The Unaccomplished Lady Eleanor (2 page)

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
s
trained enthusiasm
had immediately
alert
ed
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
g
odmother, 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 step
mother 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 ne
utral as possible
. 
‘
I see,
’
she had replied evenly,
prickly tendrils of panic slowly windin
g themselves around her
body.
 
‘
And may I ask why, Father?
’

‘
Of course, my dear,
’
he had re
plied, the lines of co
ncern
etche
d o
n his forehead completely belying the forced lightness of his tone. 
‘
We
, er,
thought
it was time t
hat 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 dap
ping at the corner
s
of her mouth. 
‘
H
owever 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 o
ut, her voice dripping with ice. 
‘
But you can
not 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
g
odmother
, 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 t
he back o
f 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.  G
iven that she
is re
cently widowed,
I believe she will appreciate
a li
ttle 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.  Hes
ter 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 g
racefully and walked, head
high, out of the
room.  Once the door had
clicked shut behind her
, her resolve disappeared
.  She had raced up
stairs to her
bedchamber, flung herself
on
to the bed and cried solidly for several miserable hours. 

This morning, after a
fitful nigh
t’s sleep, she had, in a
dream-like state, t
ossed
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.  A
s
,
of course
,
do I.
’

Eleanor had resisted the urge
to tell him
exactly wh
at a manipulative piece
his new wife was turning out to be
, but
she realiz
ed it would be futile.  Hester,
no doubt
heady with
victory, would merely dismiss any such comments as sour grapes. 

Instead, she had hugged h
im
tightly, told him she loved him and walked out of the door bearing two powerful emoti
ons:  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 carriag
e veered sharply around a corner, slamming Eleanor’s head against the window an
d awakening her from a
restless doze
.  She had no idea h
ow long she had
slept,
or
how long s
he 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 o
f hair from her face, she realiz
ed that it wasn’t just her n
eck 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
, he
r stomach
rumble
d
loudly
, alerting her to the
fact that she was also ravenous
.  It seem
ed
an age since they had stopped at the last post
ing-house to change the
team
and partake of some refreshment
.  E
ven then she had o
nly nibbled on a hunk of
stale bread, forego
ing
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 o
f condensation from the steamed-
up window.  Peering outside, she hoped to spot some landmar
k which would provide a clue
to their whereabouts. 
But w
hat little ligh
t 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
sh
iver of apprehension shot down Eleanor’s spine as she f
ound herself
gazing at an enormous
illuminated building, rising out of the mist
like a proud, indomitable beast.  This was her d
estination
: t
he 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 moderni
z
ed over the centuries
and
now boast
ed 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 ha
d it that the corridors of the c
astle 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 from the highest
tower.  O
utlined 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 turne
d to more corporeal matters -
the imminent reunion with her godmother.  The formidableness of the
c
astle 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
- a
n opinion that had remained unaltered duri
ng Eleanor’s last visit to the c
astle all those years ago.  Her father had t
aken her to visit Lady Ormiston
two years after her mother’s death.  The visit had been a complete dis
aster, 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 le
arn to control the child.  S
he
is far too rambunctious
by half
.  Such behaviour is most unbecoming in young ladies.  They should not be running around climbing trees
: t
hey 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.
’

Thankf
ully, 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
.