Chapter Three
“The Duke of Thornwood,” Lady Rutledge announced, in tones usually reserved for natural disasters, “has arrived.”
The drawing room fell silent. Eleanor looked up from her place near the window—the seat she had chosen deliberately, as it was far from the fire, far from the most desirable chairs, and far from anyone likely to engage her in conversation—and watched as two dozen heads turned toward the door with the synchronised precision of startled birds.
“I thought he never left his estate,” someone whispered.
“I heard he killed a man in a duel,” another murmured.
“I heard it was three men.”
“I heard his face was terribly burned in the war. They say he looks like something from a nightmare.”
Eleanor returned her attention to the book in her lap.
She had heard of the Duke of Thornwood, of course—one could scarcely exist in polite society without hearing of him, if only because polite society so relished discussing those who declined to participate in it.
He was reclusive. He was scarred. He was, depending upon the storyteller, either a tragic hero, a dangerous recluse, or a cautionary tale about the cost of war.
None of which concerned Eleanor, who was present at Lady Rutledge’s house party solely because Honoria required a companion, and Mrs Cheswick required Eleanor to be useful.
Translate if anyone speaks French, she had been instructed. And do try not to appear so severe. It is rather off-putting.
Eleanor had not pointed out that looking severe was, in fact, the intention. Severity discouraged conversation. Conversation required performance. Performance was exhausting.
She was very, very tired of being exhausted.
The whispers continued as a figure appeared in the doorway, and Eleanor—despite her better judgment—found herself glancing up once more.
Her first thought was: They exaggerated.
Her second thought was: No. They simply described it badly.
The Duke of Thornwood was not monstrous. He was not a nightmare made flesh. He was simply a man—tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in immaculate black—who bore unmistakable evidence of violence across the left side of his face.
The scarring was considerable. It traced from his temple down across his cheek and disappeared beneath his collar, the skin puckered and discoloured in patterns that suggested fire rather than blade.
His left hand, she noticed, bore similar marks, the fingers slightly curled, as though they no longer straightened fully.
Yet his eyes were clear and dark and profoundly, disconcertingly alert. They swept the room with the efficiency of a man accustomed to cataloguing threats, dismissed most of what they found, and then—
Settled upon Eleanor.
She looked away at once. It was reflex, nothing more. One did not meet the gaze of a duke, particularly one who appeared to have witnessed horrors sufficient to haunt lesser men.
Still, she felt the weight of his attention linger for a moment longer than comfort allowed, and when she risked another glance, he had already moved on, greeting Lady Rutledge with a bow that was perfectly correct and entirely devoid of warmth.
Interesting, Eleanor thought, and then firmly instructed herself to think nothing at all.
***
The house party, Eleanor had gathered, was very much a marriage market.
Lady Rutledge had assembled a carefully curated selection of eligible young ladies—and a handful of not-so-young ladies, present company included—for the purpose of introducing them to gentlemen of means and title.
The Duke of Thornwood was, apparently, the crowning jewel of this particular display: wealthy, titled, and in need of a wife.
In need of a wife who would not be deterred by certain realities, Eleanor’s treacherous mind supplied. In need of someone sufficiently practical.
She dismissed the thought. It was uncharitable and, more importantly, irrelevant.
Eleanor was not present as a candidate. She was present as a companion, a useful piece of furniture that happened to speak three languages.
Whomever the Duke of Thornwood chose to marry was entirely his concern, and of no consequence to her whatsoever.
“Miss Finch!”
Eleanor suppressed a sigh and turned to find Lady Rutledge advancing upon her with the purposeful expression of a woman who had suddenly remembered a neglected resource.
“There you are, concealing yourself in the corner as usual. Come, come—I wish to introduce you to the Dowager Countess of Millbrook. She has a particular fondness for Italian poetry, and I told her you were quite the linguist.”
Quite the linguist. Spoken in much the same tone one might apply to quite the juggler or quite the trained monkey.
“Of course,” Eleanor said, setting aside her book. “I should be honoured.”
The Dowager Countess proved to be a sharp-eyed woman of perhaps seventy, with the sort of aristocratic bone structure that weathered age admirably, and a manner suggesting she had ceased tolerating fools sometime around her fortieth year.
“So you are the translator,” she said, regarding Eleanor with frank appraisal. “Rutledge tells me you are fluent in Italian.”
“I am competent, my lady. Fluency suggests a mastery I would not presume to claim.”
“False modesty is tiresome, girl. Can you read Dante in the original, or can you not?”
Eleanor felt her lips twitch despite herself. “I can, my lady. Though I confess I prefer Petrarch.”
“Petrarch.” The dowager’s eyes narrowed. “The sonnets?”
“The Canzoniere, yes. Though his letters are equally rewarding, if one possesses patience for his inclination toward self-pity.”
A startled laugh escaped the older woman. “Self-pity! You have opinions, it seems.”
“I have been informed it is a defect.”
“By whom? Tedious people, I suspect.” The Dowager flicked a dismissive hand. “Read something to me. In Italian. I wish to hear whether your accent matches your opinions.”
Eleanor hesitated. This was familiar ground—the request for performance, the expectation that she display her accomplishments like a well-trained trick—but there was something in the Dowager’s manner that felt less like condescension and more like genuine curiosity.
She selected a passage from memory: the opening of Petrarch’s Sonnet 35, which she had always admired for its quiet melancholy.
“Solo e pensoso i più deserti campi
vo mesurando a passi tardi e lenti,”
She recited, letting the words flow with the cadence they deserved.
“Et gli occhi porto per fuggire intenti
ove vestigio uman l’arena stampi.”
“Alone and filled with care, I walk through deserted fields,” the Dowager translated quietly, “measuring my way with slow and weary steps, my eyes fixed on avoiding every place where the sand bears the mark of human tread.”
“You know it.”
“I knew it. Once. Before age rendered my memory less reliable.” The Dowager studied her anew. “You have a pleasing voice for it. Most English speakers slaughter the vowels.”
“My governess was Florentine. She was… exacting.”
“Clearly.” The Dowager paused, then added, with reluctant candour, “You are wasted here, you know. Translating trade correspondence and entertaining elderly women with poetry.”
Eleanor’s practised smile faltered briefly. “I am grateful for the opportunity to be of service.”
“Grateful.” The word fell between them like a stone. “Yes. I imagine you must be.”
Before Eleanor could respond, another voice broke through the moment—bright, social, and entirely oblivious to the subtleties of the exchange.
“Miss Finch! How delightful!”
Mrs Thornbury, one of Lady Rutledge’s particular intimates, descended upon them with the enthusiasm of a woman who had discovered a new source of diversion.
“Lady Millbrook, you must hear this—Miss Finch speaks three languages. Italian, French, and German. Is that not remarkable?”
“She has just been demonstrating her Italian,” the Dowager replied dryly.
“Oh, wonderful! Do say something more, Miss Finch. Something romantic. Lord Thornbury was just lamenting that no one could translate that French poem he has been puzzling over—”
“I should be delighted to assist Lord Thornbury with his translation,” Eleanor said carefully. “If he would care to show me the text—”
“Oh, no, no—we require a performance.” Mrs Thornbury clapped her hands, drawing the attention of several nearby guests. “Do recite something. Something passionate. Show everyone what you can do.”
The room was turning toward them now. Eleanor could feel the weight of curious, amused, faintly patronising gazes settling upon her like a physical pressure.
“I am certain the guests would prefer—”
“Nonsense! Everyone enjoys a little culture.” Mrs Thornbury’s smile was broad and entirely impervious to refusal. “Come now, Miss Finch. Do not be shy.”
Eleanor was not shy. She was tired, and irritated, and acutely aware that refusal would make her appear difficult, while compliance would make her appear eager for attention.
Neither option was acceptable. Both were inevitable.
She selected a passage from Dante—not the romantic verses Mrs Thornbury undoubtedly desired, but something possessing sufficient drama to satisfy without requiring Eleanor to perform a longing she did not feel.
“Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita,” she began, her voice clear and steady despite the audience,
“mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,
ché la diritta via era smarrita.”
“Midway upon the journey of our life,” someone murmured—a translation for those who did not recognise the text.
Eleanor continued, letting the familiar words carry her through the discomfort:
“Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura
esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte
che nel pensier rinova la paura!”
She concluded. Silence lingered for a brief moment, then polite applause rippled through the room.
“How clever,” Mrs Thornbury said, beaming. “Like a little parlour trick! Lord Thornbury, did you hear? Three languages!”
Parlour trick.
Eleanor’s smile did not waver. “Thank you, Mrs Thornbury. You are very kind.”