Chapter 17 First Day of Wooing a Wife
Chapter seventeen
First Day of Wooing a Wife
The entrance hall was chaos—the organised chaos that always accompanied the Midleton family's departures. Trunks being loaded, nursemaids corralling children, Michael conferring with the coachman about the route to his family's estate in Derbyshire.
Eleanor stood on the front steps, her arms wrapped around herself against the December cold and tried not to let her emotions show on her face.
"Aunt Ellie!" Catherine launched herself at Eleanor's skirts, her small face crumpling. "I don't want to go! I want to stay with you!"
Eleanor crouched down, pulling the three-year-old into a fierce hug. "I know, darling. But you must go see Grandmama and Grandpapa Midleton. They've been waiting all year to see you."
"But you won't be there." Catherine's lower lip trembled. "And Uncle Aubrey won't read us stories anymore."
Eleanor's chest tightened. Aubrey had been reading to the children each evening—somehow managing to entertain all three of them despite being confined to his bed.
The twins had been captivated by his dramatic renditions of Greek myths, while Catherine had simply curled up beside him like a contented kitten, sucking her thumb.
"Uncle Aubrey will read to you again," Eleanor promised, though she had no idea if it was true. "When you visit next time."
"Promise?"
"I promise to try my very best."
The twins appeared next, James and William flanking her with identical serious expressions.
"Aunt Ellie," James said solemnly, "Father says Uncle Aubrey is getting better. That means he won't die?"
"No, darling. He won't die. He's healing very well."
"Good." William nodded decisively. "Because he said he'd teach us to fence when he's better. And dead people can't fence."
Eleanor managed not to laugh. "No, they cannot."
"Will you write to us?" James asked. "About Uncle Aubrey? So we know he's still not dead?"
"James!" Liz appeared, looking harassed. "Stop asking your aunt about death. It's morbid." She turned to Eleanor with an apologetic expression. "I apologise. They've been obsessed with mortality since losing Spots last spring."
"It's quite alright." Eleanor stood, ruffling James's hair. "Yes, I'll write. And I'll tell you all about Uncle Aubrey's progress."
Liz linked her arm through Eleanor's and whispered, "Promise me something."
"What?"
"Promise me you won't close yourself off completely.
That you'll give him these remaining days to prove himself.
And if he fails, then you leave with no regrets.
But if there's even a chance..." Liz's eyes were bright.
"If there's even a chance he might become the husband you deserve, don't throw it away out of fear. "
"I'm not afraid," Eleanor protested.
"Yes, you are. You're terrified. And I understand why." Liz's smile was sad. "But sometimes the bravest thing we can do is hope. Even when hope seems foolish."
"Mama!" Catherine's voice carried across the entrance hall. "The carriage is ready!"
Liz sighed. "I have to go. But write to me. Every day if you need to. And Ellie—" She wrapped her arms around her sister. "If you need me to come back, if anything happens, just send word. I'll be here within a day. Michael's family be damned."
"Thank you." Eleanor's throat felt tight. "For being here now and all those other times."
"That's what sisters are for." Liz kissed her cheek. "Now come say goodbye to Michael before the children riot."
Michael was easier, a warm handshake and a knowing look. "Good luck with your husband. I suspect he's going to need it."
"And why is that?"
"Because winning back a woman like you, after the way he's behaved?" Michael shook his head. "That's the work of months, not days. But perhaps he'll surprise us both."
The children demanded one more round of hugs, sticky fingered embraces that left Eleanor's dress rumpled and her heart aching. She watched them climb into the carriage, their small faces pressed against the windows, hands waving frantically.
Liz was the last to enter, pausing on the carriage step to look back at Eleanor.
"Remember what I said," she called. "Hope is not foolishness. It's courage."
Then she was inside, the door was closing, and the carriage was pulling away down the drive. Eleanor stood on the steps, waving until they disappeared from sight, until the December wind made her eyes water and her nose turn red.
Or perhaps that was tears.
She wasn't entirely certain.
Mrs Williams appeared at her elbow with a shawl. "You'll catch your death, my lady. Come inside."
Eleanor let herself be shepherded back into the house, the sudden silence almost oppressive after three days of children's laughter and noise. The entrance hall felt cavernous. Empty.
She climbed the stairs slowly, her legs heavy, and made her way to her private parlour—the small sitting room she shared with Aubrey.
It was just her and her estranged husband now, and the weight of that reality settled on her chest like a stone.
She pushed her eggs around her plate, unable to eat. The toast grew cold. The tea turned bitter.
Liz's words echoed in her mind: Hope is not foolishness. It's courage.
But was it courage to hope that Aubrey might stay? That these past few days of attention and apology and undeniable physical attraction might translate into something real? Something lasting?
Or was it simply setting herself up for another devastating disappointment?
Eleanor set down her fork with a sharp click and closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her temples where a headache was beginning to form.
The problem was, she was already hoping. Despite her best efforts, despite all her carefully constructed walls and reasonable resolutions, she was hoping.
Hoping that his tears had been real.
Hoping that his desire was more than simple physical attraction.
Hoping that perhaps, impossibly, he might actually want her to stay.
And that hope terrified her more than anything else.
Because if she let herself hope—truly hope—and then he left anyway?
She wasn't certain she would survive it.
Eleanor pressed her hands to her face and thought about Aubrey's arms around her, his voice breaking as he apologised for two years of neglect.
About the way he'd said he wished he could hold her properly.
It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean he would stay in Hertfordshire. Didn't mean he would acknowledge her as his wife once he healed and returned to London. Didn't mean—
Female voices in the corridor interrupted her spiralling thoughts.
Eleanor froze, her teacup halfway to her lips.
Women's voices. Multiple women. In the family wing. At this hour of the morning.
And the knocking, when it came, was not on her door.
It was on his.
Eleanor's stomach plummeted so violently she thought she might be sick. No. He wouldn't. He couldn't possibly be entertaining women in their home. While she was in residence. While his wife was mere yards away, separated only by a sitting room and two doors.
But then she remembered Rose. Remembered eight years of friendship betrayed. Remembered that she clearly knew very little about her husband.
Except he'd said he'd been faithful. He had looked her in the eye and told her he'd upheld that aspect of their vows, even if he'd failed at everything else.
She needed to know, needed to see for herself. She would not allow him to humiliate her like this. Not in her own home. Not when she was trying so desperately to maintain some shred of dignity before she left.
Eleanor stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. She crossed through the sitting room, her heart hammering, and knocked sharply on the door to the master's suite.
"Come in!" Aubrey's voice was cheerful. Far too cheerful for a man caught entertaining paramours.
Eleanor pushed open the door, her spine rigid, prepared for—
Three women stood around Aubrey's bed. All middle-aged or elderly, dressed in respectable dark gowns, their expressions pleasant and professional.
Not paramours.
"Eleanor!" Aubrey's face lit up when he saw her, and the transformation was so genuine, so warm, that Eleanor felt something in her chest stutter. "Perfect timing. Come in, please. I'd like you to meet these ladies."
Eleanor stepped into the room cautiously, her earlier panic giving way to confusion.
"May I introduce my wife, Lady Madeley," Aubrey said, and Eleanor forgot to breathe.
My wife.
He'd called her his wife. He’d introduced her as such to these women with pride in his voice, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Lady Madeley," the eldest of the women, a handsome woman of perhaps fifty with silver-streaked hair, curtsied respectfully. "Mrs. Duncan, my lady. It's an honour."
"Mrs. Hughes," said another, younger but still well past forty.
"Miss Fletcher," said the third, who appeared to be nearing sixty.
Eleanor looked from the women to Aubrey, completely bewildered. "I don't understand."
"These ladies were my mother's lady's maids," Aubrey explained, gesturing them closer. "I've asked them to come so you might interview them and decide which would suit you best."
Eleanor stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"
"A lady's maid," Aubrey said gently. "You've been without proper help these years. I thought it was time to remedy that." He smiled at her, and there was something almost nervous in it. "If you'll have them, of course. The choice is entirely yours."
"I don't…" Eleanor's throat felt tight. "I don't need a lady's maid."
"Perhaps not," Aubrey agreed. "But I'd like to lessen your burden. Even if just for Christmas dinner. You've been managing everything alone for so long. Let someone help you. Please."
Eleanor looked at the three women, who watched her with patient expressions. They clearly had no agenda beyond employment. No schemes or ulterior motives.
"Besides," Aubrey added, his tone turning slightly playful, "I have a valet. We should look the part together, don't you think? If we're to host your family for Christmas dinner?"