It was good to be out, even if it wasn’t simply to take a refreshing stroll between her shopping errands, as she’d told her maid. Henderson was circumspect, and as one of the household’s long-standing servants, she was loyal to Ellie. She had known Kit’s family, too, and had never liked the fact that Papa had remarried—though of course she would never say so.
“Is that Christopher Newland?” the older woman asked as they approached the meadow and caught sight of a figure waiting beside one of the tallest oaks.
“Yes,” Ellie said. “You won’t say anything, will you?”
Henderson frowned. “If it were anyone else, miss, you know I would. Don’t do anything foolish now.”
“I only want to talk to him.” Ellie couldn’t help the pleading note in her voice.
“Aye, well.” Henderson’s expression softened. “I expect it’s no bad thing to speak with the lad. Just mind your manners.”
“I shall.”
They reached the edge of the trees, and Kit looked up, smiling. “There you are. I was worried you wouldn’t be able to meet. Hello, Mrs. Henderson. It’s good to see you. You look as well as ever.”
The matronly woman bobbed her head. “May I say the same, my lord? India seems to agree with you.”
It was true. Kit had seemed to grow into himself while abroad. He carried himself with an easy confidence, and though his manner was still direct, he was not as easy to goad into saying rash things as he’d used to be. Which, upon reflection, was probably a good thing, despite Ellie’s attempts to provoke him at dinner last night.
“It does agree with me,” he said. “I’m eager to return to Assam.”
“Well, then.” Henderson nodded to a plain wooden bench in the shade. “I’ll just rest here while the two of you have your chat.”
Suiting action to words, she marched over and settled herself on the bench, appearing completely disinterested in whatever Kit and Ellie had to say to one another.
“I’m glad she hasn’t changed.” Kit offered his arm. “We can stroll around the clearing—staying within eyesight, of course.”
“Of course.” Ellie slipped her arm through his, resting her gloved hand on his forearm.
“You’ve changed, though,” he said, giving her a keen glance. “Is everything all right, Ellie? Beyond the obvious, I mean.”
She hesitated. Despite the fact that she so badly wanted someone to confide in, was Kit Newland the right choice? Perhaps she ought to seek out someone else.
But the sad fact of the matter was, she had no one else. After Papa’s remarriage, the family had begun socializing with the new Lady Tremont’s set, cutting ties with former friends. And Ellie’s godmother was too scattered to be any kind of confidante.
“Come now,” Kit said. “There’s nothing so bad that you can’t tell me. Whatever it is, I’ll do my best to help. Is Lady Tremont mistreating you?”
The concern in his voice brought Ellie perilously close to tears. It felt like ages since anyone had truly cared about her well-being.
She swallowed, grateful the edge of her bonnet shaded her eyes. When she’d mastered herself, she looked up at Kit.
“She doesn’t beat me, if that what you mean,” she said. “I’m not in any physical danger.”
She paused, thinking of how to frame her words, and Kit pressed her hand, waiting. The wind ruffled the green leaves overhead, as if in reassurance.
“It’s just that, with Papa gone and no money left for me, I’m relegated to a lesser standing within the household.”
“I saw that.” His voice hardened. “And I didn’t like it one bit. They shouldn’t treat you as anything less than the daughter of a viscount. You’re not a servant, Ellie. You don’t have to do your stepmother’s bidding.”
Oh, but she did, or Lady Tremont would make her life even more miserable.
“I think . . . I ought to take a position as a governess.” There, she’d said it aloud, which made the possibility seem more real.
“A governess?” Kit frowned. “You can do better than that.”
“Better, how?” Bitterness flared within her. As a man, he’d no notion how few options were open to her. “It’s not as though I can board a ship to India to make my fortune or take a position as secretary to a lord with a promising career in politics.”
“But you could marry him,” Kit said, in what he no doubt thought was a sensible tone.
“I cannot. Not without a dowry.”
“But surely any man can see your worth.”
“That’s not reasonable, Kit. You know it as well as I. Respectable gentlemen don’t marry girls of good breeding without money or connections. They have so many other choices, you see.” She let out a resigned breath. “Perhaps a paid companion would suit me better.”
“Nonsense.” He turned to face her. “You’re pretty; you’ve a good mind and an even disposition. What man wouldn’t want you?”
Their eyes caught and held, even as warmth flooded her cheeks. He thought she was pretty? The air seemed to shimmer between them, his green eyes full of promise.
Perhaps . . . perhaps there was another option.
He had wanted her to meet with him after all. And he’d visited twice within the span of a week. Was it possible—could he care for her the way she always had for him?
Heart racing, she forced herself to ask the question.
“What about you? Would you marry me, Kit?”
His gaze slid away from hers. “I’m sorry, Ellie. You know I like you very well. But . . .”
She stepped back, her heart plummeting. Oh, she’d been an idiot to ask. She forced herself to speak through the tightness in her throat. “You see? No one will have me, despite all your fine words to the contrary. Clearly, I have little to recommend me.”
“That’s not so.” He caught her hand. “I confess, when I first came to call upon you . . . Well, you can guess the direction of my hopes. But the sorry truth is, I must find a girl with enough money to keep the tea plantation from going under.”
She blinked, trying to take in what he was saying. Had he just implied he’d been considering courting her?
“But doesn’t your father’s new estate have plenty of funds?” she asked.
“That’s just it.” Kit let out an unhappy laugh. “The marquessate is in wretched shape. The estate has been mismanaged for years, apparently, and it’s going to take what’s left of father’s money—plus considerable loans—to make it prosperous again.”
“Then why insist on this plantation? It seems clear your family can’t afford both.”
He shook his head, a glint of desperation in his eyes. “If only we’d known in advance. But almost all our savings is in the ground of Assam in the form of several thousand tea plants, plus the men to care for them. And the tea won’t be ready to harvest for another three years. We’re trapped, frankly.”
Unwilling sympathy moved through her. Despite his appearance of freedom, Kit was as bound by his circumstance as she was. Oh, but life was cruel and miserable, to bring them both to this unhappy point.
“I’m sorry,” she said. For everything that might have been, and could never be. “I’m sorry there’s nothing we can do for one another.”
“Can’t we still be friends?” He searched her eyes. “I care for you, Ellie.”
She knew, deep in her heart, that she and Kit would have suited one another as husband and wife. As lifelong companions. If only Papa had left her with a dowry.
It was too painful to stand with him in this clearing so full of happy memories of their youth, and see everything she’d most wished for turned to ashes.
She pulled her hand from his and turned away. “If you hear of a governess position, do let me know. At any rate, I need to return home.”
He came and walked beside her. “I’ll see you out of the park, at least.”
“No need.” She made her tone brisk. “Henderson and I can manage perfectly well on our own.”
He touched her arm. “Rem
ember to save me a dance at the Queen’s Ball.”
“Very well.”
She would—and then she would say goodbye forever and do her best to forget that their lives had so narrowly missed being entwined.
Pretending her throat wasn’t choked with misery, she bade him farewell and left him standing in the clearing, the green boughs of the oaks whispering empty promises overhead.
7
“Lady Merriweather will see you now,” the Baroness’s elderly butler said, returning to the formal parlor where he’d deposited Ellie.
She gave him a stiff nod and rose, then glanced at Henderson, who remained perched on the settee.
“I’ll await you here,” the maid said. “You don’t need an audience to meet with your godmother, after all.”
“Thank you.” Ellie gave her a grateful smile.
For the second time that week, Henderson had staunchly stood by Ellie on her clandestine visits. First with Kit, and now to beg for help from her godmother.
Despite Ellie’s best efforts with a needle, she was no closer to having a costume for the upcoming ball, and time was quickly running out. Lady Merriweather was her last hope.
The butler showed her to a room full of exotic displays: a huge Chinese vase filled with peacock feathers, a marble statue of some Caesar or another, an ornate screen inlaid with gemstones. In the midst of it, the baroness sat, a writing desk on her lap. She was garbed in a bright blue walking dress accented with a tasseled fringe, and her coiffure boasted ostrich plumes dyed to match. In her right hand, she held a quizzing glass. When she looked up at Ellie, her right eye was alarmingly magnified.
“Ah, Eleanor,” she said, lowering the glass. “My, don’t you look peaked. Bone broth—that’s just the thing.” She pointed the quizzing glass at her butler. “Send up a cup of broth for our guest. And lemon tea for myself.”
“Madam.” The man bowed and departed the room before Ellie could protest that she had no need of cosseting.
Not to mention she despised the flavor of bone broth.
But there was no use for it now. Pulling in a breath, she went to her godmother and curtsied.
“Good afternoon, Lady Merriweather. It’s kind of you to see me.”
“Pish—you’re family after all, even though you almost never call. Come, sit.” She patted the armchair beside her own.
Ellie refrained from pointing out that the baroness was seldom at home, let alone open to receiving visitors, and took a seat. The chair was uncomfortable, the arms carved like mermaids so that there was not a smooth surface for her elbows to rest upon. Instead, she gripped her hands together in her lap and tried to find the words to begin.
“Spit it out, girl,” the baroness said. “Clearly you’ve come to ask me for something, and there’s no point in beating around the bush, as they say.”
“I . . . yes. You offered your help after Papa died—and so I’ve come to ask if you might assist me with procuring a ball gown.”
“A ball gown? Surely you have plenty of those, not to mention the wherewithal to procure more as you desire.” The quizzing glass came up again. “Unless your dear stepmama is being troublesome about money. Ah, I see that she is.”
Ellie tried not to squirm. For an absent-minded old woman, her godmother was disconcertingly observant and direct—qualities Ellie admired, when they were not fixed so keenly upon herself.
“I don’t know if I told you,” Ellie continued, “but Papa left me no dowry. We’re living on Lady Tremont’s money.”
Lady Merriweather’s lips tightened so much that they nearly disappeared from the force of her disapproval. “No dowry? Rather suspicious, that. Your father wasn’t a fool about money. Are you certain the solicitor informed you correctly?”
“Yes.”
Though in truth, Ellie’s raw grief had prevented her from entirely following the details. It had been a difficult meeting, full of Lady Tremont’s coldness and the solicitor’s apologies.
“Hmph,” the baroness said. “Well, be that as it may. What kind of gown are you in need of?”
“A Stuart gown, for the queen’s costume ball.”
Her godmother blinked. “You plan to attend that foolish fete? The ton prancing about, pretending to be in Charles Stuart’s court. Really! He was a naughty king, you know. Not at all a fitting candidate to inspire a ball.”
Heat rose in Ellie’s cheeks. Even if Charles II had run an unsuitable court, one didn’t speak of such things. Except, apparently, unless one were Lady Merriweather.
“It’s what the queen has chosen,” Ellie said. “And our household is invited. It’s the first ball I’ll be allowed to attend after coming out of mourning, and I do want to go.” If for no other reason than to see Kit one last time, and bid him farewell.
“And you have nothing to wear.” The baroness shook her head. “It’s rather short notice to procure a costume gown, my girl. You should have planned ahead.”
“I was trying to make my own,” Ellie admitted.
Her godmother let out a bark of laughter. “I suppose you have as little talent with a needle as your mother. Hopeless, she was. She disguised it with the clever use of sashes and ribbons and the like, though. Made it seem as though her gowns had been completely refurbished, when in fact it was her own resourcefulness with a bit of trimmings. That was before she married your father, of course. Afterwards, she could have as many new dresses as she liked.”
The story kindled a warm ember next to Ellie’s heart. She had so few memories of her mother that every bit of information was a gift.
“So you’ll help me?” she asked.
“I can make no promises. Ah, here’s Prescott with our beverages. Set the tray down, my good man.” She patted the lacquered table next to her chair.
The butler complied, then departed as quietly as he’d come. With a satisfied look, the baroness handed Ellie a heavy stoneware mug. A slightly sweet, unappetizing odor drifted up from the cloudy liquid.
“Drink up,” her godmother said, lifting her own porcelain cup of tea.
Ellie could hardly refuse, as she was there begging favors. Trying not to wrinkle her nose in disgust, she forced herself to take a swallow.
The cloying taste stuck to her teeth and tongue, and she must have made a face because the baroness let out a guffaw.
“Oh, child, it might taste dreadful, but it is very good for you. Like so much of life. You must steel yourself and pass through unpleasantness, but there’s a reward at the end, I promise you.”
“Yes, my lady.”
There was no other response Ellie could make, though she was inclined to doubt her godmother’s promises. Both of a reward at the end of unpleasantness and of a Stuart ball gown. But at least she’d tried.
8
As expected, the week passed and no gown arrived for Ellie. She chastised herself for hoping and redoubled her efforts to cobble together a suitable costume. The days were slipping by at an alarming pace, and the Queen’s Ball was imminent.
The closer it came, the more Ellie’s stepfamily found every excuse to heap work upon her. From dawn till dusk, it seemed she was needed—to run to the milliner’s, to consult with her stepsisters on their gloves, to rearrange the gowns in Lady Tremont’s closet, as she refused to let the maids do it, claiming they wouldn’t take proper care.
All of it was designed to keep Ellie far too busy to create her own costume. They didn’t say as much, of course, but it was quite clear.
Despite the fact, they pretended to “help” with her ball gown, bestowing upon her various odds and ends, as if they would make any difference.
“Here,” Delia said, handing Ellie a length of unused gold ribbon, frayed on the end. “I won’t be needing this. Perhaps you could use it on your gown.” Beneath her syrupy-sweet tones, there was an undercurrent of laughter in her voice.
“You may take this shawl.” Abby tossed a length of scarlet fabric at her. “There’s a tear on one edge, but if you wear it folded, no one will notic
e.”
Even Lady Tremont participated, giving Ellie a pair of embroidered dancing slippers. “These are too small for me, but I’m certain they’ll fit you. You have my permission to wear them to the ball.”
As it turned out, the slippers were tight on Ellie’s feet as well, pinching her toes quite painfully. But her other shoes had been dyed black or given to her stepsisters when she’d gone into mourning, so the too-small slippers were all she had. Every night, she attempted to stretch them out, but they remained stubbornly petite.
The ribbon and scarf, however, she was able to put to good use. Heartened by Lady Merriweather’s remembrances of her mother, Ellie switched her focus from sewing a new gown to transforming one of her mourning gowns into something worthy of the ball. She snatched bits of time to work on her costume, staying up late into the night and working by the light of a single candle.
At least the frenetic pace kept her from thinking too much about Kit. Her childish dreams had been well and truly trampled, and there was no point on dwelling on them—no matter how much her heart ached to think on what might have been. Life had turned out differently, for both of them, and she’d do well to accept that fact and move on.
They were friends. Nothing more. And perhaps even less. Ellie had worn her heart on her sleeve at their last meeting, and he hadn’t even noticed the depth of her feelings.
Enough, she told herself and concentrated on tacking the gold ribbon around the neckline of her made-over gown.
As the days passed, the severe black dress transformed. She consulted the engravings in the history books in the library, doing her best to emulate the square-cut lines and full sleeves of the Stuart era. Finally, two days before the ball, Ellie felt she’d managed to produce a satisfactory costume.
It wouldn’t hold a candle to her stepsister’s bespoke gowns, of course, but there was an elegant simplicity to the dress that suited her.
Finally, the day of the Queen’s Ball arrived.
The last time she would ever see Kit.
For he would marry a lady with money. No doubt he was courting her even now. They would wed, and he’d take her back to India to raise a family and a crop of tea.
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