Eleanor

SYLVIA ANDREW

Eleanor

MILLS & BOON

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With love to my friends Joan and Brian Robinson

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

Eleanor had never seen anything so beautiful. The crystal drops in the huge chandelier splintered the flames from its candles into a million points of sparkling light. It was like…like fireworks frozen in the air, like all the stars in the Milky Way gathered together. It was worth coming to London just to see this. A fairy-tale enchantment…

‘Eleanor, my dear, Lady Dorothy and her daughter wish to speak to you!’ Eleanor was recalled to a more mundane reality by the sound of her aunt’s voice. Without waiting for her niece, Lady Walcot had moved on a few paces in the direction of a dowager with a haughty air and an imposing turban, complete with feathers.

Eleanor gave a small sigh and started to follow, but stopped again when she became aware that a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, hard features was staring at her from the other side of the room. He would have been an impressive figure in any circumstances, but what made him even more striking was the fact that in this crowded room he was standing quite alone.

As her eye caught his, he raised one eyebrow and smiled ironically. He was laughing at her! Of course, she had been behaving like the country bumpkin her cousins accused her of being, gazing like a moonstruck idiot at the chandelier, but she was not about to be put out of countenance by this creature’s boldness! She raised her chin, gave him a cool stare, and then turned away to join her aunt and Lady Dorothy.

After exchanging civilities with Lady Walcot and agreeing, with every sign of pleasure, that the rooms were sadly crowded, Lady Dorothy said with a significant movement of her head, ‘I see that he is back in London.’

‘He?’ said Lady Walcot blankly. Then her puzzled expression changed to one of disapprobation. ‘Is he here now?’

‘Come, Lady Walcot! You must have noticed him.’

‘No, where?’

‘Further down on the other side of the room—you passed him as you came in. He is quite on his own, of course. How he has the effrontery to show himself I cannot imagine!’ The ladies turned and stared down the room. Eleanor looked too, but more discreetly. The tall man was gazing indifferently at the passing crowd, but when he became conscious of those two icy stares directed down the room at him he bowed ironically. Whatever the gentleman lacked it was not self-assurance, thought Eleanor with some amusement.

‘The impertinence!’ said Lady Dorothy as she turned back again, outraged. ‘But, my dear Lady Walcot, there is worse. Mrs Anstey is here tonight, too. I only hope the poor woman is not brought face to face with him—that would be most unfortunate. In a moment I shall seek her out and warn her.’

‘Indeed you must!’

Most of the sense of this conversation was lost on Eleanor, though it was certain that the two ladies were talking of the man who had smiled at her. Her aunt seemed to be genuinely worried by his presence, but beneath her display of righteous indignation Lady Dorothy was relishing the idea of seeking this Mrs Anstey out to warn her. Lady Dorothy had never forgotten that she was the daughter of a duke, and that marrying Edwin Rushton—a mere commoner—in no way diminished her right to order the lives of those around her. When they had last met, Eleanor had thought her an uncharitable busybody, and she now saw that the years did not appear to have mellowed or changed her. She sighed and waited patiently until the lady turned to her.

‘Miss Southeran. How nice to see you in London again. Are you here for the season? I believe your mama is not with you?’

‘I am a little old for that, Lady Dorothy,’ said Eleanor with a polite smile. ‘No, I merely came to take part in my cousin Bella’s wedding celebrations. But I must go back soon—I have been away too long already. My mother is now something of an invalid, and I worry about her.’

Lady Dorothy’s daughter, a pretty, fair-haired girl with doll-like features, cried, ‘But how can you bear it, Miss Southeran? To be leaving London just as the season is beginning!’

‘Be silent, Maria! Miss Southeran will do as she ought. No doubt she regrets having to leave London at any time, but it is not as if she were a girl in her first season. As I recall, you came out the same year as my Charlotte, did you not?’ said Lady Dorothy, turning to Eleanor again with a crocodile smile. ‘Let me see, that must have been seven or eight years ago. How time flies! Has your aunt told you that Charlotte is now the mother of three charming little girls?’

‘Indeed she has, ma’am. And how happy Charlotte is in her marriage.’

‘It is fortunate. She was always a good, obedient girl, of course, and would never have dreamt of refusing Lord Crawford’s offer. Her father and I would not have permitted it. But as it happens the match has turned out very well.’ She turned to her youngest daughter. ‘I hope you are paying heed, Maria! Miss Southeran here had just the same opportunities as Charlotte, but I am sorry to say that she wasted them all. Indeed your own brother Arthur was quite taken with her for a while. I dare swear she now regrets her foolishness and wishes she too had an establishment and children of her own!’

Eleanor replied calmly, ‘If I could have been sure of making your son as happy as Charlotte is in her marriage, I would have accepted his very flattering offer, Lady Dorothy. But I am persuaded that his second choice of partner was a better one for him. As for the rest—you will perhaps remember that I had to leave London halfway through the season, when my brother died. I have not been back between then and now.’

Eleanor’s voice might have been calm, but her aunt, observing the faint colour rising in her niece’s cheeks, intervened hastily. ‘I am sure that no daughter could have been more loving or more dutiful than Eleanor, Lady Dorothy. I have done my best to keep her in London a little longer, even pleaded with her to keep me company for a while now that Bella has left me, but she insists that her mother needs her.’

‘I suppose that is understandable—London must seem strangely noisy after so many years in the depths of the country. For myself, I cannot imagine what it would be like to live so far from any really civilised society—very tame, I dare swear. Arthur and his wife live with me, of course, in the centre of town. They are forever entertaining and visiting. But now, if you will forgive me, I really must go in search of Mrs Anstey. Enjoy the rest of your stay, Miss Southeran! Perhaps we shall see you again. Come, Maria.’ As Lady Dorothy sailed away with Maria in tow, Eleanor let her breath out in a long sigh.

‘I had forgotten how odious that woman is.’

‘Eleanor!’

‘Well, she is, Aunt Hetty. I am willing to wager that Arthur is as much under her thumb now as he was seven years ago. I pity his poor wife.’

It was clear that Lady Walcot agreed with her niece, but was not about to say so. Instead she changed the subject. ‘Would you like me to find you a dancing partner, Eleanor?’

‘Do you think you could? At my great age? Lady Dorothy would think it most unlikely.’

‘Eleanor, you let your tongue run away with you—you always did. It is not becoming in you to make fun of your elders, and especially not Lady Dorothy. In any case,’ she went on, somewhat spoiling her effect, ‘you are as handsome now as you ever were, and I am sure I shall have no difficulty at all in finding someone to dance with you.’ As they walked up the room she went on, ‘But I confess that I wish I could be happier about your future! Since you refuse to stay here in London, I suppose you must look for a husband in Somerset.’ She sounded so doubtful about the idea that Eleanor burst out laughing.

‘You are right to rate my chances low, Aunt Hetty! The young men of Somerset have younger, richer game to pursue—when they are not pursuing real game, or shooting pigeons, or…or…whatever they spend their time doing. Truth to tell, I find them rather boring! But pray do not concern yourself on my account. Mama and I are quite happy together. And you know that I have always loved Stanyards.’

Lady Walcot stopped by a quiet alcove. ‘My dear, it isn’t enough!’ she said earnestly. ‘A woman’s best chance of security lies in a suitable marriage.’

‘Such as one to Arthur Rushton, perhaps?’ asked Eleanor with a slight curl of the lip.

‘Why not? He is rich—or will be one day. And from what I hear young Mrs Rushton has a handsome allowance and any number of servants to look after her. And she has her children. It is a pity that her nerves do not always permit her to enjoy her advantages…’

‘You see? No, Aunt Hetty. I think I am happier in my tame country existence than I could ever be in Clara Rushton’s place.’

‘Happiness is not the sole aim of marriage, Eleanor. Not even the chief aim.’

‘Isn’t it? I think it is the only one.’

‘What nonsense you talk! Pray be serious for one moment! If you would only put yourself into my hands I could almost certainly find you a suitable husband here in London.’

‘Well, then, I promise you, when I feel the need of one I shall come to you first of all! But for now I shall look around me and enjoy the spectacle of London society amusing itself. The memory of it will console my tame country evenings.’

Lady Walcot shook her head at her niece’s refusal to be serious, but decided to say no more, and they resumed their walk down the room. It was a magnificent apartment, lavishly furnished in red velvet with a richly decorated white and gold ceiling. Eleanor found it slightly overpowering—vulgar even, but dared not say so. The chandelier was lovely, though. She looked up at it as they passed, and nearly walked into her aunt as that lady suddenly stopped. The stranger from the other side of the room was standing in front of them.

‘Lady Walcot—’ Eleanor’s aunt looked coldly at the gentleman but said nothing. He continued, ‘We met at my cousin’s house in Berkeley Square. My name is Guthrie. I should like to ask your companion to dance with me.’

‘Thank you, sir, but my niece does not intend to dance this evening—not at the moment, at least,’ said Lady Walcot frostily.

Perhaps the gentlemen saw Eleanor’s astonishment, for he made no move to go, but said gently, ‘Forgive me, but how can you possibly know? You haven’t even asked her.’

‘I would not dream of doing so, sir. I know that to have any closer acquaintance with a man such as yourself would be as abhorrent to her as it would to me, or to any woman of principle. And now you must excuse us, if you please. Come, Eleanor!’ She took Eleanor’s arm and almost dragged her niece away. Eleanor couldn’t help casting a glance over her shoulder at the stranger to see his reaction to this massive set-down. He was gazing after them with the same ironical smile on his face. Then he shrugged and walked calmly towards the door to the rooms where the card tables were to be found.

‘My dear aunt, you must, you really must explain! I shall explode with curiosity if you do not! Who is this monster called Guthrie? You and Lady Dorothy were talking about him before, were you not? What has he done that puts him so far beyond the pale? Tell me!’

Lady Walcot hesitated, then shook her head. She and Eleanor were sitting at one of a number of small tables which had been placed in the conservatory, and Lord Walcot, who had joined them for supper, was fetching some refreshment.

‘That is impossible, Eleanor. The story is not a suitable one, but at the risk of setting your back up I assure you that that man is not a fit acquaintance for you.’

‘Oh, come! I am not a simple schoolroom miss. As Lady Dorothy so kindly said, I am well past my first season! I need a better reason than that for not being allowed to dance with him!’

Lady Walcot looked even more determined. ‘I am afraid that you must do without one, Eleanor. All I will say is that his treatment of the Anstey family has been wicked.’

‘Can you tell me, at least, who these Ansteys are?’

‘Mrs Anstey and her younger daughter, Marianne, are sitting over there in the far corner. The poor woman is trying to make herself inconspicuous.’

Eleanor turned her head a fraction and saw a pale, sweet-faced woman in black, almost hidden by the overhanging branch of a potted palm. Next to her sat a very beautiful girl in a pale blue dress. ‘Marianne Anstey is exquisite! She looks like a fairy princess!’

‘Absolutely lovely, I agree. They have aroused a great deal of attention since their arrival from America. The girl is certain to make a good marriage, although they are as poor as church mice, and totally dependent on their relatives.’

‘What did Mr Guthrie do?’

‘I cannot discuss it now—here is your uncle. All you really need to know is that the man is a scoundrel.’

‘Who is this scoundrel?’ asked Lord Walcot. ‘No, let me guess. Jonas Guthrie, without a doubt. Why can’t you leave him alone, Hetty? From what he says, Guthrie has decided to leave London soon and retire to the country. And I must say I don’t blame him! Lady Dorothy and her cronies—’

‘Cronies!’

‘I beg your pardon, my dear, I forgot you were one of them—I should have said her friends! You’ve all been making life impossible for the poor devil with your scandalous stories about the Ansteys—not that he needs anyone’s sympathy; he’s well able to take care of himself.’

Eleanor, swift to seize her opportunity, asked, ‘You do not agree with the stories, then, Uncle?’

‘We don’t know enough of the matter to judge, my dear. It’s possible that Guthrie is a villain—I suspect he’s no weakling, and he certainly isn’t a fool—but I have found him to be perfectly straightforward in his dealings with me.’

‘Are you suggesting that that sweet woman is not telling the truth when she says that Jonas Guthrie is the cause of all her misfortunes?’ asked Lady Walcot, bristling.

‘Not at all. I’m certain Mrs Anstey believes every word she tells you. How much she understands of business affairs is another matter. But this is the most idle speculation, and not fit for an evening of enjoyment! Come, Eleanor, if your aunt won’t do her duty and find you a partner, I shall dance with you myself.’

Since Lord Walcot was generally considered to be the best performer of the waltz in London, Eleanor rose with alacrity and accompanied her uncle into the ballroom. Though she looked somewhat nervously around her in case Mr Guthrie should be watching, there was no trace of him. He had not, it seemed, found anyone else to dance with. Perhaps he had not tried?

They returned to her uncle’s house in South Audley Street that evening without any further mention of Mr Guthrie. But her aunt’s somewhat high-handed action had roused Eleanor’s spirit and she was determined to find out more about him. She waited until Lady Walcot was in her bedroom and then went along to visit her. They discussed the evening for a moment or two, then Eleanor said, ‘About Mr Guthrie, Aunt…?’

‘Why are you so fascinated by the subject of Mr Guthrie? I would much rather forget him—he is an unworthy topic of conversation.’

‘But you must see that I am consumed with curiosity! Now that we are private, can you not tell me why you refused to let me dance with him, when just a minute before you had said you would find me a partner? I am not Bella, Aunt Hetty. I am not accustomed to being treated like a child.’

Lady Walcot looked in affectionate exasperation at her niece. ‘My dear Eleanor, you may be six-and-twenty, but you are still a young, unmarried woman! Oh, I know that you have been more or less in charge of Stanyards ever since you were a girl. I am sure anyone would admire the devoted manner in which you have looked after your mother—’

‘There is no cause for admiration there, Aunt Hetty—I adore her!’

‘—and managed the Stanyards estate—’

‘I adore that, too!’

‘Be quiet and let me finish, Eleanor!’ said her aunt, smiling. But she quickly grew serious again. ‘I have been thinking for some time that I should say something to you, and this seems to be a good occasion. Come and sit by me, my dear.’ She thought for a moment, then, taking one of Eleanor’s hands in hers, she said carefully, ‘The…somewhat unusual circumstances of your upbringing have given you an independence of mind which you do not trouble to hide. And of course this same independence has recently stood you in good stead while you have struggled to keep the Stanyards estate going. But, sadly, it is not generally regarded as a desirable quality in a young woman, and I fear it does not endear you to prospective suitors—nor to society in general.’

‘Father always said I should think for myself, Aunt Hetty—’

Lady Walcot gave a small exclamation of impatience and said with sisterly scorn, ‘Your father always had his head too high in the clouds to be a judge of anything. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to him that that is the last thing to teach a young girl! Neither he nor your mother ever had the slightest idea of what goes on in the real world.’

Eleanor removed her hand. ‘We were very happy, all the same.’

‘But what now? Here you are—a very pretty girl, but six-and-twenty and no sign of a husband. Why on earth didn’t they insist that that brother of yours run the estate if your father didn’t wish to? Why leave it to you? It is no occupation for a woman!’

‘Since both my father and my brother are now dead, it is difficult for them to reply, Aunt Hetty,’ said Eleanor, colouring up. ‘I loved my father, and my brother, just as they were. And I love looking after Stanyards—I always have.’ She got up and moved away. ‘Moreover, I came here to talk about Mr Guthrie, not about the shortcomings of my family.’

Aware that she had overstepped the mark in criticising her brother to his daughter, Lady Walcot accepted Eleanor’s reproach with grace. She said gently, ‘My dear, I was trying to help you, believe me. I wish you would abandon this interest in Mr Guthrie. It might be well to think over what I have said about your own behaviour, rather than speculating on that of a known scoundrel. I want to see you settled—married, with a future which is secure, not tied to an ailing estate.’

‘Ailing, Aunt Hetty? What do you mean? What do you mean by ailing?’

Lady Walcot looked at her niece sympathetically. ‘It is time that you faced facts, Eleanor.’

‘Stanyards is doing very well, and Mama and I are perfectly happy to live there together. I do not need a husband!’

‘Then there is no more to say—tonight, at least. I hope you will come to see things differently before it is too late, my child. Goodnight, Eleanor. I shall see you tomorrow.’ She turned away and rang for her maid.

Eleanor went back to her own room with a distinct feeling of grievance. How dared her aunt suggest that Stanyards’ future was not secure? It was true that it was not as prosperous now as it had been in her grandfather’s day, but it was still a handsome property. Eleanor dismissed uncomfortable thoughts of damp walls and decaying barns—they would soon be put right, just as soon as there was money for them. Quite soon, in fact.

And how could her aunt accuse her of not attempting to hide the fact that she had opinions of her own? That really wasn’t fair! Why, ever since she, Eleanor, had been in London, she had taken great pains to behave as Lady Walcot wished, though it had been far from easy. During interminable calls she had meekly listened to the vapid gossip which passed for conversation in Lady Walcot’s circles, had attended innumerable routs and parties at which she had confined her remarks to the conventionally obvious, had danced with young men who, in spite of their town bronze, were as limited in their interests as the young men back home in Somerset. She had begun to doubt that she would ever find anyone interesting in the whole of London! Yet she knew that outside her aunt’s narrow acquaintance there was a vast world full of interest and excitement waiting to be explored. It had all remained frustratingly closed to her. She thought she had been successful in hiding her impatience. It now appeared she had not.

Her mind returned to the subject of Mr Guthrie. What had he done that was so disgraceful? It was flattering that he had braved an inevitable snub to ask her to dance, and his boldness had intrigued her. But her interest in him might have remained slight if her aunt’s refusal to discuss him had not roused her curiosity and a feeling of rebellion at being treated like a child. She fell asleep with Mr Guthrie’s dark features floating before her eyes…

The next morning Eleanor rose at her usual time and, since she usually kept country hours, this was very much earlier than the rest of the household. Lady Walcot had tried in vain to convince her niece that it was highly unfashionable to be up and active before midday, but when that had proved impossible her indulgent uncle had arranged both a horse and a groom for his niece’s use, and Eleanor rode every morning. At this hour the park was usually pretty deserted, and the air comparatively fresh, and of all her activities in London these morning rides were her favourite. Lord Walcot, who sometimes accompanied her, was not up so early this morning, and Eleanor was alone except for her groom. This was a relief, for she was still wrestling with the spirit of rebellion which had been roused the night before. She made herself recall her aunt’s many kindnesses, she told herself that her aunt was wise in the ways of London society, and she finally reminded herself that she would shortly be back in Somerset where none of this would matter.

As for Mr Guthrie—she would probably never see him again, and it was better so. She nodded to herself. That was right—she would forget him, remove him from her mind. She urged her horse to a brisker pace and rode forward, aware of a feeling of virtue and common sense. She was therefore slightly disconcerted when Mr Guthrie drew in beside her and raised his hat. He appeared to bear her no ill-will and greeted her cheerfully. ‘Good morning, Miss Southeran. I see you are an early riser.’

The colour rose in Eleanor’s cheeks as her composure deserted her. ‘I am not sure, sir, that my aunt would approve of…of…’ Her voice died away as he looked at her with such quizzical amusement in his eyes that she found herself wanting to respond.

‘She wouldn’t want you even to bid a perfectly respectable acquaintance good morning? I find that hard to believe. Your aunt is a stickler for the rules, I’m sure.’ There was a dryness in his voice that roused Eleanor to defence.

‘I doubt very much that she would describe you as “perfectly respectable”, Mr Guthrie. My aunt may be a stickler, but I have never before heard her speak to anyone as she did to you last night.’ She stopped short. She had almost sounded apologetic! She added coolly, ‘I am sure she had good reason. Good day, sir.’