Page 101 of To Bed the Bride
It was evident that the housekeeper wanted her to understand that she was not alone. The next day Mrs. Campbell sent a contingent of maids to Eleanor’s room every hour on the hour to do something for her. She had her nails done. One of the maids helped style her newly washed hair with heated tongs. Two other maids brought her a selection of clothing from Logan’s sister. Often a maid arrived with some sort of wonderful selection of food from venison to fish to pastries.
“You have the most talented cook,” Eleanor said to one of the maids.
The girl had smiled. “You’re right, miss. Plus, Mrs. Campbell keeps her hand in. She makes pasties and all sorts of delicious things.”
Eleanor couldn’t have been cosseted any better unless she was the queen.
Logan hadn’t visited her and at first she didn’t question his absence. On the second day, however, she mentioned—as casually as she was able—that she would like to thank him for her rescue.
“He’ll be back as soon as he can,” Mrs. Campbell said. “He had to go to Scotland to see his uncle. The poor man isn’t doing well.”
How selfish she was to feel a surge of disappointment. Logan’s uncle evidently needed him, far more than she did. Besides, hopefully the next time Logan saw her she would look much better and would have recuperated from her imprisonment.
By the end of the week she felt a great deal more like herself. She agreed to Mrs. Campbell’s urging and wore one of Janet’s dresses. She’d never met the woman, but she would be certain to write her a letter of thanks.
She wondered how long it would be until she could obtain her own clothes.
None of her family had sent word to her, which was probably a blessing. Nor had she heard from Michael, but she doubted she ever would.
Living in Logan’s home was strangely comfortable. She didn’t feel like a guest or an intruder. Instead, Mrs. Campbell treated her like she was a member of the family, someone who was cherished and valued simply because of who she was—not because of what she could do for others.
For a week the only demand of her was for her to list her choice of entrée for her meals. Did she want venison or beef? Chicken or pork? Would she like scones for breakfast or blood pudding or both?
Although she didn’t belong here, it was the first place in London where she’d been so thoroughly and completely welcomed. Bruce kept her company whatever she did. He insisted on following her from room to room and even sleeping on the end of her bed.
The path forward was a little murky. She knew what she was going to do, but not exactly how she was going to do it. Deborah and the rest of the family didn’t enter into her plans. They’d made their choice known. Any familial loyalty she might have felt for them had been burned away because of their greed. They’d chosen Michael rather than her.
One afternoon, after asking Mrs. Campbell if she might borrow some stationery, she was directed to Logan’s study.
The room was not unlike the decorations in the rest of the house. Very tasteful with touches of Scotland. On one wall was a portrait of a man and woman dressed in clothing of an earlier time. She wondered if they were Logan’s parents. Another portrait, hanging not far away, was of a lovely young woman with two children. A man around the same age stood behind them, smiling. This must be Janet because her eyes were like Logan’s and her smile matched his.
A family crest, complete with lions rampant, hung behind Logan’s mahogany desk.
She sat in his large leather chair, feeling dwarfed. She felt like she was trespassing despite what Mrs. Campbell said.
“Himself won’t mind it a bit.”
Mrs. Campbell had provided her with a sizable box of stationery, also left behind by Janet. The stack of ivory vellum sheets was perfumed with blotting paper scented by roses.
She had to write her family, but she didn’t know what to say. How could she possibly communicate what she felt? Rage, grief, confusion, disbelief—they were all rolled up like a tangled ball of yarn. She couldn’t possibly untangle it.
Perhaps it would be better to simply ask for her clothes. There, a task she could accomplish.
She wouldn’t comment on the events that had transpired in her aunt’s home. Nor would she allow herself to vent any of the rage she felt at her treatment. Neither Deborah nor Hamilton were ever going to know how dispirited she had been and how close she’d come to capitulating to their demands.
Logan had rescued her. Not only from that situation, but an abysmal future. How could she ever adequately thank him?
That was another task she’d give herself when the time came. For now she would finish the letter.
Bruce sat at her feet as if knowing that she needed a friend at the moment.
Mrs. Campbell knocked on the study door, then opened it. Something about the housekeeper’s expression kept Eleanor silent.
“A woman is here, Miss Eleanor. She says she’s your aunt. Shall I put her in the drawing room or say that you’re not at home?”
“My aunt?”
Mrs. Campbell nodded.
