‘I beg your pardon?’ He glanced down at Arabella, who pouted.
‘I said, shall we rejoin the others?’ She indicated the box that Stephen had secured for his birthday celebrations—full of happy, boisterous revellers, it was now two paces behind them.
Matthew felt his cheeks flush. He ha
d been so lost in his thoughts that they had passed it by. ‘My apologies, my lady.’
Supper was awaiting them in the box and Matthew did his best to join in the merriment. He felt a stranger amongst these people. They had different interests, different values. And none of them was Eleanor. He counted the hours until he could, without being damned as a killjoy, leave the party and seek his bed to lose himself in his dreams.
* * *
‘Sir! Mr Damerel, sir!’
Matthew paused, his hand already raised to push open the door of Offley’s tavern, where he had arranged to meet Stephen. Henry was hurrying along Henrietta Street, red-faced, waving a letter.
‘This just came, sir.’ Henry bent over, puffing, his hand on his chest. ‘A seaman, sir. Just come into port last night.’
With a hand that shook, Matthew took the letter, moving to one side with an apologetic nod to allow a gentleman to enter the tavern. He gulped as he recognised the bold writing on the outside of the sheet.
Benedict.
He broke the seal and began to read.
* * *
A short time later, Stephen pulled out a chair opposite Matthew.
‘You have the look of a man for whom life is good, brother,’ he said, as he settled into his seat and gestured to a serving maid to bring him a tankard of ale. ‘Finally summoned the courage to nail your colours to the fair Eleanor’s mast, have you?’
In a buoyant mood, Matthew ignored his brother’s jibe. Stephen had guessed his true feelings for Eleanor and Matthew had not denied them. Eleanor. He had been on the brink of following his heart. This news brought that decision closer, made it easier.
He had long dreamt of the day he might have his own family. Those dreams now danced within his reach, although he would have to swallow a quantity of humble pie before Eleanor might forgive him for his stubborn pride and for failing to understand, sooner, that love was all that mattered. But forgive him she must, whatever it took, for he could not envisage any other woman in the role of his wife and as the mother of his children.
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