Eleanor screwed up her face. “Don’t these people have anything better to do?”
“Obviously not,” he answered. “And you can’t even receive an anonymous message without most of the boarders at the rooming house and half your neighbors knowing about it before you do.”
She sagged against the chair. “Mrs. Lauder.”
“I was certain she would read the note before you got it; that’s why I said as little as possible in it. And news, especially scuttlebutt, travels fast. Never doubt that servants have a well-honed network, Ellie. Every one of them is related to someone who knows someone who works for someone, and so on and so on.”
She studied her hands, which were still clasped in her lap, having no answer. No rebuttal.
“Even if you worked here, and didn’t live here, don’t you think people would talk just the same?”
“I don’t care what people say about me,” she countered, feeling testy and violated.
“Maybe not, but think about your family. If not your sister-in-law or even your brother, think about that sweet niece of yours. Children can be cruel, Ellie. You’re the topic of conversation in many, many homes. Gossip may not be told in front of the children, but you can bet they hear about it anyway. And they won’t keep the information to themselves, believe me.”
For the moment, Eleanor was speechless. It was true. Lydia had innocently overheard her parents talking about Eleanor’s future. Children were often simply unseen, even if they were in the room.
And she had already hurt Lydia. She didn’t want to hurt her any more. This was all very frightening, because he was beginning to make sense.
“But…to marry…” Her hand went to her throat, and she could feel the pulse pounding in the hollow between the bones.
She looked at him, her heart dancing wildly. “To give up so much for me, Dante…” She couldn’t even finish a sentence, she was so addled.
He just laughed. “What about you? You’ll be giving up a lot more, believe me. As you have told me many times, Ellie, I am vain, arrogant, egotistical, conceited, a painted peacock, obnoxious—”
“I’ve never said you were obnoxious,” she corrected.
His gaze held hers. “But I am vain, arrogant, egotistical, and conceited.”
She expelled a long, quiet breath. “You are other things, too.”
“Things that can make up for my shortcomings?”
Her gaze sharpened. “Are you making fun of me?”
His smile was crooked. And boyish. And tender. And it touched a place so deep inside her, she thought she might faint.
“Only a little,” he answered, continuing to smile a frightfully wonderful smile.
Again, she was aware of how other women perceived him. Of how easy it had been to fall in love with him, and she had no doubt at all that she loved him. But oh, how quickly he could break her heart. Although, there was some safety in marriage, wasn’t there?
She retrieved her goblet and drained it, the sherry stinging as it slid down her throat. Dante was there immediately to give her more. “You need fortification to make a decision, I gather.”
“I…I do need something,” she nearly stuttered. After another long sip of sherry, she repeated, “But you’d be giving up so much.”
Horace appeared at the library door to announce dinner.
“Ellie, it looks like I’ll have to give you some time to think about this.”
He took her hand and helped her rise. She was grateful for the support, for her knees had prodigiously turned to the consistency of whale blubber.
“Yes. Yes, you’ve given me much to think about,” she agreed, hoping her voice sounded normal. “When do you plan to adopt Victor?”
“It won’t happen too swiftly,” he promised. “If you accept my proposal, you would have sufficient time to become accustomed to things around here before I went forward with the adoption.”
“So, this proposal is rather like a business arrangement,” she replied.
He stopped and studied her, his expression unreadable. “If that’s the way you want to look at it.”
No, she thought, it wasn’t. But he had not offered to marry her because he loved her, she knew that.
If she accepted, she dared not ever let him know her feelings for him. She must approach the arrangement as he did, for to do otherwise would surely be her ruin.
She slid into bed that night, wishing she had Lydia beside her, someone to bounce her feelings off.
Marriage. To Dante. Unable to believe such an impossible solution to her dilemma, she laughed aloud, then cupped a hand over her mouth.
But it wasn’t funny. If she agreed to marry him, it would undoubtedly be amusing to everyone in Boston, but it would never be so to her.
It could be the cruelest, most heartless thing he had ever done or could ever hope to do, because she had fallen in love with him, and he would, without even meaning or intending to, break her heart.
What had she thought earlier? That there was some safety in marriage? That was hogwash, of course, because he still had his mistresses, and he had told her on the island that for married men, mistresses were a common practice.
Cursing, she rolled to her side and punched her pillow. And what had she told him? That she couldn’t live with that? That she would leave a husband who had a mistress, and become a nun? She laughed again, this time letting the sound escape into the dark, empty room.
Somehow, if she accepted this…this insane proposal, she would have to decide how to deal with it. She was in no position to demand that he no longer see his mistress. Even if she did so, he would do as he pleased, she was sure.
How would she cope? She wasn’t the crying, tantrum-throwing type. She wouldn’t threaten to leave him, for he’d probably simply show her the door. And she couldn’t threaten to take a lover of her own because he might tell her to go ahead, and then what would she do?
She loved him, she fully admitted that. If they were to wed, she would willingly allow him into her bed, because she knew in her heart and soul that no man on God’s earth could make her feel the way he had, and he hadn’t even entered her. What marvels would there be when he did? She couldn’t even imagine such joy. But…what if he promised not to touch her? No. No, she refused to think of such a thing.
Perhaps it would be wisest to say nothing of his dalliances. If he kept them to himself and did not flaunt them in public, she might be able to live with it. It would hurt, she knew that. But if she could force herself not to dwell on it, maybe, in time…
But what of the mistresses? Everyone seemed to know who his current one was. Eleanor had been there when Dante had banished the Banning woman from his home. But surely there would be others.
Eleanor tried to envision how her life would be, and the most troublesome part was living with the knowledge that her husband would sleep with and make love to other women. At parties and gatherings, Eleanor would be relegated to the parlor with the other wives, none of whom would speak of their husbands’ indiscretions, but all of them would know what they had in common.
And they would chatter about children and servants and gossip about their neighbors. They would drink tea, knit, play cards, plan weekly menus, and do cross-stitched patterns on linen handkerchiefs.
And all the while, Eleanor would cast a longing glance at the den, where the men were gathered, loudly discussing politics or whaling or slavery and abolition and the possibility of war with the states to the south. Topics that fueled Eleanor’s intellect but topics only men seemed able to openly enjoy.
But there would always be Victor, a boy she could watch grow to manhood. And perhaps she and Dante might even have a child of their own. Perhaps.
Her entire body quaked with the anticipation of a life with Dante. There were pluses and minuses galore to marrying him. Before she had left his townhouse that evening, Dante had given her a week to make a decision. She still wasn’t sure if a week was too long, or a month simply not long enough.
But bef
ore she went to sleep that night, she knew what she would do.
Eighteen
Willa stared at her, slack-jawed. “You’re what?” she almost shrieked.
“I’m going to marry Dante Templeton.” Though she said it with conviction, the words sounded foreign to her own ears. She could imagine how they must sound to Willa, who believed Eleanor was so unattractive, a man had to be bribed to marry her.
Willa clutched at her throat. “This…this isn’t happening.”
“It will happen the day after tomorrow,” Eleanor explained, folding her clothes into a valise.
“Everyone will laugh at you,” Willa warned. “You do know why he’s doing this, don’t you?” Without waiting for Eleanor to answer, Willa continued, “He feels sorry for you. You’ve become his charity case because he has ruined your reputation. It’s pitiful.”
Eleanor held her tongue.
“And think about what it will do to us?”
Eleanor opened her trunk and folded an old, black dress into it. “I don’t see that my marriage to Dante has anything to do with you.”
“Your brother and I will become a joke.”
Eleanor suddenly realized that nothing she did would please her sister-in-law, even a “pitiful” marriage to a rich man. “Then I guess I can’t expect the two of you to attend the ceremony, can I?”
“We will have no part of it,” Willa announced. “You will be the laughingstock of Boston, Eleanor. Even his mistresses will have more respect than you will.” She stormed out and slammed the door.
Ah, yes. His mistresses. Ever since she’d agreed to marry him, her stomach had been in knots. Finally, this morning, she had come to grips with what she was about to do, and in one fell swoop, Willa brought it all back to her.
The door squeaked open. “Aunt Ellie?”
“Come in, sweetheart.”
Lydia rushed to her and hugged her around the waist, burying her face in Eleanor’s skirt. Eleanor lovingly smoothed her niece’s hair.
“I’m going to miss you,” Lydia said, her voice muffled.
Eleanor smiled down at her. “I won’t be that far away. I’ll want you to come visit often.”
On a sigh, Lydia answered, “I only hope Mama lets me.”
“Your papa will,” Eleanor assured her.
Lydia looked up at her, dark blue eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears. “But Papa never talks to me anymore. It’s almost like he’s afraid of me.”
Eleanor’s heart broke for her niece. “Oh, he’s just busy, dear. He loves you, you know.”
Lydia sniffed through her tears. “Who will I tell what I’ve learned? You’re the only one who was ever interested. This…this morning I learned that you can’t sneeze with your eyes open. I felt a sneeze coming, and was determined to try to keep my eyes open, but I couldn’t.”
“When you come to visit, you can regale me with everything you’ve learned, dear. And…and Dante, too. Remember? He thinks you’re so very special, as do I.”
They stood together, one clinging, the other wondering if she’d made the worst decision in her life.
Although neither of them was Catholic, they were married at the orphanage by the priest who came to the chapel every week to hold mass.
Horace was Dante’s best man, and Sister Mary Francis stood beside Eleanor.
Now, as they left the orphanage in Dante’s landaulette, he found that his palms were sweating.
“Don’t tell me now that we’re wed, you’re going to quit speaking to me.” Eleanor scolded softly.
He smiled. “Believe it or not, I’m nervous. I’ve never been married before, you know.”
She released a sigh. “And it wasn’t that long ago that you claimed you never would.” She studied him. “I still can’t believe you’ve done this for me.”
Dante couldn’t believe it, either. This entire script was one he could never have believed he would act out.
They stopped in front of his townhouse. Eleanor was ready to get out of the carriage, but Dante touched her arm. “We’re not going in.”
“We’re not?” Her expression was puzzled.
The driver came to Dante’s side. “Everything is in the back, sir.”
Dante thanked him. “Well, Ellie, are you ready to go?”
“Go? Go where?”
“On a honeymoon, of course.” Would it be? He wondered.
Clearly startled, she replied, “We’re going on a honeymoon?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to Middle Brewster. We had such fun the first time, I thought we’d return.” He turned and saw her horrified expression, and he guffawed.
“You’re not serious,” she murmured.
“No,” he answered. “Where we’re going is a surprise.” He lifted the unwrapped gift from the back. “Here.” He tossed her a velvet full-length bottle-green cape with a Persian lamb trimmed hood. “Put this on. It’s going to get chilly.”
She took the cape, her eyes wide. “Dante. This is too beautiful to wear.” Her expression became suspicious. “Whose is it?”
He laughed again. “It’s yours. I bought it for you; it has never belonged to another woman, unless, of course, the lamb was a ewe.”
Her hands moved over the fabric as if she were learning the texture by touch. She was quiet.
“You don’t like it?”
“Don’t be foolish,” she scoffed. “It’s just that…that I didn’t expect you to buy me anything. Thank you.”
Dante glanced away, her naked expression of gratitude and disbelief almost painful. “You wouldn’t let me buy you a new gown to get married in,” he reminded her.
“This was certainly good enough,” she countered.
“It’s very nice,” he agreed, glancing at the heavy white hand-loomed cotton skirt and gray silk blouse. “But I picture you in more vibrant colors, like the cape.”
He helped her into the garment, then took the driver’s seat. “Now, are we going to argue, or are we going on a honeymoon?”
Eleanor’s expression told him she was done arguing. “May I ride up there with you?”
He leapt down, helped her out of the seat, and settled her next to him.
Occasionally, as they drove through the streets toward their destination, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She sat tall, proud, the wind catching wisps of her bountiful hair, tossing them haphazardly about her flushed face. More than once he had to look away, his emotions as taut as knots on a bell-rope.
They followed the coast road north to Lynn until they reached a road that went east, out onto a small peninsula.
“Now will you tell me where we’re going?” Eleanor pressed, her voice filled with excitement.
“To Nahant,” he answered.
“What in heaven’s name is there?” She craned her neck, as if she could see in the waning light.
“Oh, a little fishing shanty I bought a number of years ago.” He bit the insides of his cheeks to repress a smile.
“How delightful! Oh, Dante, I love to fish.”
He chuckled softly. Leave it to Ellie to be excited about the possibility of going fishing on her honeymoon. “Then we shall fish.”
“And…and walk the beach? Watch the sunrise?”
He slanted her a glance. “You won’t miss the city?”
She shook her head passionately. “Not one scrap.” She inhaled deeply. “Oh, I love the smell of the ocean, I truly do.”
He brought the small landau to a stop and listened. The sound of the waves hitting the rocks was music to his own ears.
Eleanor glanced at the large cottage with the candlelit windows that sat at the end of the peninsula overlooking the Atlantic. “That’s a lovely place. Why are we stopping here?”
Dante hopped to the ground. “Welcome to the shanty, Mrs. Templeton.” He raised his arms to help her down.
She gaped. “This? This is your little fishing shant
y?”
“Indeed it is,” he answered, immediately feeling at home.
Eleanor stepped into the cozy entry, quietly comparing it to his townhouse in Boston. His place in town was lovely, decorated with taste and style. The “cottage” was homey. Warm-hearted. The fire in the enormous stone fireplace in the great room filled the place with heat and light. The furniture was luxurious country, richly overstuffed. Two beautifully upholstered wraparound Sleepy Hollow armchairs bracketed the fireplace, perfect for curling up in and reading.
Eleanor twirled slowly in the room as Dante entered with their bags. “Oh, it’s wonderful.”
“I’m glad you approve,” he answered, smiling. “But it’s pretty isolated, Ellie,” he warned. “If you get bored—”
“Bored? How does one get bored in a place like this?”
She hurried to the bookcase that was built along one wall and scanned the titles of the books. Some were about the sea, some were poetry. There were novels by Washington Irving and James Fenimore Cooper. There was Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, The Birds of America by John James Audubon, and dozens of almanacs.
At the end of a row on the bottom shelf, she read the title, Aristotle’s Masterpiece, exhaled sharply, and pulled the book from its place. When Dante returned from one of the bedrooms, she held it up for him to see.
“I’ve heard about this book. Isn’t this the one that fathers hide, and young men read behind the barn?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.
Dante’s smile was crooked. “Ah, yes. The ‘sex’ book that masquerades as the work of Aristotle, but is not.”
Eleanor briefly leafed through it, finding pictures of woodcuts that made her blush. “I shouldn’t be surprised to discover that you have a copy.”
He took the book from her and replaced it on the shelf. “No, you shouldn’t,” he answered, still smiling.
Remembering the vast array of erotica in his bedroom, she turned nervously and took a quick stroll through the kitchen, which was at one end of the great room. He had a new cast iron cook stove.
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