Chapter 2
Lady Eleanor Whitmore spent the morning in the greenhouse as she often did when the world outside of it became too difficult to withstand.
The structure stood at the far edge of the Hartley estate, a long, sun-warmed corridor of glass and iron that her mother had once adored and that her father now tolerated.
Inside, the air was humid, softened by the scent of damp earth, crushed leaves, and spring blooms forcing themselves to grow ahead of schedule. Eleanor moved between the benches with her fingers lightly brushing the edges of pots as she checked for signs of growth.
She was twenty-two years old, with deep chestnut brown hair that was thick and slightly wavy.
It was usually worn loosely pinned back in practical styles suited more to tending plants than attending society, and she liked it that way.
Her eyes were a muted hazel-green, thoughtful rather than striking, and they were framed by long, dark lashes.
There was often soil faintly beneath her fingernails, no matter how carefully she cleaned them, and no amount of telling her to keep such a mess at bay was enough to make it so.
A letter lay folded on the worktable behind her, unopened. It had arrived from yet another gentleman her father considered suitable.
She had already read such a letter twice before, and both times the conclusion had been the same. There was nothing offensive in it, nothing unkind, and somehow that made it worse. It was difficult to be unkind to someone who was not technically deserving of it, but she had to be true to herself.
She had intended to reply. She had even dipped her pen into ink and placed it over fresh paper, only to find that every sentence she attempted felt too cruel to send. In the end, she had left the paper blank and returned to her plants instead.
She was adjusting a trailing vine along its support when the greenhouse door opened behind her. She did not turn immediately, as she already knew who it was.
“Eleanor.”
Her father’s voice carried the same disappointment it always had, the kind that did not require volume to command attention. The Marquess of Hartley was in his late fifties with dark hair heavily streaked with grey, kept short and evenly trimmed.
His eyes were dark brown and steady, set deep under a pronounced brow, and the lines on his skin showed signs of aging that Eleanor had only just begun to truly notice. She straightened slowly, wiping her hands on a cloth before turning to face him.
He did not look at the plants for long. His attention, as always, settled on her as though she were a matter that had not yet been properly resolved.
“Good morning, Father,” she said evenly.
He gave a brief nod in return, not unkind, but distant in a way that had long since ceased to surprise her.
“I have received a letter today,” he said without preamble. “It is a request for you.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened slightly around the cloth in her hand.
“Regarding what?”
“You know what it is regarding,” he replied. “Do not feign ignorance.”
“I told you I would not accept another proposal sent without my consideration,” she said carefully. “And so I do not know what there could have been to discuss.”
“And I told you that consideration has been given. You are not a child, Eleanor. You are twenty-two years old, and you have declined every suitable arrangement presented to you.”
“I have declined those I do not wish to enter into,” she corrected.
“That is precisely the problem,” he said. “You are treating marriage as though it is a matter of preference.”
Eleanor exhaled slowly, setting the cloth down on the table so that her hands would not betray her irritation.
“Is it not? Marriage is everything to a lady, or at least that is what I have been led to believe. Surely that means I should have a say?”
“For most women, it is security,” he said. “For our family, it is necessity.”
She looked at him for a long moment, as though searching for something familiar in him and not finding it.
“It is settled,” he continued. “I will no longer allow you to jeopardize not only your future, but mine as well.”
The word landed heavily between them. Eleanor turned slightly away, looking instead at the nearest bench where a pale green seedling trembled faintly in its pot.
Eleanor could feel the tightness in her chest, the familiar pressure that came whenever her life was discussed as though she were not the one living it.
“I am not refusing marriage,” she said, her voice quieter but firmer. “I am refusing to be handed off into an arrangement without even the courtesy of choice.”
Her father studied her for a moment, as though weighing whether this was defiance or her not knowing what else to say. He clearly did not know, and Eleanor did not blame him, for she was not entirely certain either.
“There is a difference between choice and indulgence,” he said at last.
“And do you believe I have indulged myself?”
“I believe,” he replied, “that you have been permitted too much time to do something that is impossible. You will not find love, Eleanor. It does not exist, and the sooner you accept that, the better it will be for both of us.”
A silence followed that time did not soften. Finally, he stepped further into the greenhouse, though only slightly, as though unwilling to be fully surrounded.
“You will meet the man that I have chosen for you,” he said. “And you will do so properly. This matter is no longer open to discussion.”
“You have already decided him for me, then.”
“I have secured your future. It would not pain you too greatly for you to simply thank me.”
Eleanor could not believe that, with what he had done, he expected gratitude. She was not grateful to be handed off to the highest bidder, nor pleased to be forced out of the only home she had ever known.
He would have the knowledge that his family line was secure, and he would no longer have anyone but himself to take care of, but what would she be left with?
“You will adapt,” he said.
He turned as if the conversation had concluded, already stepping back toward the door.
“I expect you to be ready for correspondence within the week,” he added. “Do not make this more difficult than it needs to be. You are too grown now to continue with these flights of fancy that you insist upon having.”
Eleanor’s shears paused mid-cut.
“I beg your pardon?” she said at last, setting the plant she had been tending back into place.
His gaze moved briefly over the rows of plants, the haven that she had built there, and then returned to her as though none of it mattered in comparison to what he had come to say.
“It is my duty to put an end to them,” he continued.
“I am not certain what you believe I am doing that requires ending,” she said evenly.
“Pretending that your life is not already determined. There are dozens of young ladies in your exact position. You do not get to be an exception to the rule.”
“And what might that rule be?”
“You will marry the man that I have deemed best for you, and you will do so without complaint. There is a duke in search of a bride, and you are going to marry him.”
The words did not land all at once. They arrived in pieces, each one echoing in her mind without helping her understand at all.
Eleanor’s grip loosened on the shears in her hand, though she did not drop them.
She had seen what happened when they hit toes, and she would avoid such a fate at any cost.
“I have never met him,” she said.
“That is irrelevant. I am securing your future.”
A faint, disbelieving breath left her before she could stop it.
“At my expense.”
Her father’s expression did not change.
“At the only expense that can be ignored. This is the most suitable proposal you will receive. That alone should tell you enough.”
Eleanor looked away then, not because she was conceding, but because the steadiness in his voice made it clear there was no use arguing, for he would not yield. Even so, she could not let the matter rest without a fight.
“And what if he is a beast and I want no part in it?”
“You will endure,” he said simply. “You are not a child to be indulged any longer. These preferences of yours have delayed what is necessary for far too long.”
Her chest tightened at the word indulged, though she kept herself under control. She turned slightly away from him, back toward the bench where her tools lay neatly arranged, as though returning to routine might restore balance.
“Very well, I will not make a scene,” she said after a moment. “If this is already decided, then I will not refuse it publicly.”
Her father gave a small nod, as though this was the correct response. He was not one for praise, and so that was the closest thing to it that she received, but it felt meaningless.
“There is one condition,” she added.
“Go on.”
“My botanical work,” she said. “I will continue it.”
“If the duke is as absent from his estate as I have been led to believe, I see no reason why you cannot occupy yourself with your little garden. After all, it is not as though his gardener will feel replaced.”
The phrasing stung more than she expected. She was good with plants, excellent even. It was the one thing she was confident with, and yet it meant nothing to her only remaining family member.
She did not respond. Instead, she simply nodded once, the smallest possible acknowledgment that the conversation had reached its conclusion. After he left, the greenhouse felt too large for her body.
Eleanor stood very still for a long time, the shears still in her hand, though she no longer remembered when she had last been using them. Only when her fingers began to tremble did she set the tool down.
She moved then, going to her room and gathering what she would need. Her books were packed first, then pressed specimens, then the small collection of notebooks where she had written thoughts she had not intended anyone else to read.
Her hands hesitated only once, over a dried flower pressed between the pages of an old journal, its color long faded.
She stared at it for a moment longer than she meant to, and for a brief, dangerous instant, hope rose in her chest. It was not what she wanted, but perhaps it would at least be an escape.
She closed the book before it could take root, and continued packing.
The door opened softly.
“Miss Eleanor?”
Her lady’s maid, Bessie Whitfield, stepped inside with her usual careful brightness, pausing just long enough to assess the room before fully entering.
She was only just twenty, and still had an optimism that had not yet left her.
Her hair was light brown and curly, though it was usually tied back in a ribboned bun, and her eyes were a warm brown with a noticeable brightness to them.
They widened easily when she spoke or listened, and though her traits were technically plain, Eleanor thought that she was beautiful. She entered with a basket on her arm and a tray in her hands, though she seemed to have forgotten it all the moment she saw Eleanor’s expression.
“There you are,” Bessie said gently, closing the door behind her. “I brought your tea.”
Eleanor looked up, though not fully.
“Thank you, but I am not hungry.”
“That is all right,” Bessie replied at once. “You do not have to be hungry to sit with tea.”
There was a pause in which Bessie studied her more carefully. Whatever she saw there made her smile falter slightly, though she did not let it disappear entirely.
“Your father came through the lower corridor earlier. Some of the staff said he looked very determined.”
“That would be one way to describe it,” Eleanor said.
“Then it is true that you are to marry?”
“Indeed. I have read the letter myself.”
“Do not lose hope,” Bessie said quickly. “People say things are decided all the time, and then they change their minds.”
“My father does not change his mind.”
Bessie hesitated, then tried again, a little more carefully.
“Well…you might find him tolerable. The duke, I mean. People do say things about him, but no one really knows him, do they?”
Eleanor turned her head slightly at that, finally looking at her. Bessie meant well and was only trying to make her feel better, but it was not helping.
“And,” Bessie said after a moment, “you might end up surprised. He could be perfectly pleasant, or at least not unpleasant. That is something, is it not?”
Eleanor looked down at her hands again.
“I am not concerned with whether he is pleasant,” she said. “I am concerned with the fact that I was not asked.”
“Still,” she said gently, “it might not be as dreadful as you think. Marriages like this often become steady. Familiar. People grow into them.”
“I do not wish to grow into something I did not choose.”
Bessie looked at her then, and for the first time her certainty wavered.
“Lady Eleanor…”
Eleanor shook her head slightly, cutting off whatever reassurance had been forming.
“Do not misunderstand me. I am not frightened of marriage itself.”
“Then what is it?” Bessie asked softly.
“It is the expectation that acceptance will be enough.”
Bessie did not respond immediately to that. Instead, she reached over and gently nudged the basket closer to Eleanor, as though it might help.
“You could still find peace in it,” she said after a moment. “Even if it does not begin that way.”
Eleanor’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“And so you also believe that I should be resigned to my fate,” she said quietly.
“Or perhaps I just refuse to believe everything must hurt.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke, then Eleanor stood. She moved toward the desk where her things were scattered, gathering a small stack of notebooks and pressing them together more firmly than necessary.
“I appreciate your optimism,” she said at last, her voice carefully controlled. “I wish that I could share it. Instead, I am to go to my new home within the week, and that will be the end of it.”
The words lingered between them.
Bessie did not argue after that. She simply stepped forward and picked up the abandoned tea again.
“If you change your mind,” she said gently, “I will bring you another.”
“Thank you, Bessie.”
And once she was alone again, Eleanor sat in the silence and wondered if that was how her life was to pass from then on. Silent, just as the men in her life liked her to be.