Chapter 17
At Mrs. Pembroke’s suggestion, luncheon was carried outside to the south lawn the following afternoon.
Long tables had been arranged beneath ancient oaks overlooking the gardens Eleanor had worked so tirelessly to restore, and she had to admit that there truly was a vast difference, which might have given her a sense of pride under other circumstances.
It was meant to be an informal gathering for the house guests, a pleasant respite before everyone departed for London later in the week, and so she tried to forget her troubles for a while.
She spoke politely with Henry Fairfax about the roses beginning to bloom along the western wall, and listened with genuine amusement as he described one of his latest failed attempts at managing his own estate.
He brought a sense of normalcy to her life that she was grateful for, and she was pleased to consider him a friend.
“I am beginning to suspect,” Henry said gravely, “that sheep are considerably more clever than I am.”
“I cannot imagine that.”
“It is unfortunately true. One escaped three weeks ago, in spite of my best efforts.”
“Only one?”
Henry sighed dramatically.
“That is the tragedy. It might not have been so terrible, but we still have not found the creature.”
She laughed, the sound escaping before she could stop it.
“I hope it eventually returns.”
“It actually did one day, believe it or not.”
Her smile widened.
“Oh?”
“To my neighbor’s pasture. It escaped again before we could catch it.”
Eleanor shook her head, laughing again. Their conversation was interrupted as Thornton quietly approached Henry to ask him a question regarding accommodations for his departure. Henry excused himself with an apologetic smile.
“I shall return before someone else steals all the strawberries.”
“You had better hurry. I hear sheep are partial to them.”
He laughed at that, and then she watched him disappear toward the house, still smiling faintly. Only then did her gaze wander across the lawn.
Alexander stood some distance away beneath the shade of an elm, with Cordelia Ashworth opposite him. They were not alone; several guests lingered nearby, yet somehow the rest of the gathering faded from Eleanor’s awareness as she watched Cordelia lean slightly toward him while she spoke.
Alexander answered quietly, and Cordelia laughed comfortably.
It was so familiar that Eleanor looked away almost at once, silently scolding herself for caring so deeply about it.
There was nothing improper about the exchange.
They stood at a perfectly respectable distance, speaking exactly as old acquaintances ought to speak, and yet the sight settled uncomfortably inside her.
She reached for her teacup, only to discover that her fingers tightened around the delicate handle far more firmly than necessary. When she looked back again, Cordelia was still smiling.
Alexander had not smiled in return, yet he had not ended the conversation or walked away, either. He was clearly happy enough to be there, and his not looking for Eleanor in return was proof enough of that.
Something tightened painfully beneath Eleanor’s ribs. She lowered her eyes to the untouched food before her, willing herself to think sensibly.
He owed Cordelia nothing beyond courtesy, and he certainly owed Eleanor nothing beyond the respect they had promised one another when they married. She repeated those truths to herself several times, yet they did nothing to quiet the unwelcome burning that continued to spread through her chest.
“Eleanor?”
She lifted her head to find Julian Sinclair standing beside her chair, his arrival so quiet that she had not noticed him crossing the lawn.
“I was beginning to think you had forgotten how pleasant an afternoon could be.”
“I had not,” she replied. “Though I must admit that I was expecting to have more to do.”
“Then perhaps you should walk with me?”
“No.”
His smile barely faltered.
“You did once.”
“I do not now.”
Julian rested one hand lightly against the back of the empty chair beside her and regarded her with a lopsided grin.
“You seem remarkably determined to avoid me.”
“I am. I would never claim the contrary.”
He chuckled as though she had offered an amusing observation rather than a dismissal.
“You cannot resent me forever.”
“I do not resent you.”
“No?”
“No, I simply see you differently than I once did.”
For the first time, a faint crack appeared in Julian’s confidence.
“You make me sound terrible.”
“I think you have managed that without my assistance.”
She rose from her chair, smoothing the skirts of her gown before looking at him one final time.
“If you will excuse me.”
Julian watched her walk away but made no attempt to follow her. Eleanor had scarcely taken more than a few steps when another familiar voice reached her.
“I should like it noted,” Henry said cheerfully as he fell into step beside her, “that I rescued the strawberries.”
She glanced at him, grateful for the interruption despite herself. A small laugh escaped her, which caught her by surprise.
“I am delighted to hear it.”
Henry looked at her from the corner of his eye, his easy smile remaining, though he seemed to be studying her more than he had been before.
“I was beginning to think you were not enjoying the afternoon.”
She kept her eyes ahead as they strolled slowly toward the gardens.
“It has simply become rather...long.”
“So it has.”
Henry allowed a comfortable silence to settle between them before speaking again.
“You know,” he said lightly, “Alexander has always possessed an unfortunate habit.”
Eleanor looked at him curiously.
“What habit is that?”
“He insists upon carrying the weight of the entire world himself. It is a remarkable talent, though an entirely useless one.”
“That does sound like him. It must be exhausting.”
Henry laughed softly.
“It is exhausting to witness. I have spent years attempting to convince him that sharing a burden does not diminish a man. Thus far, I cannot claim much success.”
Eleanor’s smile lingered a little longer as they continued toward the gardens together, and though the ache in her chest remained, it no longer felt quite so heavy beneath Henry’s easy companionship.
He continued beside her with the same easy manner that had always seemed untouched by the burdens weighing down everyone else.
He spoke of his estate with exaggerated despair, describing his latest failed attempt at managing his tenants with the same theatrical misery he used whenever recounting his own mistakes.
“And then the tenant informed me, with remarkable patience, that wheat does not, in fact, grow simply because one asks politely. I told him I had hoped such encouragement might produce better results than lectures, but it would seem that neither idea makes a bit of difference.”
Eleanor offered a small smile, though her attention remained somewhere far beyond the path ahead of them.
Henry’s stories were amusing, and under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed every ridiculous detail, but her thoughts continued returning to the image of Alexander standing beneath the elm tree with Cordelia beside him.
She could still see the ease between them.
That was what unsettled her most. There had been nothing in their conversation that a reasonable person could object to.
They had simply looked like two people who knew one another well, and Eleanor hated that such a simple thing could trouble her so deeply.
Cordelia had known him before the war, before the weight of responsibility had settled upon his shoulders and turned him into the distant, controlled man Eleanor was still trying to understand. She knew the man Alexander had once been, but Eleanor barely knew the man he was now.
“...which is why I shall never again permit a goose inside my library.”
The absurdity of the statement finally pulled her attention back.
“I beg your pardon?”
Henry glanced toward her, amusement evident in his expression.
“I said I shall never again permit a goose inside my library.”
A faint flush touched her cheeks as she realized how little of his story she had followed.
“I apologize. I fear I have been a poor listener.”
“On the contrary, I believe I have been a poor storyteller if I could not compete with whatever thoughts have occupied your mind.”
“There is nothing of consequence troubling me.”
“My dear duchess,” Henry replied with a knowing smile, “that is almost certainly not true.”
Eleanor looked away, unwilling to offer an explanation she did not fully understand herself. Henry, thankfully, did not push. He allowed the conversation to drift until his next words caught her attention more effectively than any question could have done.
“I remember the first time Alexander announced he intended to marry Lady Cordelia.”
The mention of her name immediately drew Eleanor’s gaze back to him.
“We were scarcely more than boys,” Henry continued. “Although Alexander behaved as though he had already spent a lifetime carrying responsibilities that belonged to men twice his age. I remember telling him that he looked about as enthusiastic as a gentleman informed of his own execution.”
“You truly said that?”
“I did.”
“And what did he say?”
Henry laughed quietly.
“He told me that marriage was a duty, not something to look forward to.”
Eleanor could almost hear Alexander saying the words himself.
“That does sound like him.”
“I spent years attempting to convince him that life was not merely a list of obligations to complete. I told him he ought to seek happiness occasionally. He considered the suggestion, with great seriousness of course, and then proceeded to ignore it.”
“I cannot imagine him doing otherwise.”
“Neither can I.”
Henry’s face softened as they continued walking.
“I know what you are thinking.”
Eleanor glanced at him.
“Do you?”
“I suspect you are wondering whether there was something between Alexander and Cordelia that you do not know about.”
She did not answer, and that was answer enough. Henry sighed lightly.
“They have a history, that much is true, but history does not always mean what people assume it means.”
Eleanor listened quietly. She did not dare say a word in case it made him stop explaining something that she truly did want to know more about.
“Cordelia admired Alexander because he was everything society expected him to be, and Alexander admired her because she fit perfectly into the future everyone had already chosen for him.”
“And that was enough?”
Henry considered the question.
“I do not know that either of them ever asked themselves whether it was enough.”
The honesty of the answer surprised her.
“Were they unhappy?”
“I would not say unhappy. But I would not say they were particularly joyful either. People often confuse peace with happiness, and Alexander was very good at creating peace.”
The words lingered. Eleanor wished that she could ignore them, but it was no use.
“Eleanor,” he said after a moment, his tone gentler, “I hope you know that your presence here has changed more than you realize.”
“I do not understand.”
“I have known Alexander for most of my life. I have seen him after loss, after the war, after all of the disappointment that a man can face. I have watched him convince himself that feeling less meant suffering less. But I have also watched him around you.”
Eleanor’s expression softened despite herself.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the way that he looks at you. I am not the only one that has seen it, either.”
She looked away.
“Surely it is nothing remarkable.”
“On the contrary. He does not notice much beyond duty unless someone forces him to, yet he knows when you enter a room. He knows when you are unhappy. Those things matter, and though you might not wish to admit it, you must see it too.”
A warmth she did not expect settled inside her.
“Do you truly believe that?”
“I know it.”
The certainty in his voice made it difficult to dismiss. For a brief moment, Eleanor allowed herself to imagine that perhaps she had not been entirely alone in what she felt. Then Henry’s expression shifted back into amusement.
“Unfortunately, I shall not be here to witness the results of my observations.”
“Are you leaving?”
“For a time. My brother has once again managed to involve himself in matters abroad, and apparently I am the only person capable of ensuring he survives his own decisions.”
A small laugh escaped her.
“He sounds very much like you.”
“I am wounded by the comparison.”
“You are not.”
“No,” Henry admitted. “But I enjoy pretending.”
Her smile remained as they continued toward the house.
“So what will you do while you are away?”
“Travel, endure my brother’s questionable judgment, and hope that when I return, I shall find Alexander slightly less determined to be miserable.”
“And how do you propose that will happen?”
“I shall leave that assignment entirely in your capable hands.”
“That seems terribly unfair.”
“And yet you will manage, of that I am certain.”
She shook her head, still smiling, though the heaviness from earlier had not disappeared completely. Beneath the warmth Henry had given her, the same painful uncertainty remained waiting. When they returned to the gathering, her attention moved across the lawn before she could stop herself.
Alexander remained standing beneath the elm tree with Cordelia. She was speaking with a graceful confidence that suggested she had never doubted her place beside him, not in the way that Eleanor always had. When she laughed, Alexander did not join her, but he was clearly listening.
Eleanor looked down at the glass in her hand, her fingers tightening around the stem as an uncomfortable thought settled over her.
Perhaps, she considered, she had been foolish to believe she could simply step into Alexander’s life and not be affected by everything that came before her.
Perhaps she had been foolish to think her heart was only capable of holding one unresolved attachment.
She had once believed she needed to forget Julian Sinclair. Standing there and watching the woman who had once been promised a future by Alexander’s side, however, she wondered if she would eventually have to learn how to forget her own husband as well.
The thought hurt more than she wanted to admit.