Page 2 of To Bed the Bride
The longer he was gone the happier she would be.
“I’ll be back in two weeks, then,” he said. “In time to escort you home, Eleanor.”
Home? England had never been home to her and London even less so. She didn’t make that remark, however. Over the years she’d learned when to speak and when to keep silent.
“You’ll be leaving in the morning?”
“This afternoon, I think. The weather is fair, although that’s always hard to tell in Scotland. One moment it’s sunny. The next you’re deluged.”
She’d always thought the same about English weather, but once again she kept her comments to herself.
Jeremy was more than willing to forget that his father had grown up here. He seemed to have forgotten his heritage the moment they moved to England and especially after his mother had married again.
His stepfather was Hamilton Richards, a wealthy industrialist who made soap, various kinds and types of soap that he shipped all over the world. He had no children of his own and welcomed all of them into his family and his home with sincere generosity. Ever since, both Jeremy and his sister, Daphne, had forgotten they were Scots.
She watched as Jeremy walked out of the parlor. He’d probably already given orders for his bags to be taken to the carriage. Their conversation had only been for show. Jeremy didn’t really care about leaving her behind. The regrettable truth was that her cousin thought more of his own pleasure than anyone’s convenience.
If Hamilton hadn’t been as wealthy as he was, perhaps Jeremy’s life would’ve been different. At this point, Jeremy would’ve had some sort of occupation, rather than spending most of his time gambling and drinking with his friends. Hamilton, however, was willing to finance Jeremy’s adventures.
Daphne’s husband wasn’t nearly as wealthy as Hamilton, so there were times when she came to the massive London home, met with Hamilton in his library, and left with a smug smile on her face. With any luck, his fortune would outlast the Craig children’s greed.
Eleanor had benefited from Hamilton’s kindness, too. Her aunt had been all for denying Eleanor this trip to Scotland. It had been Hamilton who had convinced Deborah to allow it.
“Let her see the place,” Hamilton had said. “After all, she’ll soon have her own establishment.”
Eleanor was grateful that her aunt’s husband had interceded. She hadn’t wanted to have to send for her solicitor. He’d been the one to originally insist upon the arrangement.
“She is a Scot, Mrs. Craig,” he’d said to her aunt. “If you will not agree to remain in Scotland as was our arrangement with your husband, then Miss Craig must be allowed to return home periodically.”
Her aunt had fussed for a few moments before the solicitor spoke again.
“If you will allow your niece to visit Hearthmere for a month each year then I see no reason why the annual stipend should be allowed to stop, at least until Miss Craig’s majority. Just one month out of the year. Surely that wouldn’t be a hardship?”
Up until then, Eleanor hadn’t realized that her aunt and uncle had been paid to care for her. She’d been allowed to come to Scotland for a month for the past four years. After her aunt had married Hamilton Richards, but Deborah had continued to allow the attorney’s arrangement. At least until this year, when she’d shortened it from a month to only two weeks.
The time in Scotland had always been bittersweet, only because she had to ultimately return to England.
“You can’t live there, Eleanor,” her aunt said, every time she returned. “Your life is here in London.”
Only because she had no choice in the matter.
Every time Eleanor came back to Hearthmere, whether escorted by Jeremy or her aunt and her husband, it was the same. Wishing they were gone to leave her alone to savor the house settling in around her, almost as if it welcomed her after an absence of eleven months.
She’d never seen a ghost, although tales of them abounded in Scotland. She wished, however, that there were ghosts haunting Hearthmere and that her father was one of them. She’d sit at his knee as she had as a child as he’d tell her another story about their ancestors, the brave men and stalwart women who had lived here, loved here, and spent their lives protecting Hearthmere. She would walk with him through the house, visiting rooms she hadn’t seen for a year. His library. The Conservatory her great-grandfather had built for his wife. The aviary and then the chapel. The stained-glass windows and arched ceiling still had the power to steal her breath, no matter how often she opened one of the double doors and stepped inside.
It felt like she was only half alive in London all these months, waiting impatiently for her arrival home. Once here, she could feel a stirring of her blood as if everything was slowly waking. She wasn’t Deborah Richards’s niece. She was Eleanor Craig, daughter of Archibald Craig, of the Clan Craig. She knew her history from the smallest fragment of battle flag in the Clan Hall, to the sword she’d once thought coated with rust up near the ceiling. Her uncle had been the one who told her the truth.
“It’s blood, Eleanor. One of our bloodthirsty relatives evidently smite his enemy. Or is it smote? Regardless, they left the blood on the sword.”
She missed her uncle. He’d died five years ago while walking from the house to the stable complex. Less than three weeks later his widow had swept up her two children and Eleanor and returned to London.
If her father hadn’t died in a tragic accident, and then her uncle, she might have been able to stay here, instead of moving to England. A foolish wish, to be able to turn back time and circumstances.
She was the only one in the family, she suspected, who wished things had stayed the same. Her aunt was blissfully happy and Daphne and Jeremy appreciated all of the advantages they’d been given, thanks to their mother’s second husband.
The minute Jeremy’s carriage reached the last turn, heading for the main road, Eleanor grabbed her skirts with both hands and made her way quickly out of the parlor and through the corridor, up the stairs to the room she’d occupied ever since she was a child.
Her cousin Daphne had once told her that since she was the chatelaine of Hearthmere she should occupy the large suite in the corner. Perhaps one day she would.
