Page 27 of To Bed the Bride
“Who reads them?”
The question wasn’t an embarrassing one, but the housekeeper’s face reddened all the same.
“The staff if they’ve time after their duties are finished. I’ve done so myself.”
No doubt she gave them to Mr. Contino, as well.
“Thank you, Mrs. Willett,” she said. “If you’ll put them in the library I’ll look them over later.”
“Yes, Miss Eleanor.”
If no one had read the papers Eleanor would have stopped them. Over the past five years she’d culled what she could in order to ensure that Hearthmere could support itself.
She took one of the London papers and went to sit on the bench beneath a sprawling oak. She and her father had often sat here in the evening. Bruce bounded up to sit beside her, making her smile. She held the length of rope with the loop at the end that she’d gotten from the stable. Surprisingly, however, the puppy didn’t need to be coaxed to come with her. He followed at her heels wherever she went. Nor did he run away once they’d gotten to the lawn. Instead, he went off to do his business and then returned to her, sitting at her feet and looking up at her as if he expected praise.
She’d given it to him, despite the fact that she knew she was probably spoiling him. Could you really be spoiled when you were so young and away from the rest of your family? She reached out her hand, and scooted him close to her, smiling again when he insisted on licking her fingers.
“You’ve already been fed, you silly thing,” she said. “And I know you ate everything because I watched you eat.” Bruce had inhaled his meal of minced beef and chopped carrots.
She didn’t know anything about dogs, other than that they were scary. Puppies, however, were a different matter. Bruce was a round little ball of fur with four legs and a tail that looked like it might become as bushy as the rest of him. When he barked it was a sound much larger than his size. Perhaps he had to grow into his bark.
They sat together as she read. Parliament was being stirred up by a firebrand. The reporter didn’t name names, other than referring to the MP as a tireless advocate for Scotland. The reporter was decidedly English and held Michael’s opinion about Scottish politics while she silently cheered for the firebrand. It was time Scotland had a champion or two.
Bruce gave up licking her fingers for chewing the end of her belt. She couldn’t help but wonder what her father would say about Bruce. He had tried to talk her out of her fear of dogs but she’d learned, early on, that rational discourse wasn’t a match for emotion. You really couldn’t talk someone out of what they were feeling.
She’d known that at eight years old.
No place in London gave her the feeling of freedom she was experiencing right at the moment. No one was insisting that she attend some event or another. She wasn’t being questioned by her aunt or cousins. She wasn’t obligated to be here or there. Her schedule was her own, not subject to anyone’s dictates.
What a pity she wouldn’t be able to live here all her life.
Why did she have to marry? Who had decreed that all single women were not fulfilled unless they had a husband? Who were the people who ridiculed spinsters? Were their lives so perfect that they could afford to make fun of someone else? Why was a man not considered strange if he remained unmarried?
“You’ve gotten to a certain age, Eleanor. You’re expected to marry.” Her aunt’s words.
Was that why she was marrying Michael? Not because of any undying love or attraction, but because she’d grown weary of hearing the same lecture?
Even her cousin had added her thoughts. “A woman has to marry, Eleanor,” Daphne said. “If she doesn’t, people look at her odd. They think there’s something wrong with her. You don’t want people to look at you like that, do you?”
She didn’t know if Daphne meant to be unkind. Her cousin was a creature of vibrant emotions. At least, that’s what her aunt had said, explaining, “Daphne is a bright butterfly in life.”
Eleanor could only suppose that she was a slug in comparison. Some pale creature who slid through life without being noticed by anyone.
That was fine with her. She would let Daphne and Aunt Deborah make dramatic pronouncements and weep at any provocation. Eleanor didn’t possess the temperament to be histrionic and found that sort of person exceedingly tiresome to be around.
She preferred to experience life in manageable bites rather than consider it a feast to devour before it disappeared.
Yet if she didn’t marry, what would she do with her life? The answer had always been in the back of her mind. Live at Hearthmere.
Yet the die was cast, the Rubicon crossed, the marriage offer accepted. She was going to be wed, if only to continue basking in her family’s approval.
Family is everything.
The entire family was aflutter with the thought that she was going to be made a countess. A title wouldn’t change her. She wasn’t going to alter her character simply because she’d gotten married. If she said such a thing her aunt would give her another speech. Her cousin would toss her head and say that she didn’t appreciate her good fortune.
According to Daphne, Michael’s courtship, such as it was, was an accident. He couldn’t truly have chosen her, Eleanor, over other girls that season. Or perhaps he had done so because Daphne had already married.
Daphne was a natural beauty, according to one suitor. The stars in the sky, the sun, or nature itself had nothing on Daphne when she smiled at him. Another suitor had penned a song, one that detailed all the ways Daphne made the world a better place simply by being in it.
