"Because you love Eleanor. And because I am trying, perhaps too late but trying nonetheless, to become someone worthy of her." Aubrey met her eyes. "I was wrong about her. About everything."
Liz was silent for a long moment, her eyes assessing him with the sharp intelligence that ran in Eleanor's family. Finally, she seemed to reach some decision.
"Eleanor was twelve when our mother died," Liz began, her voice quiet but firm. "I was eighteen, newlywed. Our father... he withdrew into himself. Spent his days in his study, drinking. The estate began to fall apart. Servants left unpaid, tenants neglected, bills mounting."
Aubrey felt his chest tighten.
"Eleanor was the one who held things together. A twelve-year-old girl who taught herself estate management from our father's abandonedledgers. Who negotiated with creditors using a chair to reach the desk properly. Who sweet talked the cook into staying despite unpaid wages by promising her first pick of the kitchen garden vegetables."
Liz's eyes were bright with fierce pride. "The steward tried to dismiss her efforts. Told her estate management was not a child's concern, certainly not a girl's. Do you know what she did?"
Aubrey shook his head mutely.
"She presented him with a full accounting of the household expenses, identified three areas where costs could be reduced without compromising service, and asked him—politely, of course—if he had any better suggestions. He did not." A ghost of a smile touched Liz's lips. "She was twelve. And she saved our family from ruin while our father drank himself into oblivion."
The image formed in Aubrey's mind: a small, determined girl with chestnut hair, sitting at a desk too large for her, carefully writing in ledgers, refusing to let her world collapse.
"But that toughness—that refusal to be dismissed or devalued—it never made her cruel," Liz continued. "The same summer, she found a stable boy stealing food from the kitchens. He was terrified she would dismiss him. Instead, she arranged for him to receive proper meals as part of his wages, quietly adjusting the household accounts to cover it. She said no one should have to choose between honour and hunger."
Aubrey's throat felt tight.
"She has always been like that," Liz said softly. "Strong enough to demand respect, kind enough to give it freely. It is a rare combination. And one you never bothered to discover."
The rebuke stung precisely because itwas true.
Liz’s expression grew distant with memory. "When Eleanor was eleven, she saved for months to buy herself a porcelain doll she'd seen in a shop window. Our mother was already ill by then, and money was tight, but Eleanor did without sweets, without ribbons, saving every penny she could earn or was given. She had almost enough." Liz's voice softened further. "Then the household accounts came up short. Papa was distracted with Mama's care. Eleanor gave her savings without hesitation. Never mentioned the doll. Never complained. Just handed over her little purse and went back to playing with her wooden toys as if it had never mattered at all."
Liz leaned forward slightly, and her voice took on a different quality—something almost gentle. "Do you know when Eleanor first saw you?"
"At the church, I assume."
"No. She was seventeen. You were twenty. It was at the Haversham ball, her coming out. She had been nervous for weeks, terrified of making a fool of herself. And then she saw you across the ballroom."
Aubrey's mind raced backward, trying to recall that night. The Haversham ball was a decade ago. He had attended out of obligation, had been bored by the endless parade of fresh-faced debutantes and their ambitious mothers.
"She thought you were the most beautiful man she had ever seen," Liz said, and there was something almost sad in her smile. "Those were her exact words when she wrote to me that night. 'The most beautiful man I have ever seen, Liz. Like something from a painting. I cannot possibly speak to him. I shall die of nervousness if I try.'"
A seventeen-year-old Eleanor, too shy to approach him. Aubrey tried to picture it and couldn't quite manage it. The competent, composed womanhe had been living with seemed so far removed from a nervous girl at her first ball.
"She watched you all evening," Liz continued. "From across the room. Too frightened to do more than steal glances. And then, late in the evening, something happened."
Aubrey's stomach dropped, searching his memory for any disasters that evening. "What?"
"One of the other debutantes—Cecilia Worthing, I believe—made some cutting remark about Eleanor's dress. Something about the state of her gown and the status of our family." Liz raised her kerchief to dab away at the tears threatening to fall, her voice trembling slightly. "Eleanor fled to the terrace. She was crying, trying to compose herself before returning inside."
The memory was stirring now, vague and uncertain. A girl on a terrace. Tears on her cheeks in the moonlight.
"You found her there," Liz said quietly. "You offered her your handkerchief. You told her that anyone who judged a person's worth by their dress was not worth knowing. That true elegance came from grace and kindness, not from expensive silk. You told her," Liz dabbed at her eyes again but with a smile this time, “that she had an abundance of grace but that she must be kind to herself.”
Aubrey nodded, relieved that he did remember, fragments, at least. A slight girl with large eyes, her face blotchy from crying. He had felt sorry for her, irritated by the casual cruelty of Society.
"You made her smile," Liz said. "Through her tears, you made her smile. And then you escorted her back inside, introduced her to your sister, ensured she was included in the next set of dances. You were kind to her. You made her feel seen."
"Idon't..." Aubrey's voice was hoarse. "I didn’t realise it was her. I remember the incident, but…"
"Of course you don't." There was no accusation in Liz's tone, just a quiet sadness. "You were kind to a crying girl at a ball. For you, it was a moment's compassion. For Eleanor, it was everything."
Aubrey felt as though the room was tilting.
