The Unaccomplished Lady Eleanor

by Wendy Burdess

  The man inclined his head of thick grey hair. ‘Good evening, my lady,’ he said gravely, as Eleanor made her way into the impressive wood-panelled entrance hall. ‘My name is Giles. Welcome to Whitlock Castle.’

  Eleanor offered him a weary smile. ‘Good evening, Giles. I believe my godmother is expecting me.’

  The man’s ruddy face and voice remained completely expressionless. ‘Indeed she is, my lady. I am to show you to your chambers then you are to meet Lady Ormiston in the drawing-room in half an hour. If you would like to follow me, I will show you to your rooms.’

  Eleanor nodded her compliance, grateful for the chance to stretch her legs. As she followed his stout frame through the maze of dimly lit corridors, steps and stairs, she temporarily forgot her nerves and found herself gazing in awe at the ancient wall hangings, antique furniture, suits of armour and imposing family portraits lining the stone walls. How many people, she wondered, had lived in this castle over the years; and what tales would the walls be able to tell of the dramas that had unfolded here?

  Lost in her musings, she started as she realized Giles had come to a stop and was mid-flow issuing a stream of instructions.

  ‘… and left again to the drawing-room, my lady,’ he was saying. ‘I will leave you now to acquaint yourself with your chambers.’ He pushed open an ancient oak door, which creaked loudly. ‘Her grace will expect you in half an hour,’ he concluded, inclining his head before marching briskly back from whence they had come.

  ‘Um … thank you, Giles,’ muttered Eleanor to the departing figure. Moving to the threshold she peered inside the room. Her eyes widened as she absorbed the welcoming sight before her. Her last memories of the rooms at Whitlock had been shabby, old-fashioned and draughty. From what she saw of this room, however, it was clear that the building had undergone some major refurbishment. The first thing that astounded her was the sheer size of it: her chamber at home was large but this room was enormous. On the wall to her left, a huge fire burned in the grate, its hospitable warmth instantly enveloping her as she stepped inside and closed the door. In addition to the glow of the fire, there were three large silver candelabras placed about the room, creating a cosy ambience, which immediately lifted Eleanor’s spirits. The wall facing her housed a row of three windows. Their shutters had been closed, blocking out all evidence of the miserable weather outside. In front of the windows, was a mahogany writing desk and chair, and in the corner a high-backed armchair covered in cream damask. By far the most imposing piece of furniture was the ancient oak four-poster bed, draped with heavy brocade curtains in deep rose, with a matching coverlet. Unlike the walls and ceilings of the corridors, those of her bedchamber had been elaborately plastered with fashionable panelling and intricate coving, the detail of which was shown off perfectly by the warm shades of cream in which the room had been decorated. On the walls hung an assortment of landscape paintings, each encased in a heavy gold frame, while an Aubusson carpet in subtle shades of pink covered the floor. A door to the right of the marble fireplace led into a large dressing-room complete with a small blue velvet sofa, a three-drawer dressing table and a very large, unavoidable free-standing mirror. Eleanor groaned loudly as she caught sight of her reflection. She looked exactly as she felt – tired, dirty and dishevelled. Her dark-green travelling gown and pelisse were creased and dusty, her thick auburn hair - unruly at the best of times – now wild and disorderly as it escaped the confines of her bonnet. Not at all the impression of the grown-up, independent young woman she wished to portray to her godmother. She should really repair her toilette and change her attire but, in the absence of her valise, she would have to make do. She removed her pelisse and bonnet, splashed her face with water from the washstand, re-pinned her loose strands of hair and smoothed down her skirts. Then, feeling slightly more refreshed, she perched on the edge of the bed and attempted to prepare herself mentally for the meeting she had been dreading for the past four-and-twenty hours. Being normally of a sanguine disposition, she brusquely set aside all negative thoughts regarding the scheming Hester, and turned her attention to the positives of her situation. Taking in the beautiful décor and exquisite furnishings of her chambers, she decided that perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad at Whitlock after all. Having seen fit to provide her with such comfortable quarters, perhaps her godmother was actually looking forward to her company. In fact, she pondered, perhaps Hester had done her a favour: perhaps it was time she left home, experienced new things, saw a little of life. She certainly had no wish to marry, but she could make the most of her circumstances. She would, she resolved, greet her godmother as an equal, on a level footing and she would, under no circumstances, let the old woman intimidate her.

  Feeling relatively cheerful, she cracked open the creaking door and marched assertively into the corridor. No sooner had the door swung shut behind her, though, than a wave of apprehension engulfed her. Compared to the cosy warmth of her rooms, the cold stone corridor, lit only by a few sparsely placed old-fashioned wall lanterns, emitted a sinister air. The objets d’ art which she had admired only a few minutes before, now appeared threatening and ghostly in the faint flickering light. A sudden vision of the Wailing Whitlock Widow, futilely searching the corridors for the ghost of her beloved dead husband, flashed through Eleanor’s mind. She shivered as several sets of dark, painted eyes bored into her. For goodness’ sake, she chided herself, shrugging away her apprehension as pure foolishness, they were only paintings, and there was no such thing as ghosts. Desperately, she tried to recall some snippet of the directions Giles had given her, or at least something of the route they had taken. Well, it could only be left or right, she determined, so she would try left first, which was the direction in which Giles had disappeared earlier.

  Her kid leather boots scuffing against the stone floor was the only sound as she made her away along the corridor, the heavy silence adding to her unease. She released a long sigh of relief when, at the end of the passageway, she located a narrow stone staircase. She scampered down the stairs hoping to find something she recognized and some sign of life on the floor below. The corridor in which she found herself, though, was not at all familiar, containing an array of stags’ heads, which undoubtedly she would have remembered. At a complete loss as to which way to go now, she turned right but, a few minutes later, met a dead end. Sighing, she retraced her steps. Overcome with fatigue and hunger, all her optimism dissolved and frustrated tears pooled in her eyes. Quickly, she pulled herself together, blinking back the tears. With her head held high she continued to the end of the corridor, ignoring the two other, equally sized passages leading from it. Suddenly, just as she passed one of the ancient studded doors, it burst open and before she knew what was happening, something large and solid barged into her. Eleanor tumbled to the floor, landing with a hard thud on the cold flagstones.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, woman! Don’t you look where you are going?’

  Completely taken aback, Eleanor tilted up her head and found herself gazing directly into the face of a clean-shaven young man, with a mop of tousled black hair and a decidedly angry countenance.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’

  Opening her mouth to reply, Eleanor found herself devoid of speech as a sudden wave of emotion washed over her. The man, hands on hips, continued to stare at her, making her wish she were anywhere in the world other than lying in a crumbled heap at his feet in this enormous menacing castle. Covering her face with her hands, she was unable to hold back the tears she had been fighting most of the day. They began silently streaming down her face.

  ‘Now then, now then, what’s going on here?’ boomed a stentorian voice. Startled, Eleanor whipped her hands from her face and was this time met by a much more familiar sight: that of her godmother, Lady Ormiston. Her memory of the woman had not diminished at all. She was as loud and as fearsome as Eleanor remembered: her large form dwarfing everything around her; her grey hair pulled back from her round face in a severe
bun, topped off with a lace cap. Dressed head-to-toe in mourning black, she bustled towards them, her wide, old-fashioned panniers swaying violently from side-to-side, almost knocking over the ancient artefacts lining either side of the corridor. Eleanor cringed inwardly at the irony of the situation. Only minutes ago she had resolved to meet her godmother as an equal, on a level footing, and here she was crying in a heap on the floor. Before she had time to gather her thoughts, the dowager came to an abrupt halt in front of them.

  ‘This woman walked right into me, Aunt,’ announced the young man, glaring accusingly at Eleanor. ‘I have had no apology and now she is snivelling like a child.’

  All at once, the arrogance of his tone caused a wave of indignant rage to pulse through Eleanor. She had done nothing wrong. She was tired. Her entire body ached. The bruise on her head, which had now developed into a large lump, was throbbing terribly. She was hungry and grimy and, most of all, she was in no mood to be treated as though she were nothing more than a piece of unwelcome dirt.

  With as much dignity as she could muster, she pulled herself up from the floor and, tilting up her chin defiantly to face what she now realized was a tall, broad-shouldered young man, she inhaled deeply.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ she countered, looking directly into a pair of large dark eyes, ‘but it was you that knocked me over. If you had but looked into the corridor before barging out like a wild animal, you would have seen me immediately and the entire incident would have been avoided.’

  The man glowered at Eleanor, dark fury now colouring his features. Before he could reply, the dowager interjected.

  ‘Well, Eleanor,’ she huffed, crossing her arms over her ample bosom, ‘Giles had informed me you had arrived. By George, I knew that I was going to have my work cut out with you but I must say I didn’t expect you to be causing trouble already. Now let me have a proper look at you.’ She took a step back and raised her lorgnette to her small, black eyes, in exactly the same way she had done six years previously. Every remnant of Eleanor’s earlier resolve evaporated as she instantly reverted back to a self-conscious teenager at a complete loss as to what to do with her arms. Awkwardly, and in the absence of any better ideas, she let them hang loosely by her sides.

  The dowager pursed her lips as she surveyed her goddaughter’s stunning crown of glossy auburn hair; her large emerald eyes and her flawless, peachy skin. After what seemed to Eleanor like an eternity, she lowered her lorgnette and placed her hands on her expansive hips. ‘Well,’ she puffed, ‘I suppose we should be thankful that you have at least inherited your mother’s looks. You could do with a little more meat on your bones but at least you have a decent bosom and I’ve never known a man turn his nose up at one of those.’

  Eleanor’s eyes widened as colour flooded her cheeks. Never before had she been spoken to in such a frank and open manner – and in front of a gentleman. As the gentleman in question emitted a snort of laughter, Eleanor flashed him a reproving glare. His anger appeared to have completely dissolved as he now leaned nonchalantly against the wall, one leg propped up behind him, his arms crossed over his broad chest. From the annoying smirk playing about his lips, he was obviously finding the spectacle very entertaining.

  Eleanor cringed again as she realized that her humiliation was not yet over. Lady Ormiston was unreservedly continuing her speech: ‘… but as to your behaviour, my girl, your stepmama informs me it is reprehensibly unbecoming and that your accomplishments are gravely lacking. If I recall, I warned your father what would happen if you were not taken in hand. And I am rarely wrong in such matters. One only has to look at the results of his child-rearing to see how right I was.’

  Criticism of herself, Eleanor could suffer. Criticism of her father, she could not. She opened her mouth to protest, but her godmother raised an admonishing hand.

  ‘I have neither the time nor the inclination to discuss the matter further, Eleanor. Now return to your chambers and dress for dinner. We will eat at eight o’clock sharp.’

  With her closing instructions, the old woman turned on her heel and marched briskly back down the corridor, skirts rustling. Desperate not to be alone with the repulsive young man, Eleanor, her head high, spun around and made to return to her chambers. Why the very nerve of him sniggering at her like that. Call himself a gentleman? Eleanor, courtesy of her time spent with Zach, the farmer, could think of many words to call him. ‘Gentleman’ was not amongst them. Obviously he was some annoying nephew of Lady Ormiston’s. Who hopefully wouldn’t be staying long. Indeed hopefully she wouldn’t have to have anything else to do with-

  The sound of Lady Ormiston’s voice booming at her from the opposite end of the corridor interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘Oh, and Eleanor …’

  With some effort, Eleanor affected a pleasant expression as she swung around to face her godmother.

  ‘… do watch where you’re going in future. The last thing I require is to hear of any of my servants being discomposed as a result of your antics.’

  Another irritating snort of laughter came from the direction of the young man who had not moved from his position against the wall. Eleanor whisked around again before he could see the colour returning to her cheeks with renewed heat. With the exception of Hester Scones, she did believe she had never disliked anyone more in her entire life.

  TWO

  The expedition to the dining-room a half hour later was relatively uneventful with only two wrong turns and, thankfully, no humiliating collisions. Congratulating herself on locating her destination well ahead of time and any other guests, Eleanor was directed by a footman into a square, pale-green saloon, adjacent to the dining-room. Judging by its modern, elegant décor, this room, too, had undergone a recent redecoration. Against the back wall stood a mahogany sideboard with two silver chandeliers, a tray of crystal decanters, and a vase of pink lilies. In front of the blazing fire stood an ormolu table and a sofa and several chairs all upholstered in invisible green silk. With an unladylike flounce, Eleanor slumped down into a high-backed armchair and accepted a glass of ratafia from the footman. Completely exhausted, she would have liked nothing more than to have taken dinner alone in her room before retiring early. She had briefly contemplated proposing such an idea but, given the unfortunate incident in the corridor earlier, had concluded that the least fuss she made, the better. Summoning every last scrap of energy, she had therefore changed into her only evening gown – a very tired-looking, creased garment in faded blue silk – and made her weary way back through the maze of corridors to the ground floor.

  Now, sipping at the sweet almond-flavoured liquid in the comfort of the fireside chair, she was aware of her body unwinding and her heavy eyelids very slowly closing. All at once, though, the door burst open and her godmother’s vociferous voice signalled the end of her peace.

  ‘Now, Eleanor, allow me to introduce you to our guests for this evening: Lady Carmichael and her daughters Felicity and Gertru-’

  Rudely startled from her doze, Eleanor leapt from her seat and spun around to face the new arrivals. In the process, the glass of ratafia slipped from her hand, dispensing its contents over the front of her skirts, before landing with a small thud on the Persian rug. Gasping in dismay as she watched the glass bounce and scatter its few remaining sticky drops over the carpet, Eleanor raised an appalled hand to her mouth.

  ‘Oh,’ she gushed, a rush of pink staining her cheeks, ‘I am so sorry. I do believe I nodded off slightly and I-’

  Shifting her gaze from the glass to her godmother, she cringed as she noticed an expression of pure horror - intermingled with something akin to disbelief - spread across Lady Ormiston’s rounded countenance. The old lady had come to an abrupt halt inside the doorway, her three plump guests bouncing off one another as they failed to stop quite so rapidly.

  ‘Hmph,’ sniffed the dowager. ‘I thought it would be too much to ask that we have no more disasters before dinner. I do declare, Eleanor, that I have never met such a clumsy, unrefined
young woman in all my life. I dare not think what your poor mother, my cousin, would have made of your behaviour,’ she puffed, shaking her head so vehemently that the ribbons on her lace cap danced in exasperation. In sympathy with their hostess, the ugly trio behind her, all of a similar shape and height, and all dressed in unflattering frilly pastel gowns, all shook their heads too.

  ‘Stevens!’ roared the dowager, causing the trio, Eleanor and indeed the summoned footman, to jump. ‘Clear up this mess at once.’

  ‘Of course, your grace,’ simpered the lanky young man, scurrying over to the scene of the incident. Picking up the empty glass, he began dabbing furiously at the stain with a white serving cloth.

  ‘And as for you, Eleanor,’ continued the dowager, turning her dark eyes to the large wet patch decorating her goddaughter’s dress, ‘I suggest you go upstairs and change your gown immediately.’

  ‘Oh,’ muttered Eleanor, biting her lip. ‘I’m, er, I’m afraid I cannot, Godmother.’

  ‘Cannot?’ echoed Lady Ormiston. ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Because this is the, um, only evening gown I have.’

  An incredulous snort of laughter escaped the older of the two girls, who were still standing behind their hostess.

  Lady Ormiston’s brows knitted together in confusion. ‘Are you telling me, Eleanor, that you - the daughter of an earl – have only one evening gown to your name?’

  Desperate not to make a cake of herself yet again in front of her new guardian, Eleanor attempted to offer a logical explanation. ‘I’m afraid I am, your grace. But it’s not that my father refused to buy me gowns. It’s rather that I never wished for any.’