Page 88 of To Bed the Bride
For two weeks she hadn’t been allowed any books or periodicals. She had been given her nightgowns, but no other change of clothing. No fire was allowed. No hot water was brought to her. The surroundings might be luxurious, but she was treated like a prisoner in all other ways.
In the morning her aunt visited her. At noon it was Daphne. In the early evening it was Hamilton, who carefully averted his gaze from her, dressed as she was only in a nightgown with the bedspread as her robe.
The family visits were not designed to ensure her health or well-being. Instead, each of her relatives was determined to make her see how wrong she’d been. Her wedding to Michael would end all of Hamilton’s worries about his company’s future. It would immediately elevate Deborah and give Daphne status. It would help Jeremy in his search for a position to give him meaning and purpose in life.
Couldn’t she see what damage she was doing by refusing to marry the earl?
They didn’t want to discuss the situation or hear what she felt or thought. The first day each of them was almost kind. Deborah didn’t appear angry anymore. Her tone was measured, without a hint of irritation.
The second day they were more insistent. Her aunt grew increasingly annoyed at Eleanor’s silence. She’d already realized that she might as well save her words. No one wanted to hear them.
On the third day she wasn’t brought breakfast. Nor was the noon meal forthcoming. The bell pull beside the fireplace had been disconnected in the kitchen, so she couldn’t signal for any of the servants.
When Hamilton arrived in the evening he was accompanied by a maid who carried a tray containing a bowl of lukewarm soup and a thin slice of bread.
“Your aunt thinks that if you are only allowed one meal a day, Eleanor, you will soon come to see how foolish you are being.”
“Should I be grateful that I’m not being tortured, Hamilton?” she asked.
To his credit, he looked uncomfortable. She couldn’t help but wonder if this new punishment was her aunt’s decision or if Michael had any say in what happened to her.
They didn’t understand. It was possible that they would never understand. It wasn’t just Michael’s dislike of her country, the sale of the Hearthmere bloodline, or his contempt for anything she cherished. It was obvious that he felt nothing for her or he wouldn’t approve of what was happening.
She didn’t want to have anything to do with Michael Herridge. She didn’t want to become the Countess of Wescott. She yearned to be herself, to be Eleanor Craig of Hearthmere. She wanted to marry a man not because of what he might be able to do for the family, not because of his wealth or position or title, but because he stirred her heart. Because he was kind and witty and thought of others. Because a quick glance from him made her heart warm.
Michael might be able to dictate where she was kept, what she ate, how she was dressed, but he couldn’t alter her thoughts or soften her will. She was a Scot and plenty of her countrymen had already demonstrated their obstinacy in the face of tyranny. She could do no less.
The days passed and she kept track of them by using one of her hairpins to scratch the wood inside one of the empty dresser drawers. No one would come for her; she knew that only too well. She’d given Logan no reason to think that she had changed her mind about Michael. He had no inkling of her decision not to marry.
He would think that she was simply preparing for her wedding. Would he wonder about her at all? Would he remember that magical afternoon and think—as she sometimes did—that it felt like a dream?
At the beginning of the second week she wondered if she was strong enough to hold out after all. She was nearly faint with hunger almost all the time. The maid never came by herself but was always accompanied by Hamilton. If she’d been alone Eleanor might have begged her for more food. The girl had a look on her face that indicated she would’ve been willing to help.
There were days when Eleanor wondered if it was worth leaving her bed. In the morning she always bathed with cold water, standing in front of the dresser, then drying with the thin piece of toweling she’d been allowed. After that she changed to a fresh nightgown and sat on the edge of the bed in a square of sunlight.
She fell back onto the habits of her childhood, kneeling beside the bed and praying as she hadn’t since leaving Scotland. The prayers were simple yet fervent.Save me, God.
Deborah, Daphne, and Hamilton came every day to lecture her. Deborah looked like she was losing her temper most of the time. Eleanor always moved away from her aunt, choosing to stand against the wall in case Deborah wanted to strike her again.
“You’re a fool, Eleanor,” Deborah said yesterday. “You can make this so much easier on yourself by simply agreeing that you made a mistake. Of course you’re going to marry Michael and do so happily. The world will see you as an ecstatic bride. All you have to do is agree that you were wrong. That’s all, Eleanor. It’s so easy. Three simple little words.I was wrong.Tell Michael that it was all a mistake.”
What her aunt wanted was impossible. The only way she could say those words was to reject everything her father stood for, everything he worked to create all his life. She couldn’t turn over Hearthmere to Michael. She couldn’t allow the house to be gutted and the horses sold.
What kind of man was Michael that he would go along with his future bride being punished? Even worse, if he agreed to this treatment now, what would he do when she was his wife and she displeased him? Keep her chained in the attic and fed bread and water?
For days Eleanor wrestled with the idea of telling her aunt about Logan. She hadn’t wanted to involve him, but the more time passed the more she realized that her relatives were in thrall to Michael. Telling Deborah about that afternoon might be the only thing that saved her.
She waited until her aunt closed the door and approached the bed. Sometimes, she was so dizzy when she stood that it was better if she just sat on the edge of the mattress.
“I’m not a virgin,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m not a virgin. You asked me if I felt something for Logan and I do. I’ve been with him.”
Deborah stared at her. “You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not. I was with Logan the day Michael brought me home.”
