Page 60 of To Bed the Bride
His tone was annoyed, but she noticed that he didn’t answer her.
“Am I not allowed to ask?”
“I don’t like what has happened to you, Eleanor, ever since you returned from Scotland.”
The veneer of London Eleanor was fading through constant use, and soon only the real Eleanor would be visible.
That wouldn’t please him, would it?
“You’ve been different ever since your visit to Hearthmere. It’s a good thing those visits won’t happen again.”
She wasn’t surprised by his words. Nor was she startled by his tone of voice. Michael had become more and more autocratic the longer they’d been engaged. What would he be like as a husband?
“I’ll leave you here,” he said. “I’m not coming in.”
Nor did he say anything further.
A footman helped her exit the carriage. Once on the pavement she turned back to the open door and said her farewells.
“You will not ask me questions of this nature again, Eleanor. I will not be harangued. Not now. Not ever. Is that understood?”
She nodded, then turned and mounted the steps.
At the door the majordomo handed her a letter. She instantly recognized the handwriting. Just as quickly she knew what it was.
She didn’t join her aunt and Hamilton in the drawing room. Instead, she walked upstairs, thanking the maid for watching Bruce in her absence.
“I took him out, Miss Eleanor, and he was a good boy.”
He greeted her with a hundred kisses, sniffing her feet, her hands, and anywhere there was a different smell about her.
She readied herself for bed, and once she’d donned her nightgown and pulled down the covers, she sat on the edge of the mattress, the letter in her hands.
For nearly a quarter hour she sat there holding the letter, refusing to open it. If she didn’t open it she wouldn’t read his words. If she didn’t read his words it wouldn’t be real. He would be in the park tomorrow with his smile, his laughter, and that beautiful voice of his.
Bruce began to snore from the end of the bed.
Finally, she opened the letter, taking care not to damage her name written in Logan’s distinctive hand.
She told herself that she’d be able to bear whatever he’d written. She’d survived the loss of her father and being taken from Scotland. She would live through this, too.
My dearest Eleanor,
I want so much for you. Happiness and joy, laughter and purpose, friends, and to be surrounded by those who love you. Your life will be a rich tapestry of experiences and moments, none of which I will share.
We met at the wrong time, you and I.
Yet I will never forget you, even as I counsel myself that I should. I must. I will forever wonder about Eleanor of Scotland, the woman with laughter in her eyes who looks on the world with quiet wisdom. I will see the rain and wonder if it falls on you, witness a sunset and question whether you see it, too.
I will never be quite as lonely as I was before meeting you because I know you’re in the world.
I will not be back to Queen’s Park. I will not see you again.
Logan
She carefully folded the paper, placed it beneath her pillow, then thought better of it and tucked it into the Bible on her bedside table. She got beneath the covers, rearranged her pillow, and slid her feet around a sleeping Bruce.
Only then did she cry.
