Chapter 17 First Day of Wooing a Wife #2
We. As though they were a united front. As though they were truly husband and wife planning their holiday together.
"Just until Christmas then," Eleanor heard herself say. "If that's acceptable to all of you?"
"Of course, my lady," Mrs. Duncan said warmly. "We'd be honoured to assist you for as long as you need."
Eleanor nodded stiffly. "Then if you'll follow me, we can conduct proper interviews."
She led the three women from Aubrey's room, acutely aware of his gaze following her. When she glanced back, his expression was fond. Almost tender.
It made her chest ache in ways she didn't dare examine.
The interviews took place in Eleanor's bedroom, where she could assess each woman's skills with her existing wardrobe and discuss expectations.
Mrs. Duncan went first. She was competent, experienced, and had a dry wit that emerged as Eleanor asked about her previous employment.
"Lady Egerton is... particular about her appearance," Mrs. Duncan said diplomatically. "She prefers to rotate her lady's maids every now and then."
"Rotate them?" Eleanor asked, surprised.
"To keep her hairdos fresh, she says." Mrs. Duncan's lips twitched. "Though between you and me, my lady, I think she simply enjoys the drama of training someone new. Gives her something to occupy her time when Parliament is out of session."
Eleanor found herself smiling. "I see."
The other two women had similar stories.
Lady Egerton's exacting standards, her love of the latest fashions, her tendency to change her mind about hairstyles mid-arrangement.
They spoke of their former mistress with respect but also a certain rueful affection that suggested she had been demanding but not unkind.
When Eleanor asked about what would suit her best, the responses varied wildly.
Miss Fletcher suggested elaborate updos with false hair pieces. "To add height, my lady. And perhaps some ribbons? Young ladies do love ribbons."
Mrs. Davis recommended bold colours. "You're too pale, my lady. You need vibrant hues to bring life to your complexion. Crimson, perhaps? Or a rich purple?"
But Mrs. Duncan studied Eleanor with a thoughtful expression.
"Soft colours, I think. Greys and blues and subtle greens that complement your colouring rather than fight it.
And your hair should be dressed simply. You have lovely natural waves, my lady.
Why hide them under elaborate arrangements?
A few strategic pins, perhaps some small braids woven through to add interest, but nothing that overwhelms your features. "
Eleanor felt something in her relax. Here was someone who saw her clearly. Who understood that Eleanor was not a canvas for dramatic transformation but a person with her own quiet beauty that simply needed to be... revealed.
"Mrs. Duncan," Eleanor said decisively. "If you're willing, I'd like you to be my lady's maid. For the Christmas season, at least."
"I'd be honoured, my lady."
Eleanor dismissed the other two women with generous compensation for their time, then turned to Mrs. Duncan. "I should warn you, I'm not used to being dressed. I've managed on my own for two years. I may be... resistant to help."
Mrs. Duncan smiled. "I've dressed Lady Egerton, my lady. I can handle resistant."
An hour later, Eleanor carried a tea tray into Aubrey's room. She'd told Mrs Williams she would continue bringing his afternoon tea. If she was honest with herself, she was beginning to enjoy his company since the day he’d responded with such enthusiasm to her… care.
Aubrey appeared to be writing correspondence when she entered, several letters spread across a portable desk balanced on his lap. He looked up at her entrance and smiled.
"Eleanor. Thank you." He set aside his pen. "Please, join me."
Eleanor set down the tray and poured his tea. One sugar. No milk. Forty-five seconds of steeping.
"I didn't prepare a cup for myself," she said when he gestured to the chair beside his bed.
Aubrey reached for the bell pull and rang it.
"My lord—"
"It's time you worked less and rested more," he said firmly. "Read more books. Took tea like a lady of leisure rather than a servant rushing between tasks."
Eleanor's hands clenched in her skirts. "I am not—"
A maid appeared at the door. "My lord?"
"Another teacup for Lady Madeley, please. And some of those biscuits Cook made this morning."
"Yes, my lord."
The maid disappeared, leaving Eleanor standing awkwardly beside Aubrey's bed.
"I've been thinking," Aubrey said, his tone conversational. "Would you like to use our family solicitor to manage the estate accounts? He's quite competent, and it would free you from that burden."
Eleanor's spine stiffened. "I don't find it burdensome."
"Perhaps not. But surely, you'd like to delegate some of the work?"
"I'll continue managing the accounts while I'm in residence," Eleanor said carefully. "But you may do as you like after I leave."
"Of course." Aubrey's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes that might have been disappointment.
The maid returned with Eleanor's teacup and a plate of biscuits. Eleanor sat stiffly in the chair, accepting the tea with a murmured thanks.
"I've also taken the liberty," Aubrey said, "of summoning the modiste. She'll arrive tomorrow morning to fit you for some new gowns. Ball gowns and walking dresses, if that's agreeable to you."
Eleanor set down her teacup carefully as her mind whirled with the sudden changes. "That's not necessary."
"For Christmas dinner—"
"I have a perfectly suitable dress for Christmas dinner."
"And for other occasions. One never knows when one might need a ball gown."
"I have no use for ball gowns," Eleanor said flatly. "I don't attend balls. I don't go anywhere that requires such finery. It would be a waste of money especially now when I’m leaving."
"It's my money to waste," Aubrey pointed out gently.
Eleanor stood abruptly. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"All of this." She gestured at the room, at the tea. "The lady's maid. The solicitor. The gowns. The sudden interest in estate management and household accounts. Why now? Why, when I'm leaving in two weeks, are you suddenly playing at being a husband?"
Aubrey was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft.
"Because I want to do for you what I should have done for the past two years.
Even if it's only for two weeks. Even if it's too late.
It would ease my mind to know that I tried.
That I gave you some small measure of what you deserved. "
Eleanor felt her throat tighten. "It doesn't change anything."
"I know." Aubrey's smile was sad. "But perhaps it will make these last two weeks more bearable. For both of us."
Eleanor wanted to argue, wanted to refuse, but she was so tired of carrying everything alone. Of managing and organising and bearing every burden without help.
"Fine," she said finally. "The modiste can come. But only one or two dresses. Nothing extravagant."
"Agreed." Aubrey's smile widened. "Thank you, Eleanor."
She returned to her chair, sipping her tea in silence. The biscuits were excellent, buttery and delicate. She hadn't even known Cook knew how to make them.
"If I were to live in the house full-time," Aubrey said carefully, "while Parliament is out of session, what additional help would the estate need?"
Eleanor looked at him sharply. "You're considering staying here?"
"I'm considering many things." His expression was unreadable. "But theoretically, if I were in residence permanently, what would make estate management easier?"
Eleanor studied his face, looking for signs of mockery or deception while reminding herself not to hope.
"We need a new gamekeeper," she said finally.
"The current one is elderly and can barely manage his duties. The north fence needs repair. It's been on my list for six months, but the allowance you’ve been sending wasn’t enough to prioritise it.
The tenant cottages in the east field need new roofs before winter worsens.
And we could use another stable hand—the head groom has been doing the work of two men since Jenkins left last spring. "
Aubrey pulled his portable desk toward him and began making notes. "What else?"
"The still room needs restocking. Several of the guest rooms require new furnishings—the current pieces date from your grandmother's time and are falling apart.
The library could use cataloguing; I've been adding books but haven't had time to properly organise them.
And—" She stopped. "But this is pointless. You can’t be serious about leaving your life in London. "
"Humour me," Aubrey said quietly. "What else?"
So, Eleanor told him. About the drainage issue in the south pasture.
About Mrs. Fletcher, the elderly widow whose cottage was too cold for winter but who refused charity out of pride.
About a dozen other small problems that she'd been managing alone, solving as best she could with limited resources and even more limited authority.
Aubrey wrote everything down, asking questions, making suggestions, treating her observations with the seriousness they deserved.
When she finally ran out of items, she found herself relaxing into the chair, the teacup warm in her hands.
"Thank you," Aubrey said softly. "For humouring me."
Eleanor nodded, sipping on her tea.
"And for managing the estate so beautifully. I'm only sorry I wasn't here to help."
Eleanor stood, suddenly needing distance. The intimacy of the moment. The shared tea, the estate discussion, the warmth in his voice, was too much. Too close to what she'd once dreamed of.
"I should let you rest," she said, collecting the tea tray with brisk efficiency.
"Eleanor."
She paused at the door, not turning around.
"Thank you," Aubrey said. "For the tea. For the conversation. For... giving me a chance to try."
Eleanor's hand tightened on the tray. "I haven't given you anything yet, my lord. Except tea and a list of estate problems."
"It's more than I deserve," Aubrey said quietly. "Much more."
Eleanor fled before she could respond, before the tears burning behind her eyes could fall, before she could do something foolish like hope.
But despite everything, despite all her carefully constructed walls and reasonable resolutions, Eleanor felt the smallest crack forming in her defences.
A crack that let in just the tiniest sliver of light.
Of possibility.
Of hope.