Chapter one
Surprise Guest
2nd December 1868
Willowbrook Manor, Hertfordshire
The wreath was lopsided.
Eleanor Egerton, Lady Madeley, if one were being formal, which no one in this godforsaken corner of Hertfordshire ever was, stood in the drawing room, hands on her hips, glaring at the offending decoration above the mantelpiece.
"A bit more to the left, Tom," she called to the footman teetering on the ladder.
Tom—nineteen, earnest, and approximately as coordinated as a newborn colt—shifted his weight. The ladder wobbled alarmingly. Mrs Williams, the housekeeper, made a strangled noise from her position near thedoorway.
"Careful, you great lummox," Mary, the parlour maid, hissed from where she was draping gold ribbon over the window frames. "Break your neck and her ladyship will have to explain to your mother."
Her last Christmas at Willowbrook Manor deserved to be perfect, even if the wreath refused to cooperate.
Last Christmas. The thought should have brought relief. In three weeks, she would leave this house and its memories behind. On Boxing Day, she would travel to St. Catherine's Orphanage and never return.
Miss Penny had written last month, her usually steady handwriting shaking across the page:
The doctors say I have perhaps until spring. I must return to my family in Yorkshire for my final months. Dearest Eleanor, I hate to ask, but the children…
Eleanor had stopped reading there, tears blurring the words. Miss Penny, who had been her mother's dearest friend. Who had taught Eleanor to read and later, when Eleanor was twelve and managing a crumbling estate, had taught her to keep accounts. Who had never married, had dedicated her life to orphans, and now was dying with no one to continue her work.
Eleanor had written back immediately: I will come. I will take care of everything. Do not worry about the children.And Miss Penny's response, a single line that had made Eleanor weep:Thank God. I can rest now.
"My lady," Mrs Williams interrupted, her voice carrying that particular note of gentle reproof that housekeepers reserved for mistresses who were perhaps being unreasonable, "might I have a word?"
Eleanor turned from her contemplation of the wreath, which Tom had now moved so far to the left it appeared to be attempting escape. "Yes, Mrs Williams?"
"The greengrocer has sent word requesting confirmation of the Christmas order. Holly, ivy, and mistletoe for the entrance hall, drawing room, and dining room. He suggests delivery on the twenty-second of December to ensure the greenery remains fresh through Twelfth Night."
"Yes, yes, confirm it." Eleanor waved her hand dismissively, her attention already returning to the decorations. "And tell him we shall require extra. I want the house to look..." She paused, searching for the word. "Festive. Warm. Welcoming."
Mrs Williams's expression softened almost imperceptibly. They both knew what Eleanor meant. The house had been silent as a tomb these past two years, its mistress living in elegant isolation while her husband resided in London and pretended she did not exist.
"Of course, my lady. The house will be beautiful for Christmas."
"And for my sister's arrival," Eleanor added, smoothing her grey wool dress with hands that were not quite steady. "Prepare the rose room and nursery."
“Yes, milady,” the housekeeper said softly, averting her gaze from her mistress. The nursery was supposed to be for Eleanor’s own child with her husband. She had it prepared back when she still held hope that he may come to his senses and return to her.
Eleanor straightened her back, forcing herself to snap out of it and focus on the present. Thinking about the house filling with her sister’s family brought that familiar flutter of anticipation mixed with something close to desperation.
One last Christmas with family before I leave for good, Eleanor thought.One last chance to see the children—Liz'schildren.
"They can only spare three days, perhaps four, before continuing to Derbyshire. Lord Midleton's family estate is a considerable distance, and they must arrive well before Christmas." She turned to survey the drawing room with critical eyes. "
"Tom, that will do," Eleanor called, though the wreath remained stubbornly asymmetrical. "Mary, fetch the rest of the ribbon from the storeroom. I want bows on every candelabra. Mrs Williams, have Cook prepare her spiced wine recipe—the one with the oranges. And the dining room wants more candles. Many more candles."
Mrs Williams made notes in her household book, her expression carefully neutral. "Shall I have the maids polish the silver again, my lady? It was done only last week."
"Yes. Polish everything." Eleanor heard the edge of mania in her own voice and tried to moderate it. "I simply want... that is..."
She was aware she was revealing too much. That she was decorating a house weeks too early because the silence had become unbearable. That she was trying desperately to create warmth and life in a house that had felt like a beautiful mausoleum since her wedding day.
