A Friend in Paris

by Jennie Goutet

Mrs. Daventry’s eyes filled with tears. “But you must not miss your dinner with the earl. It is most important you meet him before the other guests arrive.”

  “The earl. So it is him?” Eleanor ignored the urgency of her aunt’s insistence, having an idea where that line of reasoning was headed. She would get no support from her aunt for her desired independence.

  “Yes. Mrs. Bilks informed me of it after you were shown to your room. Your guardian’s successor is here and will be present at the reading of the will.” She caught her niece’s eye. “You must not miss out on the opportunity to make his acquaintance before he is distracted by others who are more worthy of his notice.”

  Eleanor moved to stand in front of the fireplace, forgiving the insult by habit. Her aunt prided herself on speaking the whole truth, not appreciating that one could grasp the state of things without having it spelled out ad nauseam. “Has anyone brought you tea?”

  “No.” Her aunt picked at the fringe of the blanket she had pulled over herself. “And they are not likely to, either, this close to dinner.”

  “I will insist they do,” Eleanor said. “And I will go in search of headache powder. You will feel right as a trivet before long.” Before her aunt could protest, Eleanor darted out of the room and retraced her steps down the hallway.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she looked around. Straight ahead was the main entrance, and there were no longer any footmen in front it. On the left was the room the gentleman had quit. She wouldn’t go there. The double-doors on the right of the hallway must contain the drawing room, and surely the kitchen would be at the end of the hallway, down the stairs?

  Indeed, the door at the end opened on a set of worn stone steps that led to the kitchen, and Eleanor followed the sounds of speech—comfortable intonations of a woman who seemed to be in no hurry. Judging by her competent air and white apron, the person speaking was the cook, and she fell silent as soon as Eleanor stepped through the doorway.

  The woman’s eyes darted to someone beyond Eleanor’s sight before returning to settle on Eleanor. “Miss, how may I help you?”

  Eleanor smiled warmly in an attempt to put the cook at her ease, and to mask her own fear of having committed a breach of etiquette. “It is only that I require some headache powder, and I did not know to whom I should address my request.”

  Once again, the cook glanced beyond her, and there was deference in the look so that Eleanor felt compelled to turn as well. When she did, the blood drained from her face. It was the earl.

  He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, but now he stood upright and gave a slight bow. “Your servant, ma’am,” the earl said in a quiet voice. “Is my staff not seeing to your needs?”

  Flustered, Eleanor could only repeat herself. “I came in search of headache powder, my lord. I have not seen a servant since Mrs. Bilks showed us to our rooms.”

  He examined her. For signs of duplicity, I suppose. She sighed inwardly. And no less than I deserve. What guest wanders around a strange house?

  “I will see that Mrs. Bilks provides some for you,” the earl said at last. “Is there anything else you require?”

  Though the lines around his mouth lent a severity to his expression, Eleanor perceived something like warmth in his eyes that she had not discerned from afar. She met his gaze squarely. “Some tea, if you please.”

  He glanced at the cook, then returned his regard to her. “As you wish, miss. Someone will be up shortly.”

  Eleanor gave a brief curtsy and fled the room, feeling the full embarrassment of the situation. She climbed the stairs as quickly as she dared without being accused of running. In her aunt’s room, a maid was pulling dresses from the trunk and shaking them out.

  “Oh, has she brought you tea?” Eleanor exclaimed, thinking how embarrassing it would be to have pestered the earl for a service already rendered.

  “No, she just arrived from the village. You, girl. Assist my niece with her dress and hair. She must be ready to dine in twenty minutes.”

  Eleanor followed the maid next door in silence. She knew there would be no persuading her aunt to allow her to skip the dinner with the earl. The girl, Betsy, she learned, began to unlace the back of her dress. After discarding it, Eleanor slipped on her evening gown—a hand-me-down silk, brown, like her hair and eyes, with ivory lace trim. The girl shook out the travel dress and laid it on the bed. “Miss, if you don’t mind, I’ll take this downstairs and see to the mud.”

  “Yes, please do. Now come and lace me up so you’ll have time to dress my hair. It won’t do to be late to dinner.” She remained standing in front of the narrow dressing table and glass as Betsy pulled her dress tight, then sat and watched the maid weave long, thin braids around the chignon and coax her rather insipid hair into curls that sprang next to her cheeks. The result was pleasing.

  In her aunt’s room, Mrs. Bilks was setting out the tea tray with pursed lips. Eleanor stood by the door as Mrs. Daventry addressed the housekeeper. “I’m unable to accompany my niece to dinner. Please send my regrets to the earl for my delay in making his acquaintance.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Bilks puckered up even more but opened the adjoining door and summoned Betsy to assist the older woman. To Eleanor, she said, “Miss, will you come with me?”

  Eleanor followed the housekeeper out of the candlelit room, whose cozy walls she immediately missed. She was not looking forward to dinner with a man who did not seem prone to comfortable conversation and whose only warmth was hidden somewhere in his eyes. A chilly draft seeped into her bones as she moved through the grim corridor. Its decor hadn’t penetrated her senses before, but now she noticed every imposing statue, crossed swords, and frowning portrait, the whole of which left her with a dramatic sense of doom at complete variance with her practical mind. She repressed a nervous giggle. Like a lamb to the slaughter, there go I.

  Mrs. Bilks ushered Eleanor into a brightly lit drawing room where the Fifth Earl of Worthing stood facing the fire. “My lord, may I present Miss Daventry?”

  The earl turned and bowed. “I don’t believe Miss Daventry needs an introduction. She has managed that on her own,” he said, with a quirk of his lips she had no hope of interpreting. “I hope your headache is better.”

  Nonplussed by the smile that softened his accusatory words, she could find none of her own with which to respond. Mrs. Bilks continued in a detached voice. “Mrs. Daventry is unwell and cannot join you for dinner. She sends her respects and has asked me to accompany Miss Daventry to the dining room.”

  The earl nodded and gestured forward. Once they were seated, the footmen served the first course and took their places against the wall. Lord Worthing turned to her with a smile that did not reach his eyes. Perhaps she had misread the warmth found there earlier. “I hope your travel was agreeable.”

  “Apart from my aunt’s indisposition, it was very pleasant. I don’t travel much and quite enjoyed the new scenery.” Eleanor took a breath to continue but knew not what to say next. She fixed her eyes on the centerpiece, an imposing arrangement of evergreens and branches of fuchsia.

  She had nearly finished her egg ball soup before the silence grew unbearable. “My lord, I understand you’ve resigned your commission. Were you still in the Peninsula?” Eleanor felt her face grow warm at the inane question to which she already knew the answer.

  Lord Worthing took a moment before responding. “My last battle was in January. The general gave me leave to resign my commission, and I returned to England.” She glanced at his face to see what his thoughts were on his change in circumstances but read nothing there.

  After another silence, he motioned for the footman to bring the jellies to his dinner companion, saying in a more conversational voice, “Mr. Harrison informed me of your presence at the reading of the will tomorrow. As it will not be read until four o’clock, would you like to have a horse saddled in the morning?”

  “That would be kind of you. I do not often have this pleasure.”

  “I ca
n lend you my groom. Unfortunately, I have a meeting with the bailiff, which will last the morning, and I’m unable to accompany you.” The earl glanced at her then resumed eating.

  “Thank you,” Eleanor said, unsure of what to say further. She was not an experienced conversationalist, and this was only the second course.

  When the silence stretched too long, Lord Worthing broke it. “You’re situated at Sussex, I believe?”

  “For the past ten years, I’ve resided at school or with my aunt, Mrs. Martha Daventry, who lives in Sussex. My guardian—the former Earl of Worthing—consigned me to her care when I lost my parents.” Her composed voice hid the inner turmoil. “My father’s friendship with your uncle, as you might know, was of long date.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve not yet had time to apprehend this branch of the family’s genealogy or acquaintances. I was unable to return home in the two months before my uncle’s illness had reached a critical juncture. I was made aware of my succession to the land and title only when my cousin fell at Badajoz.” For the first time, his eyes met hers squarely, but he looked away again before she could register her thudding heart over, what felt like, a frontal attack.

  “I…I see. So you were not raised with the expectation.” The answering silence was so overwhelming, she dared not mar it by clinking silverware and laid her fork on the tablecloth.

  “No,” he responded finally. “I was not.” He looked as if he would say more, but in the end his gaze settled on her, and his green eyes pierced in the most uncomfortable way.

  Eleanor wanted to inquire what occupied his thoughts when he stared at her in such a penetrating way, but instead she cast about for a more suitable question. “Were you well acquainted with your uncle?”

  His frown was back in place. “I met him but once when I was thirteen. He didn’t think he would be passing anything on to me, you see, and I was therefore beneath his notice.” Lord Worthing twirled the stem of the glass in his fingers while his meat grew cold.

  Oh. Her mouth formed the word. She had been impertinent with her personal questions. She had better done to stick to the weather.

  At last the earl seemed to remember the meal in front of him and picked up his fork so that Eleanor was encouraged to do the same. He chewed his beef thoughtfully and stared at the emerald green curtains that shut the view of the darkening sky from the dining room.

  Eleanor ate mechanically and attempted no more conversation until Lord Worthing finally stood, signaling the end of the meal. He turned toward her then, and when she raised her eyes to his, he held her gaze and his expression softened. “Miss Daventry, tomorrow our house will be filled with guests, but I’ve spoken to Mrs. Bilks to ensure there will always be someone dedicated to your comfort. If you want anything, you need only ask.”

  Feeling the urge to blink back tears at this unexpected show of kindness, Eleanor inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, then followed the housekeeper into the hallway. The candle threatened to extinguish in the cool, drafty hallway, but the door to the drawing room remained open, spilling light into the corridor. She felt the presence of the earl’s regard until they turned to go up the stairwell.

  Chapter Three

  Stratford walked alongside his bailiff, both leading their horses as they approached the Munroe hamlet. The silence between them was brooding on one side and respectful on the other.

  Images of his return filtered through Stratford’s thoughts. He’d had a full year to adjust to his mother’s death before he left for the war, and though he expected his homecoming to be strange without his father there to welcome him either, the reality of the double loss filled every corner of his life. The weight of new responsibility on top of it was nearly crippling. If only his father had been alive to inherit the title first, giving Stratford time to adjust to their change in fortune, it might have eased the transition. Moreover, yesterday’s post brought a letter from his sister, reminding him that caring for the family now fell squarely on his shoulders.

  He feared those burdens would include Miss Daventry. As the former earl’s ward, surely she would receive a small portion to live on. Unless her guardianship was foisted on him. Was such a thing possible? Apart from her wandering his house unescorted, she seemed a timid little thing in want of protection, and he hoped her aunt was generally more visible than she had been last night. He was certainly not interested in taking on the role, having more than enough to worry him.

  Despite his unease concerning his potential role in Miss Daventry’s future, Stratford had noticed from their first encounter in the kitchen the pleasing profile she presented when she spoke to the cook. After dinner, there had been something in her look when she raised her eyes to his as they bid goodnight. He’d thought her conversation commonplace enough, but when he turned to face her at the end of the evening, he beheld an understanding in her eyes that arrested his attention. It made him regret not having paid more attention during dinner. What else had he missed?

  What had occupied his thoughts over dinner, however, was that chance meeting with Judith on his way to the bank. What were the odds? That unlucky encounter had given Judith the boldness to contact him again, for yesterday’s post also brought an invitation from the Broadmore residence, even if it was just for a party they were hosting in London and contained no other personal words than to welcome him back. He, however, was not ready to return the gesture and invite her back into his life.

  They had not yet announced their betrothal before she claimed to have changed her mind, spurring his determination to leave for the Peninsula. There had been no scandal; they had only been suspected of sharing a tendre, but if his heart had leapt at the sight of her in London last week, the haunting words of her refusal forced him to harden his heart.

  I was too hasty in my promise…nothing more than an infatuation…don’t wish my children to mingle with the shop. It was the last bit that stung more than all else because it revealed at once a ton prejudice against his mother he had refused to acknowledge, and his own failure to recognize shallowness in the fairer sex. He had been thoroughly taken in.

  What galled him was how hard it was to reconcile Judith’s smiling greeting, her hand placed intimately on his arm, with those stark words from three years earlier. It was as if, in her mind, that conversation had been wiped clean from their history. For someone who grew up surrounded by women, he thought grimly, I know nothing of them.

  The bailiff—a Mr. Grund—gestured to the meadow on their left. “The tenants who live here work this plot of land. It’s the most lucrative of the Worthing property on account of that stream over there that feeds it. It’s not entailed, but that should not signify as it was your great-uncle’s prize purchase during his days of expansion. He considered the acquisition his greatest coup.” Mr. Grund leaned in. “You’ll not mind my familiarity, my lord? I believe you wished to know every detail I can think of.” Stratford nodded.

  “See here—” Mr. Grund took a clump of earth and crumbled it in his fingers. “It’s the richest soil I’ve seen in this part of the county. This portion of the land alone brings in three thousand pounds per annum.”

  Letting out a quiet whistle, Stratford said, “Good news indeed. The estate is in better condition than I was led to believe.” He looked toward the horizon, appreciating the pale sunbeams so different from the Peninsular glare he had learned to live with. His horse shuffled impatiently, breath steaming in the early spring air. “How did the tenants view the former earl?”

  “Oh…” Mr. Grund stroked his chin. “They liked him well enough. They held him in esteem and observed all the signs of mourning when he left this world.”

  Stratford absently touched his own black armband serving double duty, even though the six months were nearly up. “And how do they look upon the new earl?” He glanced at the bailiff out of the corner of his lashes, wearing the hint of a smile.

  Mr. Grund eyed him speculatively. “They are full of confidence in the new earl’s condescension and ho
pe to see his children grace the house before long.”

  Stratford gave an unwilling laugh. “So we’re there already, are we?” He shook his head, but his frown returned, as did the unwilling image of blonde curls and a smile he did not trust. “There is no prospective Lady Worthing at present, but I do not intend to remain a bachelor like my predecessor. It is yet another affair I must see to in my new role.”

  The bailiff furrowed his brows but let the comment pass. “Now, my lord, if you’ll just ride with me to the east, I’ll show you the part of the estate that needs the most work. I believe the former earl’s illness had weakened him some time before he let on because he stopped caring about this less visible portion of the estate.”

  Stratford swung into the saddle and spent the next hour and a half taking mental note of how he would prioritize the repairs. He and Mr. Grund promised to meet two days hence.

  On his return, the horse’s hooves struck out a soothing beat, and Stratford began to relax for what seemed like the first time since he set foot on English soil. He may have been new to the title, but he was already familiar with how to turn an estate to profit. And this one showed great promise. Now if only he could acquire the necessary grace to interact with his tenants so they might be on good terms…

  “Ho, Tunstall!” A voice from behind made him jolt upright in the saddle. The earl swiveled on his horse and looked down the path to see a familiar face.

  “Amesbury!” Stratford replied, his eyes lit with surprise. Though John Amesbury could hardly be considered above an acquaintance, he had frequented their circle of friends in school and was part of the young bucks in London in the short years before Stratford had left for the war. He was also the first of old acquaintances Stratford had met upon his return. “What brings you to these parts?”

  Amesbury rode alongside, leaned from his horse and stuck out his hand. “Dash it. You’re Worthing now. Old habits die hard. I just heard news you’d arrived and I came to see you. Some were laying bets you’d resign your commission as soon as you got your title.”