ONE
Nottingham, England - May 1815
Eleanor Myers was miserable. In fact, in all her nineteen years and five months, she could rarely recall ever feeling more miserable. The wretched interminable carriage journey was adding to her despondency: the lumbering and jolting of the conveyance mirroring perfectly the emotions roiling and jostling in her stomach. The weather, too, was doing little to lift her mood,
foregoing all the characteristics normally associated with the first week of May, in favour of those more attuned to a depressing day in autumn. The sky, a menacing shade of grey, had been blithely dispensing a series of heavy downpours throughout the day and, by the sound of fresh drops clattering on the carriage roof, was about to provide another unwelcome torrent.
Heaving a weary sigh, Eleanor closed her eyes and leaned her head against the blue velvet squabs, pondering her dire predicament. The anger and resentment which had been coursing through her veins since the previous evening, when her stepmother and father had elected to make their ‘announcement’, had now melted away, replaced by a deep sense of dread.
Of course, Eleanor had known from the moment her father had brought his new wife into their home that things would never be the same: that the woman was likely to implement some changes to the running of the household at Merryoaks, despite Eleanor having done an admirable job of managing the domestic side of the estate herself for the last six years. Perhaps, she had naïvely thought, the new Lady Myers would wish to change the laundry day, or take in hand the volatile behaviour of their cook, whose erratic moods produced a variety of culinary results ranging from absolutely outstanding to disastrously diabolical depending on her temperament and the alleged shape of the moon on any particular day. To Eleanor’s chagrin, however, it was not cook who had borne the wrath of the newest addition to the household but, somewhat unexpectedly, Eleanor herself.
Of course, recalling her inauspicious first meeting with the woman, perhaps she should not be so surprised. Her father had invited the then Hester Scones to dinner in order that his fiancée and his only child could make one another’s acquaintance. Despite her well-planned intentions for the day, Eleanor had found herself embroiled in a mission of mercy with Zach, the local farmer, aiding his rescue of a stray lamb, which had ended up on the opposite side of the river to the rest of the flock. Far from being distressed by its lonely predicament, the lamb had appeared quite content and, despite their energetic attempts, had demonstrated no inclination whatsoever to return to its fold. The messy, but hilariously funny task had lasted most of the day, culminating in one indignant lamb being returned to its rightful place, and a dishevelled Eleanor arriving home much later than planned. Placing more importance on welcoming the woman her father had fallen in love with, than wasting time changing her attire, Eleanor had bowled into the drawing-room eager to meet her future stepmama. It had been clear, however, from the cool, disparaging look with which Hester Scones had greeted her, that Eleanor’s enthusiasm was entirely one-sided.
‘Really, my girl,’ the future Lady Myers had sniffed, as she’d examined Eleanor through ice-cold blue eyes, ‘I would have expected you to have made a little more effort given the significance of the occasion.’
Eleanor’s first thought had been that the older woman was joking. But one did not need to be long acquainted with Hester Scones to realize that the woman never joked. In fact, Eleanor had wondered, on more than one humourless occasion, if Hester actually knew what a joke was. Quite unaccustomed to such rudeness, Eleanor had attempted to maintain her welcoming smile whilst explaining the comical adventure which had resulted in her tardiness. She had a gift for relating an entertaining tale - so much so, that her hilarious recounting of some of the pickles in which she had found herself had often reduced her father to tears of laughter. But that evening, it had soon become clear that all attempts at humour were futile. Even her normally ebullient papa appeared to have discarded his sense of humour under the spell of the poker-faced widow he was soon to make his wife.
The recounting of humorous tales, it soon transpired, was just one of many of Eleanor’s attributes upon which the new Lady Myers thought fit to pour scorn. After only a few weeks in her new home, the woman had compiled a long list of what she perceived as her stepdaughter’s failings, readily airing her views to anyone who cared to listen and, indeed, to those – such as Eleanor – who did not. Eleanor’s wardrobe, for example, she had described as ‘not fit to dress a servant’; her behaviour as ‘that of an outspoken tomboy’; and her accomplishments as a young lady, ‘positively shocking’. Whilst not using quite the same extreme descriptions, Eleanor did acknowledge that, having been without the influence of a female for almost half her life, her wardrobe could be described as out-dated; her manner, given that she had no interest in the inane chit-chat indulged in by the rest of her class, could probably be viewed as outspoken; her embroidery skills did leave much to be desired; and her playing of the pianoforte was verging on the excruciating. During her upbringing, though, both she and her father had placed little importance on such matters. Instead, her father had focussed on providing a happy, intellectually stimulating environment for his energetic, inquisitive young daughter. The two of them had read poetry together, mastered their horse-riding skills, and regularly enjoyed heated discussions regarding their favourite topic of politics. Eleanor’s upbringing, with the sad exception of her dear mother’s death, had been fun, carefree and interesting – a highly enjoyable period for both her and her father.
With the arrival of the new Lady Myers, not only had the easy-going atmosphere in the house dissipated, but her father’s priorities also appeared to have altered.
‘Perhaps Hester does have a point,’ he’d murmured sheepishly, when he’d commented that Eleanor had been wearing the same gown for several days, leaving her with little choice but to inform him that his new wife, with neither Eleanor’s knowledge nor consent, had given her other dresses to the local seminary, deeming them ‘shoddy’.
‘I blame myself,’ he had continued morosely. ‘I should have been aware that young ladies require instruction in fashion. I should not have left it so long before marrying again.’
Eleanor had resisted telling him that she wished he had not married at all; that she had been perfectly content with her ‘shoddy’ gowns and with their life pre-Hester. Instead, she had attempted to reassure him that, in her eyes, he had no failings whatsoever as a father – except one she did not dare to point out: that he appeared completely besotted with his dour new wife, giving in to her every frivolous whim. Some of these whims Eleanor had understood, such as ridding the drawing-room of its previous faded green décor and replacing it with more fashionable – albeit rather garish – shades of yellow. Other ‘whims’, she suspected, had been acted on from pure malice. Such as instructing the gardeners to rip out the herbaceous borders Eleanor had lovingly tended over the years, and replace them with an uninspiring arrangement of roses; relegating her mother’s cherished collection of china teapots to a box in the cellar and substituting it with a very dubious display of thimbles; and forbidding Eleanor to continue her voluntary work at the local orphanage for fear she might carry home some dreadful disease. Despite the hurt and anger these actions had caused, Eleanor had stoically bitten her tongue, not wishing to spoil her father’s newfound happiness. However, when Hester had invited her old Uncle Arthur to dinner the previous week, and the ancient specimen had freely groped her leg under the table, Eleanor had found herself devoid of all tongue-biting skills.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ she had declared indignantly, holding up the wrinkled, liver-spotted hand and placing it firmly on the table, ‘but I appear to have found somet
hing of yours - on my knee!’
In a histrionic outburst, Hester had gasped loudly and fled from the room in a torrent of mortified tears. Eleanor’s father, apparently glued to his seat, had stared at his daughter aghast. Uncle Arthur, meanwhile, the only member of the party unperturbed by the incident, had merely giggled before summoning over the footman to enquire if there were any more sprouts.
When Eleanor had been informed the next morning that Lady Hester was suffering an attack of the vapours and had taken to her bed, she had strongly – and, as it had turned out, correctly - suspected that the woman was utilizing the time to plot her retribution. But what even she had not expected was the extremes to which even Hester would go to achieve her goal of having her husband all to herself - and Eleanor out of the house.
Yesterday evening, Eleanor, her father and Hester, had taken their seats around the supper table. Hester, having apparently sufficiently recovered from her vapour attack, had made her way downstairs leaning pathetically on her husband’s arm. They had just received their first course of ham and pea soup, when the revenge – in all its spiteful glory – was revealed. The announcement was preceded, Eleanor noticed, by Hester granting her father an indiscreet kick under the table. The loud yelp that resulted had been hastily converted into an unconvincing cough.
Without meeting her eyes, her father had begun to break the news. ‘Um, Eleanor dear, Hester – ouch – I mean, er, we - have had a marvellous idea.’ His strained enthusiasm had immediately alerted Eleanor to the fact that the idea was to be the very antithesis of marvellous. ‘We have, um, arranged for you to spend some time with your godmother, Lady Ormiston, in London. Now won’t that be splendid?’
Eleanor’s heart had stopped for a second, knowing instinctively that by ‘time’ he was not referring to a short holiday. She’d slanted a glance at her stepmother and could not fail to notice the look of victory spreading over the older woman’s face.
Determining not to allow her so much as a glimpse of her feelings, Eleanor had used every inch of her resolve to keep both her countenance and her tone as neutral as possible. ‘I see,’ she had replied evenly, prickly tendrils of panic slowly winding themselves around her body. ‘And may I ask why, Father?’
‘Of course, my dear,’ he had replied, the lines of concern etched on his forehead completely belying the forced lightness of his tone. ‘We, er, thought it was time that you found yourself a, um, husband. After all, my darling, as Hester has correctly pointed out, you are not getting any younger.’
Recoiling inwardly, Eleanor had managed to maintain her calm composure. ‘I am well aware of that, Father,’ she had replied, retrieving her napkin from her lap and dapping at the corners of her mouth. ‘However I have no wish to marry. I am quite content with my life as it is.’
‘That’s as may be, Eleanor dear,’ Hester had pointed out, her voice dripping with ice. ‘But you cannot stay here with us forever. At your age it is high time you had a husband and a home of your own. I took the liberty of writing to your godmother, Lady Ormiston, several days ago, after your … shall we say … shocking performance in front of Uncle Arthur. Why, at the mere thought of it I feel faint.’ She closed her eyes and placed the back of her hand to her forehead in a performance which Eleanor thought would not have looked out of place in a theatre. Inhaling deeply, the older woman lowered her hand and made to continue her speech. ‘I have notified Lady Ormiston of your … predicament and received a reply this very morning informing me that she is only too happy to receive you. Given that she is recently widowed, I believe she will appreciate a little project with which to occupy herself. She is to arrange instruction for you in all the skills necessary to becoming an accomplished young lady, which will, of course, help us in finding you a husband. Lord only knows,’ she continued, casting her husband an affected look of concern, ‘we have little hope at the moment. You will leave for London the morning of the morrow.’
Eleanor had opened her mouth to reply: to say that she was unaware she had a predicament; that she did not take kindly to being referred to as a project; and that it was not her behaviour which had been shocking at the leg-feeling dinner party, but that of Uncle Arthur. Her eyes had met those of her father, however, and she had instinctively known, by the pleading look he cast her, that all protestations were pointless. Hester had, as usual, done a first-class job in wearing down her new husband. With tears burning her eyes, she had resisted the urge to pick up her bowl of soup and pour it right over Hester’s head. Instead, she had calmly put down her spoon, placed her napkin on the table, stood up gracefully and walked, head high, out of the room. Once the door had clicked shut behind her, her resolve disappeared. She had raced upstairs to her bedchamber, flung herself on to the bed and cried solidly for several miserable hours.
This morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, she had, in a dream-like state, tossed a few belongings into a valise and waited upstairs until she’d heard the carriage drawing up at the front of the house. Her father had been waiting for her alone in the hall as she’d descended the marble staircase.
‘Please do not be upset, my dear,’ he’d pleaded, embracing her tightly. ‘Hester only wants what is best for you. As, of course, do I.’
Eleanor had resisted the urge to tell him exactly what a manipulative piece his new wife was turning out to be, but she realized it would be futile. Hester, no doubt heady with victory, would merely dismiss any such comments as sour grapes.
Instead, she had hugged him tightly, told him she loved him and walked out of the door bearing two powerful emotions: an overwhelming feeling that, when she next returned to Merryoaks, it would be under very different circumstances indeed; coupled with a deep sense of regret that she had missed an ideal opportunity to drench Hester in ham and pea soup.
The carriage veered sharply around a corner, slamming Eleanor’s head against the window and awakening her from a restless doze. She had no idea how long she had slept, or how long she had been travelling. What she did know was that, rather than the sleep restoring her spirits, it had left her with a bruised, groggy head and an aching neck. Wincing as she brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, she realized that it wasn’t just her neck that ached, but every part of her body. She linked her hands and raised her arms above her head, arching her weary back as she stretched. As she lowered her arms, her stomach rumbled loudly, alerting her to the fact that she was also ravenous. It seemed an age since they had stopped at the last posting-house to change the team and partake of some refreshment. Even then she had only nibbled on a hunk of stale bread, foregoing the mouldy cheese which had accompanied it.
In an attempt to distract her thoughts from her aching bones and empty stomach, she leaned forward and rubbed a patch of condensation from the steamed-up window. Peering outside, she hoped to spot some landmark which would provide a clue to their whereabouts. But what little light there had been during the day was now on the verge of disappearing completely, while the drizzle and mist conspired to make visibility all but impossible. Just as she was about to give up, the carriage made another turn and a shiver of apprehension shot down Eleanor’s spine as she found herself gazing at an enormous illuminated building, rising out of the mist like a proud, indomitable beast. This was her destination: the unmistakable Whitlock Castle.
It was six years since Eleanor had last set eyes on Whitlock, the imposing ancestral seat of the Ormiston family. Situated some five miles outside London, in sweeping grounds, the building had been much altered, extended and modernized over the centuries and now boasted an eclectic mix of towers, turrets and wings, all paying architectural tribute to the particular period in which they had been constructed. With its rows of candle-lit mullioned windows, it appeared even larger than Eleanor remembered. Rumour had it that the corridors of the castle were haunted by the Wailing Whitlock Widow – the forlorn spirit of a young woman who, having lost her husband in battle the day following their wedding, had been so devastated that she had thrown herself to her own death fro
m the highest tower. Outlined against the gloomy grey background and eerie mist, it took very little imagination to envisage the spirit floating mournfully around the formidable building.
As the carriage lumbered up the gravelled drive, Eleanor’s dread increased as her thoughts turned to more corporeal matters - the imminent reunion with her godmother. The formidableness of the castle was nothing compared to that of its matriarch, her mother’s cousin, Lady Ormiston. Ever since childhood, Eleanor had lived in terrified awe of her godmother, a fear that, if the jumble of nerves now welling in her stomach was any indication, had not dissipated with adulthood.
Her godmother did, she know, hold her in very low regard - an opinion that had remained unaltered during Eleanor’s last visit to the castle all those years ago. Her father had taken her to visit Lady Ormiston two years after her mother’s death. The visit had been a complete disaster, culminating with a thirteen-year-old Eleanor dangling precariously from an apple tree in the orchard. The result of her energetic exploits had been one broken ankle and one very exasperated Lady Ormiston.
‘Really, Edwin,’ she had tutted, surveying Eleanor through her lorgnette, ‘you must learn to control the child. She is far too rambunctious by half. Such behaviour is most unbecoming in young ladies. They should not be running around climbing trees: they should be engaging in much more genteel activities. If you do not take her in hand immediately I dare not think of her prospects as a young woman.’
Thankfully, her father had seen the funny side of the incident and they had had, much to Eleanor’s relief, very little contact with the woman since. A situation that, undoubtedly, would not have changed, had not the interfering Hester appeared on the scene.
As the carriage drew to a halt and the door was thrust open, a wave of nausea washed over Eleanor. For goodness’ sake, she chided herself, she was not a child now: she was a grown woman - one who knew her own mind and could stand up for herself in any situation. She would not, she resolved, act like a frightened ninny. Taking a deep breath in, she alighted the carriage then proceeded to climb the wide stone steps to the enormous door of the castle, held open by an elaborately dressed butler.
The Unaccomplished Lady Eleanor Page 1