by Regina Scott
When morning dawned, gray and damp, Julian dragged himself out of bed and got dressed for the hunt. He’d likely be glad he went, or so he told himself, much as a parent tried to coax a child. If he stayed behind, Henry would be liable to call a physician or otherwise cause trouble, and Julian didn’t want to draw such attention to himself.
As he headed toward the stables, he caught a glimpse of Eleanor carrying an armload of something and walking toward the main house. He waved and called to her. She glanced his way but didn’t return his greeting with so much as a nod. A moment later, she’d slipped inside and out of sight.
He sighed, disappointment creeping into his soul. She didn’t seem to care a fig for him any longer. Seeing her again, even fleetingly, turned out to be enough to torment Julian. His yearning to be with her expanded with each step he took through the gravel, his boots making a rhythmic beat as he went. He felt pulled toward the house, to find Eleanor—likely in the kitchen, preparing boxes, he presumed—but forced himself to keep going to the stables, where the men were to meet in but a few minutes. Every step that brought him farther from the house, from Eleanor, proved painful, like a dull knife blade slowly reopening a barely healed wound.
At least she wasn’t visiting, so he could feel some assurance that any time in the near future that he would be at Willowsmeade, she would be too. Whether she’d want to spend time with him and whether seeing her regularly would bring only pain or eventually be a pleasant experience, he did not know.
The hunt itself seemed to last an eternity. He was cold and wet and tired, and he didn’t care about spotting foxes or bringing back any quarry. The hours felt like days, and the day itself the single longest of his life. This was not the dream he’d envisioned last Christmastide while on his ship.
When they turned their horses about to head back, Julian breathed a sigh of relief. But then Henry pulled his horse abreast of Julian’s and insisted on talking. Up to that point, the day’s subject matter had been mostly about hunting and horses, but the look in Henry’s eyes set Julian’s teeth on edge. This interchange would not be about horses. He hoped it would not be about the silly aim of finding him a wife at a ball like some children’s tale.
“I don’t suppose you can guess what I’ve had Miss Hadfield—” Henry cut himself off. “I suppose I should call her Eleanor when speaking with you, but she’s been our governess for so long that I’m in the habit now of referring to her that way. What was I saying?”
“Something about Eleanor.”
“Ah. Yes.” Henry laughed, as if he knew that whatever he was going to say wasn’t something that Julian wanted to hear. “I’d wager you can’t guess what I’ve had her working on today.”
“I’d assume she’s tending to the children, unless she is seeing to the traditional Boxing Day activities with Mrs. Brunson,” Julian countered. “Am I wrong?”
“Oh, well yes, she’s done some of both, I imagine, but there’s something else, too. Something very specific I asked her to do.” Henry laughed again in the way he used to when he’d laid a mischievous prank that had yet to be discovered by the victim.
Julian felt quite certain he knew what Henry had requested of Eleanor, but he wasn’t about to mention the ball. His stomach went sour just thinking about it. “What task did you ask of her, then?”
“What, no guesses? You disappoint me.” Henry grinned expectantly, but Julian would not be drawn in. He merely grinned back silently, mirroring Henry’s expression and waiting for his friend to continue. At last, he did. “After our conversation on the road with her yesterday, I thought you’d surely guess.”
The sourness spread beyond Julian’s stomach. Julian tightened his grip on the reins but didn’t allow himself to reveal any other outward sign of displeasure. Henry was treading on places Julian did not wish anyone to be, but if he admitted as much, whether in a gesture, tone, or something else, Henry would be spurred on by the reaction like a horse under the hand of snapping crop. Fortunately, military life had taught Julian how to keep a neutral posture and facial expression.
“You will have to enlighten me,” he said, then silently tried to find a way to make sure the ball wouldn’t happen at all. Usually, a dance over Christmastide could be enjoyable, something to anticipate, and more so knowing Eleanor would be in attendance. But any enthusiasm he might have felt was dampened by Henry’s dastardly plan of a bridal ball.
Henry drew his horse a bit closer to Julian’s, so close their stirrups almost touched, and he leaned in. “If she has managed to do as I requested, and I have no reason to think Miss Had—rather, Eleanor—hasn’t, as she is so entirely capable, then the ballroom will be fully decorated with greenery and gold paper, ready for a ball to be held in two days’ time.” Henry laughed in an almost victorious manner.
“T-Two days?” Julian said, and hated how his voice nearly squeaked.
“Two.” Henry looked rather pleased with himself. “A ball for you.”
Julian felt as if Henry had poured a pitcher of freezing ocean water over his head. “I hoped you weren’t in earnest.”
“I most certainly was—and am.” Henry stroked the neck of his mare, patted it, then faced forward as he went on. “You really must find a wife, and I’m going to see to it. I’m that good of a friend, Julian. My father saw to it that you had some education and a chance at a military career. My duty is to see to it that you are wed.”
“I assure you, that is quite unnecess—”
But Henry was having none of it, and he continued as if Julian hadn’t said a word, “Getting you to return to Willowsmeade for any length of time is a feat, so this is my first true opportunity to find you a wife—something that should have happened a long time ago. And now that the opportunity is here, I am not about to let it slip away. If I have any say in the matter—and I believe I do—you, my dear man, will be engaged by Twelfth Night.”
Julian was shaking his head miserably. He’d rather be in a brig with rats than endure a holiday ball thrown entirely for the purpose of finding him a wife. The thought of being ogled and fawned over by women he had no interest in made him want to flee to the sea after all.
He already loved a woman, and she wouldn’t be one of the ladies there vying for his affections. Alas, Eleanor didn’t appear to return his feelings. Perhaps she’d found contentment in her life as governess, knowing she had a home at Willowsmeade even when she grew too old to work.
Eleanor always had been strong and independent—qualities that made her an equal when the three of them were young, as she could climb trees and run as fast as Julian or Henry ever could, even in a dress.
He’d never suspected that her strength and independence would mean she’d end up a spinster with no interest in spending time with him. He came from humble beginnings but had made something of himself—a captain in the navy. Yet she was a member of the Brunson family, and as such, perhaps not even Henry would view the son-of-a-gardener-turned-captain as good enough for his cousin. He had changed his social standing, but not his blood.
Perhaps a predictable life of comfort at Willowsmeade was preferable to a potentially risky, laborious life with him as he tried to make his way in life with a new profession—one he’d yet to choose.
Yet a sliver of something inside him whispered that she’d always wanted to be a wife and mother. Like the whisper of a breeze, the idea floated about him, hinting that her wish mightn’t have changed, that the possibility existed of Eleanor wanting to marry after all, even to someone born of a lower station.
I could make her happy, he thought. I’m sure of it—if I could but convince her.
“I’ve had Eleanor and Mrs. Brunson working on the guest list and decorations all day, with specific instructions to invite every eligible woman within two leagues who Eleanor believes would make a good match with you.”
Henry laughed again, dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and galloped off, as if he had given the final word on the matter. As if Julian himself had no say in whether
to remain a bachelor or wed. As if he had no say over whom he could marry.
The tiny flicker of hope he’d felt on seeing Eleanor again and finding her unbound in matrimony was snuffed right out. How could he hope for the things in his heart—a life with the only woman he’d ever loved—when she was, at that very moment, planning an event for which she would determine the best women for him to choose a wife from?
I want to choose her, he thought miserably. But I won’t ask her to bind herself to me if she wishes to remain free. She must, if she finds the search for my future wife an easy task.
But did she find the task easy? He’d spent the day assuming as much because she hadn’t rejected the notion of the ball when Henry first suggested it.
I cannot know anything for certain without asking her.
He would not be able to dance even once at the ball unless he heard the truth from Eleanor’s own mouth—did she or did she not yet care for him? Were they merely childhood mates reunited in friendship? Or did the kiss they shared when they said farewell still hold them together like a silky thread?
Julian rode on, determined to reach the house as soon as he could, seek Eleanor out, and determine where her heart lay. He’d never have a moment’s peace until he did. He daren’t think about what the next step would be if he learned her love for him had cooled.
One task at a time, he thought. I’ll regroup and determine my next course if needed. Until then, onward.
Chapter Five
Alas, Eleanor found it of no use to insist to Henry that she had no relevant experience in planning a ball or that the children needed her. He rebuffed any attempt she made at evading the assignment by stating that the best possible qualification was knowing Julian as well as she did, and that the children would be cared for by other members of the staff—and, before she could mention the girls’ lessons, he added that his daughters might as well have a holiday recess from lessons, like their brothers.
Thus, Eleanor found herself working with a few members of the serving staff on decorating the ballroom. The group allotted to her was rather small, considering the scope of their job, but many servants had yet to return from their own well-earned holidays, so she had to make do with only two men and three women. Mrs. Brunson was overseeing the food, and tomorrow afternoon, the two of them were to finalize the guest list, with special attention to the young women most likely to make a good match. The thought of that meeting—and the list she would be required to review—made her stomach turn.
To avoid feeling queasy, she threw her energies into decorating, and while the ballroom looked splendid, Eleanor failed to find enjoyment in the fruits of her labors. She would have much preferred guiding Kate through the next section of her reading primer or helping Suzanne improve her elocution with the latest William Blake poem she was memorizing. Eleanor would have even preferred taking the boys to the hothouse to show them how the gardener grew vegetables for the household in the winter, even if such an outing meant the boys running wild among the plants and returning to the house covered in soil. She could picture the dismay on the face of Mr. Wells, who had replaced Julian’s father as gardener, if she were to take the boys to the hothouse.
Naturally, thoughts of Mr. Wells led to thoughts of the man he’d replaced, which inevitably led to thoughts of Julian.
Clutching a silver candlestick that was only half polished, Eleanor cleared her throat, hoping the sound would be enough to halt the direction her thoughts were taking. She looked up and surveyed the room, hoping to clear her mind further.
Hours of decorating had yielded walls festooned with greenery, ribbons, and gold paper; Yule candles; and wreaths dotted with colorful Christmas roses. The latter didn’t look a thing like regular roses, and when Eleanor questioned their name, Betsy, one of the younger servants, explained in a whisper. Apparently, Christmas roses held some mystic or pagan history, which explained why the house didn’t have them about during any of Eleanor’s Christmases as a child; the elder Mr. Brunson wouldn’t have allowed so much as a whiff of paganism to cross his threshold.
Yet the story Betsy related about the flowers, told that morning over making the wreaths, had seemed plenty religious to Eleanor. According to Betsy, legend said that on the first Christmas, when a poor girl had no gift for the Christ child, she wept in distress. Her tears landed upon the white snow, and in each spot a tear fell, a colorful flower sprang to life—Christmas roses.
Such a story would likely have satisfied even the late Mr. Brunson, had he heard it, Eleanor felt quite certain, unless he considered it a falsehood. She had to admit that was likely; he hadn’t allowed novels or poetry in the house because they weren’t strictly truthful.
As a girl, Eleanor had read a few pieces of poetry and even a novel before coming to Willowsmeade. After arriving here, she’d listened, rapt, to the governess, Miss Monson, tell fairy tales, which touched Eleanor’s heart and awoke an understanding in her of new fantastic worlds. Reading fairy tales to the children was the crime that got Miss Monson dismissed. One morning, she simply was not in the nursery. When young Eleanor learned why, she marched angrily to Mr. Brunson’s library and told him that Miss Monson’s stories had more truth than anything in the Bible. She’d been whipped and sent to her room without food for the entire day, and then only bread and water for a week.
As a grown woman, Eleanor still believed she’d had a valid argument. Truth comes in many forms. Even Jesus told fictional stories to teach in a way nothing else could.
Dear Henry had definitely not trodden the same path as his father, and he continued to add more and more changes to the household. Christmas roses were one of the more recent evidences, as was the mistletoe bough.
Unexpectedly, an image flashed into her mind of being kissed by Julian beneath the bough. She stared at the beribboned mistletoe and could see the two of them under the bough, kissing as they had in the gardens the day he’d left for naval training. Only in this waking dream, he wasn’t saying goodbye. He kissed her again and again, periodically stopping only long enough to remove a white berry from the mistletoe. Her eyes burning, she tried to estimate how many kisses the white berries would justify.
Twenty? That would not be enough.
Not that she would ever be kissed by Julian again. Of all people, Henry should have suspected that she yet loved Julian, and Henry would be the only person to know whether Julian returned her feelings. Yet Henry suggested this foolish, wife-finding ball, which could mean, quite simply, he knew Julian did not have such feelings.
She tried to banish him from her mind, even with the knowledge that her effort was in vain. She could not keep him from her mind and heart so long as he remained at Willowsmeade.
What if he never leaves? At the thought, she gripped the silver candlestick harder and stared at the intricate floral design. Her stomach sank at the idea of a future wherein Julian would always be near but never hers—a future that was entirely probable.
He had retired from the navy and could now settle anywhere he wished. Living at Willowsmeade, or at least living in the same county, would be reasonable, expected, even. He would marry, and she would be forced to bear a life of seeing him regularly, having to forevermore wear a false mask before him. Even before Henry and Mrs. Brunson. She had to ignore her love for Julian—no, more than that, she had to stamp it out, extinguish it like a candle thrown into the snow.
No, she’d never have a moment’s peace unless she left Willowsmeade. Eleanor dabbed the cloth in the polish and returned to her task with vigor as she thought through new plans. If asked, Henry would give her an impeccable letter of recommendation. She could find a position in another household far away. Once there, she would direct all her energies toward a new set of children to love and train up. And as she had once before, she’d deliberately forget Julian Stephens.
Her eyes burned again, this time at the pain that leaving Julian would cause, though the pain of staying would be far worse. She would also be leaving the Brunson children behind
. Little Emma had never known another governess. Kate had been so young when Eleanor arrived that she didn’t remember another. Departure would be heartbreaking, but staying near Julian would be heartrending. In a word, it would be impossible.
Every breath she took while Julian remained at Willowsmeade was already painful. Foolish to have thought that her memories of Julian and her feelings for him had been entombed and scarred over.
Footsteps with a heavy tread entered the ballroom and echoed throughout the mostly empty space, likely a male servant bringing in a small table or another armful of greenery. The servants seemed to know the plans for the room and what needed to be completed, so unless someone addressed her specifically, she needn’t turn. Good thing, too, as her vision grew blurry with unshed tears. She turned her back to the entrance, unwilling for fellow servants to see her emotional.
The candlestick was quite polished, but she continued the work with zeal, willing the room to empty before she went to the next task. With every second, sadness washed over her again and again, like the waves breaking against the shore. If only they would ebb and remain so. If she could but direct her thoughts toward something happy, away from the reality of her future in a strange place with strange people . . . away from Julian and the children.
She became more aware of the footsteps when they grew louder and then stopped directly behind her. Eleanor held her breath as she waited for the person to ask their question about decorations. She would be able to feign a cheerful tone for a three- or four-word sentence.
Instead of a voice speaking, a warm hand rested on her shoulder with a familiar weight.
“What is it?” Julian asked behind her. His touch and words came so unexpectedly that she turned to him without thinking.
