Chapter Twenty-Four
“Is there any knowledge in your head that could help my nephew win this game of lawn bowls?” Lady Wharton asked, gesturing to where Sir Melton stood, pretending not to care that he was being thrashed.
Even with her head craned at an odd and uncomfortable angle, Eleanor could see the pink creep up his neck and the way his smile dropped the moment the woman he was trying to impress turned to focus on her own toss.
His embarrassment, in turn, made Eleanor embarrassed for him, even from afar, and she wished she had a magical piece of information that could save him from it. This was why she had rejected Lady Wharton’s suggestion that she go join the young people “just for a moment before I need you again.”
Sir Melton was forgotten. “Did they?” Lady Wharton’s cronies still viewed Eleanor with suspicion—none would forget that she’d danced with a duke—but their reception to her had softened in recent weeks.
They’d even gone so far as to allocate her a seat in the arrangement of chairs from which they scrutinized Lady Marmahen’s garden party.
It was the seat with the worst view, obviously, but a seat nonetheless.
She’d earned it with her mind and restored some sense of self-worth.
The matriarchs were both addicted to gossip and tired of it. One rumor of a broken engagement or financial trouble looked much like all the rest after decades. Eleanor’s trivia was novel, and if it pertained to scandal of any kind, then it had as much value as any current goings-on.
Eleanor shifted her chair to better face them. “Did he finish his game and thrash the Spaniards? Yes.”
The Dowager Countess of Watford thumped her cane on the grass with satisfaction. “How splendidly British of him to deliver a national triumph while playing our national game.”
But that was incorrect and Eleanor couldn’t let an error stand, not even in this company.
“Cricket is generally considered our national game, Your Ladyship. It is played in more than eighty clubs across the country. Lawn bowls originated in Egypt and is played in only forty-nine. At least, those were the figures in 1873 when A History of Popular Sports was published.”
The dowager countess raised an eyebrow, and Lady Wharton nudged Eleanor with her cane. “Are you certain you do not want to join the young ones, Miss Wright?” she asked, knowing very well that Eleanor didn’t.
“If you wish it, Your Ladyship. In which case, I will observe from the sidelines.” She couldn’t throw a ball or swing a bat to save herself.
She was as likely to walk into a doorway as through it, and often sported mysterious bruises.
She had learned to walk before she crawled, much to her parents’ pride, but that was where her physical accomplishments ended.
“A shame,” Agatha said. “I was quite a renowned swimmer in my day, you know.” The women who’d known her long enough all nodded.
It was hard to believe the silver-haired woman with stooped posture and bony arms could have once had the athletic vigor of a swimmer. Though, in order to withstand the weight of her elaborate gowns, Lady Wharton must be stronger than she appeared.
“You are full of surprises, Your Ladyship. What other secret talents do you have? Are you an accomplished artist, juggler, storyteller?” Alluding to Agatha’s secret career had become one of her favorite pastimes. She was always careful not to reveal too much—just enough to make Lady Wharton flush.
“Go tell my nephew that he is needed urgently.” There was nothing gentle about the way Agatha jabbed the cane at her now. “Miss Anthrop is hardly going to marry a man who can’t match her in bowls. It would make one question what else he can’t match her in.”
Eleanor rubbed her shin. “Of course, Your Ladyship.”
Lady Marmahen’s garden was perfectly manicured.
The rosebushes were only just leafing out, but tulips and wallflowers and primroses bloomed.
Lady Wharton and her set had commandeered a prime position at the top of the slope closest to the house, where they had a good view of the lawn below and the stream that flowed beyond that.
Lords and ladies clustered in knots of cream and pastel.
Straw boaters and colorfully trimmed Gainsborough hats contrasted prettily against the grass.
If Eleanor could capture the pattern of colors and shapes, she would.
Reaching Sir Melton required navigating through the crowd that hovered by the refreshment tent.
Her breath caught as she spied the duke.
She was so accustomed to seeing him in black and gray that she’d almost overlooked him.
He appeared less severe in a tan suit. Warm, almost. His outfit was still more conservative than those of the men near him, and his boater sat awkwardly, as though mirroring his own mismatch with the surrounding festivity, yet he seemed more personable than she’d come to expect.
He looked more like the man from the zoo than the soulless aristocrat.
She searched for another route to the bowling green, but there was none that was easy. Resigned, she mustered the courage to face him. Or at least pass him with her shoulders squared and give a polite nod in his direction.
Walking quickly, she kept her head down and hoped he wouldn’t notice her. Her luck was as good as it had been for months. The duke turned at exactly the wrong moment, a cup of lemonade in one hand and a large plate of sandwiches in the other.
His eyes widened. “Miss Wright. You look well.” Was it her imagination, or did he sound as anxious as she felt? Not that he had any reason to be. He had won. Soundly.
“Your Grace,” she replied, dipping a quick curtsey. She had no energy for a fight today, and no cause for one. She could be cordial in defeat. “You’re hungry, I take it.” She gestured to the pile of sandwiches filled with cucumber, cheese, and cold meat.
“My sister is.” He smiled awkwardly. “According to Jacqueline, who heard it from her lady’s maid, who heard it from our kitchen maid, who apparently heard it from Margaret’s kitchen maid, Margaret’s household is consuming as much food with her husband gone as they do when he’s in England. Apparently it’s far more sumptuous.”
Good for her. “Everyone should enjoy the things they love while they can.” She hadn’t said the words with venom, yet he seemed to wince, and she shifted, equally uncomfortable.
What were they now? No longer enemies, since the battle was over, but not friends either. Not strangers. Acquaintances? It seemed a pale description given all that had come beforehand.
“Did you know that in hot weather, the inside of a cucumber remains colder than the air temperature outside? That’s where the phrase ‘cool as a cucumber’ comes from.” It was a stupid way to break the silence and did nothing to relieve her self-consciousness.
He shook his head. “I did not know that, but now that you mention it, I believe you’re correct.
” Either put off balance by her strange comment or as unsure as she was about how to interact, he shifted to his other foot.
“It is unexpected to see you here. At a garden party. In the middle of the day.”
She pretended not to notice the flush that crept up his neck. “Lady Wharton kindly gave me extra work, since my days are now free.”
This time, he definitely winced. “Dare I hope that gives you more time to explore the city, or are you now tied to Lady Wharton at all times?”
She studied the ground at her feet. He probably thought it a superficial question, a standard piece of polite conversation. The answer, though, was deeply personal. “I don’t explore much these days, to be honest. It brings me no joy.”
The plate of sandwiches wobbled as his shoulders drooped. “I am sorry for that, more than anything.” His tone matched his words. “I ventured outside my narrow life recently. It was fun while it lasted.”
She’d given little thought to the duke’s life outside of balls and business. It was strange to hear that he had one. Curiosity snagged her. “What put an end to your ventures, Your Grace?”
“I was venturing with a friend,” he murmured. “Sadly, that friendship ended.”
A pang of unexpected pity caught her. “I’m sorry to hear that. It hurts to lose a friend. I lost one recently, and I miss him deeply.”
Something strange flickered across his face. Regret? Guilt? “Surely, you have other friends to fill the void,” he said.
She managed only a half-smile. “Yes, but there was something special about him. Besides, Mabel and Lillian both work elsewhere now. I haven’t seen them in a week.” She was supposed to meet the two of them tomorrow, but both had canceled.
“Are you lonely?” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.
It was a wildly personal question, particularly given their shared history.
Unwilling to answer, she pressed her lips together.
Her gaze flicked to the circle of elderly stateswomen who now made up the bulk of her company.
They watched her and the duke with interest. Perfect.
She rubbed her temples, anticipating the questions she’d now have to answer.
“Is it too late to apologize?” he asked softly. “For all of it. For more than you could know.”
Her stomach flipped. Her heart skipped. She’d wanted that acknowledgment so badly. Still… “It’s never too late to apologize, Your Grace. But I fear it is too late to forgive. The damage is too deep.”
His bearing slackened. He shuffled his feet, staring at the bent blades of grass. “Of course. I understand. Some things are unforgivable. Still, if there is anything I can do…”
There was nothing. “I think you’ve done enough, Your Grace. I wish you all the best. Now I must go save Sir Melton from himself.”
She curtseyed again and hurried away, breath caught in her throat.
Against her better judgment, she looked over her shoulder.
The duke was staring at her, still holding the plate, his shoulders slumped as if burdened by some great weight.
If she didn’t know better, she’d think the expression on his face was grief.
As he watched her leave, an all-encompassing sadness washed over him.
She was not, in fact, all right. He had taken her career from her, that much he knew.
But he’d also stolen her spirit. The first had been intentional—cruel, but necessary.
The second was unintended, and it cut him more deeply than it perhaps should.
It wasn’t just his Linotype that had caused harm. It was the Captain’s sudden and unexplained absence. That had been badly done. He’d let his own fear and hurt injure her in turn.
Dear Eleanor, he thought, penning the letter in his mind since his hands were full. I have so many regrets. More than any other, I regret my actions that night and every night that came after when I chose not to tell you the truth.
It was too late now. She’d said so clearly. What was done was done, and it was time to move on.
He handed over the now warm lemonade and the sandwiches that had lost their freshness. The cucumber was likely the only thing still cool. Then he brushed off his sisters’ concerned questions and asked their aunt to chaperone that night.
As he helped Jac with her dinner, she clearly sensed his mood for afterward she remained quiet, allowing him to read a chapter of Jo’s Boys with next to no interruptions.
Fittingly, it was the last chapter in the final book Eleanor had sent them.
When he closed the cover, it was on so much more than a story.
In his study, as the clock chimed midnight, he pulled all the letters from his drawer—received and unsent, written and unopened—and added a final one, before sealing them in a large envelope and filing them away on a shelf in the farthest corner of his office, out of sight.
Dearest Eleanor,
Farewell.