Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
“You are smaller than I expected,” Lord Bramwell stood in the Morland House parlor, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze moving over Elinor with open appraisal.
Tall and thin, his lined face might have been distinguished on a kinder man. On him, it was not. His coat was fine, but it carried a faint sourness beneath the tobacco.
He was sixty-three. Rebecca had supplied the number that morning with brisk efficiency.
“I am pleased to meet you, Lord Bramwell,” Elinor said.
He did not return the courtesy. He circled her, boots creaking on the floor. Elinor held still, hands clasped, jaw set. Rebecca sat by the fire in composed approval. Belinda watched from the settee with bright interest. Joanna was absent.
“Your stepmother tells me you are bookish.” He stopped before her, his pale eyes lingering on her spectacles with distaste. “I trust that will not be an issue. I have no use for a wife who fills her head with nonsense. My household runs on order.”
“I enjoy the sciences, my lord,” Elinor said evenly. “Astronomy in particular. My father and I—”
“Women have no business with the sciences.” His tone was flat, absolute. “The female mind is not equipped for such matters. Indulgence breeds willfulness, and I will not have willfulness in my home.”
Elinor’s nails pressed into her palms. She glanced at Rebecca. Nothing. Not a flicker.
“If we might—”
A hiss cut through the room.
Newton slipped from beneath the settee, body low, ears flat, tail bristling. He placed himself between Elinor and Bramwell, green eyes fixed, a low growl rising from his chest.
Bramwell looked down. “What is this?”
Newton hissed again. When Bramwell stepped forward, the cat struck. His claws scored the back of the man’s hand, three sharp lines.
Bramwell jerked back, face darkening. “I will not have a vicious animal in my household. If you bring it, it will be disposed of.”
Elinor went taut. “Newton is not vicious. He is protective, and he is mine. He goes where I go.”
“Elinor.” Rebecca’s voice snapped. “Apologize. The cat will be dealt with.”
Elinor said nothing. Newton wound around her ankles, still growling.
Bramwell pressed a handkerchief to his hand, studying her with cool recalculation. “I will obtain a special license. The marriage will take place within the fortnight. I prefer the matter settled before I return north.”
“I look forward to it,” Rebecca said smoothly. “Elinor, do thank Lord Bramwell for his generosity.”
Elinor’s throat tightened. She looked at the man who would be her husband, at the thin mouth, the flat eyes, the handkerchief pressed to Newton’s scratches, the only honest thing in the room.
“Thank you,” she said through clenched teeth.
He inclined his head, took up his hat, and left without another glance.
“Please.” The word left Elinor’s mouth before the front door had finished closing.
She turned to Rebecca, her composure fracturing, her hands shaking at her sides.
“Please do not do this. I will do anything you ask. I will attend every event, I will be silent, and I will never mention the sciences again. I will leave London if you wish. I will go to the country and live as a spinster and never trouble you or your family again. Just please do not make me marry that man.”
Rebecca rose from her chair. Her expression held the patience she used when she wished to communicate that Elinor was testing the very last of her tolerance.
“You brought this upon yourself.”
“I brought nothing. I taught children. I gave them lessons because nobody else would, and I did it at night because you would never have permitted it. That is not a crime, Stepmother. That is kindness.”
“It is degradation.” Rebecca’s voice hardened. “And it is finished. Lord Bramwell is a respectable man with a fine estate. You will be provided for. Your father will be relieved.”
The invocation of her father hit Elinor in the chest like a fist. “My father would never want this for me.”
“Your father is a sick man who worries about his daughter’s future!
” Rebecca stepped closer, her voice dropping into the intimate register she used when she wanted her words to wound beneath the surface.
“Do you think he rests well knowing you are unmarried, unattached, and notorious? Do you think it helps his health to know that his daughter lost a duke and has nothing to show for it? You will break his heart if you refuse this match, Elinor. What little strength he has left will not survive the shame.”
The tears Elinor had been holding rose and burned. She blinked them back, her jaw aching from the effort of clenching it.
She did not believe Rebecca. She knew her father. She knew his heart, knew his pride in her, knew that he would sooner see her a spinster than married to a man who spoke of women the way Lord Bramwell did.
But the doubt was there. Small and poisonous, planted by four years of careful cultivation, and Rebecca knew exactly how to water it.
Elinor swallowed. “Let me see the children one more time.”
Rebecca’s brow lifted. “Absolutely not.”
“One visit. In daylight. Gilbert can escort me. I will go, I will say goodbye, and I will come back, and I will never speak of it again.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she hated that it did, hated giving Rebecca the satisfaction of seeing the fracture.
“Please. I am asking for one hour. After that, I will do whatever you say.”
Rebecca studied her for a long, silent moment. The calculation was visible. The cost of allowing it weighed against the benefit of securing Elinor’s compliance.
“Fine.” Rebecca exhaled through her nose. “Get it over with. Gilbert will accompany you, and you will be back within the hour. If you are not, I will send for Lord Bramwell myself and move the wedding forward.”
“Why are you crying, Elinor?” Angelica asked it with a child’s plain directness, arms wrapped around Elinor’s waist, her small face tipped up, brow furrowed.
Elinor wiped her eyes. “I am not crying. I am simply very happy to see you.”
“You are crying,” Billy said from his seat. “Your eyes are leaking.”
A laugh broke through, raw and unexpected. Elinor gathered the children close, pressing her face into their hair. They smelled of soap and chalk and warmth, all of it made possible by the building around them.
Newton sat on the desk, tail curled, enduring their attention with patient dignity.
Elinor released them and turned to Mrs. Neal, who stood in the doorway, hands clasped, eyes bright with tears.
“I need to ask you something.” Elinor took her hands. “I am to be married. To a lord in the north. He will not allow Newton, and I cannot …” Her voice faltered. She steadied it. “Will you keep him? Here, with the children. They love him, and he will be safe.”
Mrs. Neal’s face softened. She drew Elinor into an embrace that held months of quiet arrivals and shared purpose.
“Of course I will,” she whispered. “But, my dear, what is happening? This does not sound like a happy match.”
“It is not.” Elinor rested her forehead against her shoulder. “But I have no choice.”
“There is always a choice, Elinor.”
Elinor pulled back and looked at the children. Toby stroked Newton’s ears. Billy bent over a slate with Georgie. Angelica watched her, intent and searching.
She went to each of them. She held their hands, told them she was proud. Toby should keep asking questions. Billy’s letters were improving. Angelica must keep drawing. Georgie’s sketches were beautiful.
She lifted Newton and pressed her face into his fur. He purred, warm and steady.
“You be good,” she whispered. “Take care of them.”
She set him down. He watched her, tail flicking once.
From the corridor, Gilbert’s voice called, sharp with impatience. “Elinor. Mother said an hour. You have had forty minutes.”
Elinor looked at Mrs. Neal, at the children, at the drawings on the wall, the slates by the door, the name above the entrance she would see once more as she left.
She embraced Mrs. Neal again, pressing all she could not say into it. Mrs. Neal held her, then let her go.
Elinor walked out of Lyra House. Gilbert fell into step beside her, impatient, distracted. He did not notice when she paused at the gate and looked back at the lit windows, the painted name, the life she was leaving behind.
Newton sat in the schoolroom window, a small, still silhouette watching her go.
She turned and followed Gilbert to the carriage and did not look back again.