"Yes."
"For... for good?"
"Yes." Eleanor kept her voice steady through sheer force of will. "I have accepted a position there. I will live at the orphanage and work with the children."
"But..." Aubrey seemed genuinely stunned. "You are a viscount's daughter. You cannot simply... work at a charity. You are still young. There are other options."
"What other options?" The question came out too sharp. "Die here alone while you live in London? Continue to be pitied by everyone in the county? Spend the rest of my life waiting for a husband who will never come home?"
"But—"
"I like children, my lord." Eleanor's voice cracked despite her efforts. "I have always wanted children. I dreamed of having a family. And since I cannot have my own..."
She stopped. She could not finish the sentence, could not say aloud what they both knew—that she would never have children. Not with him. Not with anyone, trapped as she was in this empty shell of a marriage.
The tears were threatening now, burning hot behind her eyes. Eleanor turned quickly toward the door.
"Lady Madeley, wait—"
She fled before he could say anything else, before the tears could fall. Before she could reveal just how deeply his words—his doubt—had cut.
Eleanor made it to her own bedroom and closed the door, leaning against it as her legs threatened to give out. She pressed her hands to her mouth, trying to stifle the sob that wanted to escape. She then slid down to sit on the floor, her back against the door, and finally let the tears come.
Silent. Bitter. The tears of a woman who had just admitted aloud what she had been trying so hard not to acknowledge.
That she was leaving not just Willowbrook Manor, but every dream she had ever had for her life.
And that no amount of work at St. Catherine's would ever truly fill the emptiness that realisation left behind.
Chapter eleven
The Reveal
Aubrey could sit up now.
Not easily—it still required careful manoeuvring and sent pain lancing through his hip—but with enough pillows arranged behind him, he could maintain an upright position for an hour before the discomfort became unbearable.
Which meant he could review the household ledgers Eleanor had brought him.
He had expected competence. Eleanor was clearly organised, methodical in her approach to household management. But this...
Aubrey turned another page, his surprise growing with each entry. The accounts were not merely competent—they were exceptional. Every expense was categorised, cross referenced, tracked with meticulous precision. Eleanor had negotiated better rates with suppliers, identified inefficiencies in household spending, and reallocated funds with the strategic mind of a seasoned estate manager.
She had saved the estate nearly three hundred pounds in the past year alone without compromising the quality of goods and services.
More than that, she had expanded the charitable contributions. Regular donations to St. Catherine's Orphanage, of course, but also to the parish poor fund, the local school, the widows' relief society. Small amounts, carefully tracked, that added up to a substantial investment in the community.
Aubrey found himself genuinely impressed. This was not the work of a woman merely passing time or performing perfunctory duties. This was someone who cared deeply about the estate, about the people who depended on it.
Someone who had been building a life here while he wasted his in London.
He turned to the section marked "Personal Charitable Contributions" and began reviewing the entries.
Then stopped.
His blood went cold.
Rose Beaumont - £5 for new wardrobe and child necessities
