She was done crying. Had spent the first hour after leaving Aubrey's room in tears—messy, ugly tears that left her face blotched and her eyes swollen. But tears solved nothing, and Eleanor had never been one to wallow.
Now she was thinking.
She opened the ledger to the entries for Rose Beaumont and studied them with a new, colder eye.
If Rose had been courting Aubrey all summer, if she had known about the betrothal, if she had been weaving lies about Eleanor threatening her—then how much of the rest was true?
Eleanor pulled out the letters Rose had sent her over the years. Not many—Rose was not a prolific correspondent. But there were enough.
She read through them carefully, looking for... what? Clues? Inconsistencies?
My lady, I am grateful beyond words for your continued generosity. The child is healthy and well. We are settled comfortably in our cottage thanks to your kindness.
No mention of the father. No details about the "betrothed" who had abandoned her. Just gratitude and general updates.
The doctor says the baby is thriving. Your support has made all the difference. I do not know how I would have managed without you.
Again, nothing specific. Nothing that confirmed the story Rose had told in that first desperate letter.
Eleanor set down the correspondence and stared at nothing, her mind working.
What if there had been no betrothed? What if Rose had lied about that too?
What if the baby was...
No. Aubrey had been adamant. He had sounded genuinely appalled at the suggestion that the child might be his. And whatever else he was, Aubrey did not seem like a man who would lie about that. His anger, his resentment, his punishment of her—all of it had been driven by what he believed was the truth. A liar would have been more careful, more calculating.
Eleanor pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling the beginning of a headache.
Tomorrow, Liz would arrive with her family. Eleanor would have to smile and pretend everything was fine.
She could not afford to fall apart. Not now. Not with her sister's sharp eyes watching. Not with three children who would need her attention and energy.
Eleanor closed the ledger and stood, moving to her mirror.
Her reflection showed the damage—red-rimmed eyes, pale skin, hair escaping its pins. She looked exactly like a woman who had just discovered her lady's maid had been secretly courting her betrothed.
She needed to compose herself. Needed to be strong.
She was done being a victim, being passive. Done accepting whatever fate threw at her.
She splashed cold water on her face, pinned her hair with steady hands, and took a deep breath.
Tomorrow. She would think about Rose tomorrow. Would decide what to do about the monthly payments. Would consider whether to write to Rose demanding answers.
Tonight, she would prepare for her sister's arrival.
And she would not give Aubrey or Rose the satisfaction of her defeat.
The Midleton family arrived in a chaos of luggage, children, and noise that transformed Willowbrook Manor in an instant.
Eleanor stood in the entrance hall, bracing herself, as her sister descended from the carriage with the practiced efficiency of a woman who had travelled with small children.
"Ellie!" Liz enveloped her in a hug that smelled of lavender and child and home. "Oh, let me look at you. Good heavens, you look dreadful. What has happened?"
"I am perfectly well," Eleanor said, pulling back with a forced smile. "Just tired. Managing the household, you know."
"Tired." Liz's eyes—sharp and knowing—swept over Eleanor's face. "Yes. I am certain that is all it is."
