“Eleanor, I have brought an invitation for you and your father from my uncle to join us on Friday at the opera again.”
“Oh, how very kind of him; I do not think we are engaged to anything particular that evening, but I shall ask Papa just to be sure. He is with Lord Warner at the Royal Library at present.”
“I know; I have just come from there. They intend to return within the next hour or so.” We moved back to the drawing room and Lady Warner called for more tea. We spent the rest of the afternoon playing through some of the Donizetti scores and discussing which part of the palace grounds Rupert intended us to see on our next ride out. But somehow I was not as easy as usual with him. Louisa’s comments kept coming back to me and making it difficult to focus on enjoying the afternoon. Thankfully, Rupert seemed not to notice my preoccupation, and I think my efforts to conceal it were at least marginally successful.
Of course I have noticed that Rupert seems to take a great deal of pleasure in our frequent meetings; I would be a complete dunce not to have noticed anything. And I willingly acknowledged to you that I am very pleased with his character and manners. But I have been reluctant to acknowledge that his attentions might be more than merely friendly. He is so superior a gentleman and of sufficient rank to merit a far greater alliance than the daughter of an independent English gentleman. Indeed, I used these thoughts to keep myself from being too discomposed by Louisa’s comments, and the method worked quite well… that is, it worked until Lady Warner and I retired to dress for the evening.
“Eleanor my dear, could I speak to you for a moment?” she said as we were about to part for our own rooms at the top of the stairs. I nodded my assent and followed her into her dressing room. She dismissed her maid, telling her to return in five minutes time. Then she sat in one of two chairs that were arranged near the fireplace and indicated that I should take the second. I sat and folded my hands in my lap, feeling suddenly nervous. It has been seven years since Mama passed away, and I have had very little in the way of proper female guidance since that time (I do not count Step-mamma’s lectures as proper female guidance).
“My dear, I could not help but notice that you seemed uneasy about something this afternoon after the Müssens left. I do not wish to pry, of course, but if I may be of any service, I would hope that you know you may speak to me on anything that may be causing you distress.”
“It was nothing, ma’am… I mean, nothing that I regard, at any rate,” I stammered, caught off guard, even though I really should not have been. Lady W. is most astute and it should not have surprised me in the slightest that she had noticed my discomfort of the afternoon. “Louisa gave her opinion about a subject on which we disagree, but I have quite forgotten it since then.”
Lady W. nodded, but her lips were pursed just slightly in what I have come to think of as her “thoughtful” expression. “Forgive me, my dear, but this would not have anything to do with Rupert, would it?” I did not answer, but my sudden furious blush was answer enough. (Really, I must find a way of controlling that particular sign of emotion, for it is most inconvenient to have one’s face coloring at the slightest provocation.) “I see,” was all she said in reply, and we sat in silence for several moments.
“Louisa thinks Rupert is paying very particular attentions to me,” I finally said, unable to bear the silence any longer.
“I am not surprised she thinks so; for that is exactly what he has been doing, my dear.” You may imagine my surprise, Bella, for I did not expect Lady W. to speak quite so directly.
“But, Lady Warner… it is impossible. He is a baron of no small importance, and I am the daughter of a foreign gentleman...” I began before trailing off somewhat helplessly.
“And why should it be impossible? You are a lovely, accomplished young woman who shares in his interests and pursuits. You are very well suited for one another; Lady Rousseau and I both agree on this point. She said as much to me before I left Paris when we discussed the possibility of your visit to Vienna.”
My surprise must have been very evident, for she added a brief explanation. “As Rupert has no maternal figure in his life, she and I have taken the role upon ourselves at times over the years. We were both very good friends of his mother before she passed away, you see. And we both feel to encourage him in his regard for you. Unless I am mistaken, I do believe that he is growing quite fond of you, and that you are inclined to return his affections. But you are placing obstacles in your own way that need not exist: this supposed difference in rank, for one thing. You must not allow yourself to be concerned with that if it does not concern Rupert. His uncle thinks very well of your father, and he is the only person who is truly in a position to express an opinion on the subject.” She paused again here, studying me intently.
“But how can you be certain?” I asked. “Could he not simply consider me to be an agreeable friend? Perhaps I am imagining his regard to be stronger than it really is.”
“Am I right in thinking that you would respond favorably if Rupert continued his attentions toward you?” I looked down at my hands and nodded slightly. Acknowledging my growing attachment for Rupert even so minutely was much harder than I had anticipated. And yet, the moment I had done so, I felt lighter, freer than I had all afternoon.
A knock sounded on the door at that moment; Elsa had returned to help Lady Warner dress for dinner. “Come in,” Lady Warner said. We both stood as the maid entered. Taking my hand in hers, she pressed it gently. “Do not fret over it any longer, my dear. Just continue to be yourself and do not be afraid to let him care for you. Everything will work out for the best in the end.”
“Thank you,” I said, suddenly very glad that she had forced the confidence out of me. She patted my hand and released me, and I tried to keep myself from fleeing down the hall to my room. Once there I sat still for several more minutes, trying to calm my feelings and thoughts. Eventually I was able to summon Martha and dress for the evening. But it was with some nervousness that I watched Rupert approach us once we had arrived at the hall for the concert.
Rupert was his usual cheerful self, offering me his arm and inviting our whole party to join him and his uncle. I did my best to act as though nothing had been said between Lady W. and me about him, but I felt aware of myself in the most awkward way for the first several songs. Eventually Rupert’s natural friendliness and comfortable presence soothed my fears away, and I was able to enjoy myself again. The evening ended quite happily, and I was especially pleased that the press of people in attendance kept me from seeing Louisa Müssen again.
Oh Bella, could he really be developing feelings for me? And could it really be as Lady Warner says, that his uncle would not disapprove of me if such a thing should happen? I can hardly sleep for thinking about it. My thoughts run in circles now that I am alone and my only solace is in writing to you. Indeed, by the amount of writing I have done in the last week this letter has become a veritable diary. Do please write me soon with your thoughts on the matter.
Your distracted cousin,
Eleanor
29 June, 1845
Castle Stirling, Scotland
Dear Eleanor,
I must apologize for the break in my portion of our correspondence. I confess that I have been waiting for something to occur that was worth writing about. Your letters bring such exciting news that I long to return the favor. But alas, the most interesting thing that occurred before today was the Potters’ acceptance of an invitation to continue on here at the castle instead of going down to Manchester.
But first the news in your letters, which I have enjoyed reading as much as anything you have ever written before. I am naturally in complete agreement with Lady Warner. I may be young, but even I can see the sense of her recommendation. Oh Eleanor, of course Rupert cares for you! How could you doubt when you have had so many instances of his regard? As for your worries about whether your rank is sufficient to merit his regard, I doubt very much if your rank has anything to do with his feelings for you.
Rather it is your sweet, eager nature and the excellence of your mind and accomplishments that have proven you to be worthy of regard from any quarter. Indeed, you must believe that Lady Warner and Lady Rousseau would not encourage the match if they thought you at all unsuitable for the son of their dear friend.
The kind attentions of Count von Schönfeld also suggest to me that he would welcome a connection with your family. You did not mention Uncle Charles at all, but I imagine that he would entirely approve of the match as well, and not due to any desire for connection or added wealth. If that had been his motivation, he would have encouraged you to marry Baron Wilhelm regardless of your scruples. This hesitation is most unlike you, Eleanor, and I can only lay the blame of it at the door of my Aunt Sylvia. Only her negative influence could have caused you to be fearful of hoping for love.
You may not choose to hope for yourself, but you appear to be hoping a great deal for me. I thank you for the concern and the advice (and hope you will take mine in return). I do feel obliged to acknowledge that I am now in agreement with you about the Duke’s regard for me. He has not said anything, of course, but his partiality is so very obvious, I would have to be purposefully obtuse to deny it. Helen has noticed as well, and gives me pointed looks and hints at least thrice daily.
Even Lieutenant Potter has taken to teasing me mercilessly about it whenever the Duke is absent. “William sends his regards, Isabella,” he said the other day on joining Helen, the boys, and I on the lawn after spending the morning in the laboratory with the Duke and Papa. “Every other sentence includes some reference to you. When shall I offer you joy?”
I laughed at his ridiculous behavior (the Duke speaks so little in general, such a thing could never occur), but I felt uncomfortable and could not suppress a blush. Sometimes I am quite grateful I do not have an elder brother, for Lieutenant Potter makes one think that they can be most unpleasant creatures at times (the good Lieutenant is the eldest of a large family, and has much practice in nettling younger sisters).
Perhaps I would have been able to put the incident out of my mind if Helen had not taken the opportunity of speaking to me privately later that afternoon while the children were resting.
“You must not mind Arthur; he looks on you as a sister, and thus takes liberties and presumes on your good nature to not be offended.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “He may be overstating the situation, but I do think that in essentials he is correct. Isabella, I believe that Lord William has formed an attachment to you.”
My immediate feeling was to reject the notion, but my throat chose that moment to rebel and become tight and closed. I looked down at my feet, embarrassed. We had never spoken so directly of the matter before. “Eleanor believes the same,” I muttered finally, only partially wishing that Helen would not hear me.
Of course she heard, and her smile was most kind. “Your cousin is an astute young woman. Does she also suggest that you might be inclined to return his affections?” I looked up quickly at the thought. Was it so very obvious? Even I was not completely certain it was true, but Helen seemed to think so, based on my behavior. We did not discuss the matter further, but I have been thinking on it more than I care to admit.
What are my feelings toward the Duke? The situation is not as obvious for me as it is for you. You have the advantage of Rupert’s pointed attentions occurring whether you are in private or public; the retirement here prevents me from making similar observations for myself. And I must admit that I am not sure I could commit my heart at this moment. There is so much about the Duke that I still do not know. My uncertainty about his past makes me uncertain about myself. No, I do not mean that. With you I must be completely honest. My feelings from this morning are proof enough that I do care a little for the Duke, more than mere friendship would require. But I am confusing you, I am sure. Allow me to explain myself more fully.
Along with the other routines that I mentioned to you in my last letter, we have added weekly visits to Mrs. Kirke’s family. The Duke, the Potters, Papa, and I take Mrs. Kirke to the village every Sunday. It began as a mere visit after the day’s worship services had concluded, but at the Duke’s suggestion we have lately been attending the service down in the village instead of in the castle chapel. This was awkward at first, at least for me, because for the first few weeks I was conscious of how uncomfortable it made the Duke to mingle with the villagers. It has at least given me an opportunity to observe the villagers more particularly, and I have found that the resentment toward the Duke is not completely universal. The village elders are the true source of the anger, while the younger generation merely avoid him out of a learned habit. They seem reserved rather than resentful.
The younger set’s lack of true dislike is what has caused me to eventually overcome my awkward feelings of being seen in the village with the Duke. He too has been slowly growing more comfortable as our visits to the Kirkes, the church, and Mr. Scott’s bookshop have brought us in more regular contact with the local people. The Duke’s jaw still tightens when he sees the lady from the tea shop and her friend, but the grumbles and stares that used to accompany our appearance at the church door no longer occur.
I have also learned that the Duke is actually close friends with the parish rector, Mr. Adamson. I believe him to be about the same age as Uncle Charles. His sermons are particularly enjoyable, much better than the stuffy, self-important droning of Mr. Hastings back in Kent. In person he is tall, like the Duke, but thin and a bit angular. His hair is a most vibrant red, but his native accent is tempered. The Duke says it is because he studied at Cambridge in his youth and had some of the brogue pounded out of him by his masters.
Today after the morning service had finished, I found myself standing with him by the door, both of us observing the scene on the lawn of the church. The Duke was standing with Mr. Scott, Papa, and Lieutenant Potter, and Mrs. Kirke and Helen were with the younger Kirkes. Several of the villagers nodded and smiled at Mr. Scott and the Kirkes, and quite unexpectedly gave bows or nods in the direction of the Duke, which he returned with only a little of his usual stiffness. The sight made me smile in surprise.
Mr. Adamson looked down at me and then back to the scene. “Miss Copley, I do believe Providence had a hand in bringing you and your father here. William has been alone up there for far too long; it is good that he is coming among us again, both for him and for the villagers.”
“Mrs. Kirke says it has been about ten years since His Grace associated with anyone in the village beyond his steward and yourself,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact (rather than inquiring) in the hope that Mr. Adamson would elaborate on his curious statement.
“Aye, that it has. Time is a great healer, as we know, but I think in this case it took bringing some new faces into his life to make William realize that he was lonely. Those wee little ones in particular are good for him. Did you know he used to be fond of children?”
“I had gathered as much. He is very patient with their exuberance.”
Mr. Adamson chuckled slightly. “He was a favorite with the children, especially during the annual summer festival the Hamiltons would sponsor. He would come down every year and bring five or six wee Shetlands for the children to ride.”
“The Hamiltons?” I asked, surprised at the mention of a name other than Stirling. “Forgive me, but I thought there were no other families of note in the vicinity.”
“Oh, of course,” he said, his tone casual, but he shifted his weight slightly, as if to disguise an error. “That would likely be because the family has not been in the country for several years now. The Hamiltons were distant relations of the Stirlings, cousins on the grandfather’s side. When the family line ended without an heir, the property passed to the Stirlings.”
I nodded in understanding and thought over his words. This would mean that the Hamilton line had ended relatively recently, within the Duke’s own tenure as master at the castle. It was common knowledge in the Duncan household that the Duke came int
o his title the same year he came of age, after his father died of rheumatic fever. Apparently it was the Hamilton family that had owned the old manor house we rode by, not a branch of the Stirlings as I had thought.
“I know you have noticed the singular way in which the locals behave toward William. You are doubtless curious as to why that might be,” Mr. Adamson said, breaking into my thoughts. I blushed slightly at the accuracy of his words, but met his gaze quite steadily until he looked back toward the Duke. “But I am not the right person to tell you the reason. If William has not mentioned it, it is likely for the best. I know he is eager to begin again, and it must be refreshing to be among people who know nothing of the business.”
I do not recall what response I gave as the conversation ended, for my disappointment was severe. Naturally I can think of nothing else and have been quite distracted for most of the day. The only conclusion I have been able to draw is that the Hamilton line must have ended under some kind of misfortune, and the Duke was likely involved, though to what extent I cannot guess. But the family must have been well-loved for someone with a similar reputation to have fallen so far out of favor with the villagers.
This revelation worries me; I am intrigued and fearful all at once. Sometimes I think it is better not to know--to support the Duke’s wish to let the past be--but I cannot rest for wondering. How can I give my heart in such uncertain circumstances? My contradictory feelings do at least prove that my heart is already more interested in the Duke’s welfare than I have been willing to admit. However, my curiosity is just as strong as my regard, and while I may be inexperienced, even I know that love given with doubt is not true love. Whatever should I do? I must beg you to advise me, for I find I cannot reconcile my feelings enough to find a solution alone.
Glass Roses: A Victorian Fairytale Page 19
