Blackmere’s first grand ball in years, and she had chosen a theme so subtle it would appear effortless if done properly.
That was the only way she preferred things.
A voice called behind her. “Your Grace.”
Eleanor turned to find Mrs. Hargreaves approaching with a basket of folded linens on her arm as though walking the grounds with them was the most natural thing in the world.
Mrs. Hargreaves had been housekeeper at Blackmere since before James inherited it. She ran the staff with quiet severity and an almost maternal attachment to order. Eleanor had feared her on the first day.
Now she relied on her.
“Good morning,” Eleanor said. “You should not be carrying that.”
Mrs. Hargreaves’s mouth tightened into a line that suggested she would rather carry the whole house than surrender a basket. “I am capable, Your Grace.”
Eleanor gave a small, conceding smile. “I do not doubt it.”
Mrs. Hargreaves’s gaze flicked over Eleanor’s cloak, her hair loosely pinned. “I feared you might be restless.”
Eleanor was not certain whether she was pleased or irritated to be read so easily. “Is it so obvious?”
“Only to those who know what to look for,” Mrs. Hargreaves replied.
Eleanor fell into step beside her. “Tell me we are prepared.”
Mrs. Hargreaves’s tone was steady. “We are prepared.”
Eleanor waited.
Mrs. Hargreaves gave a tiny sigh of resignation. “The rare wax candles are in place. Blue-tinted, as you ordered. Every sconce, every candelabrum, every table arrangement.”
Eleanor exhaled. “Good.”
“The greenery, white blooms, and hydrangea have been moved to the ballroom where it is safe from the heat.”
Eleanor nodded. “And the foyer?”
“Greenery there as well,” Mrs. Hargreaves said. “Less bloom. More… atmosphere.”
Eleanor felt a brief, private satisfaction. “Excellent.”
Mrs. Hargreaves adjusted the basket. “If Your Grace intends to continue your inspection, you may as well do it properly.”
“I do.”
“Then we should go inside,” the older woman said crisply. “Before you freeze and ruin the complexion the modiste has prepared a gown for.”
Eleanor’s lips twitched. “She has, yes.”
They turned toward the house together. The servants at the side entrance bowed and opened the door without question, as though Eleanor had always been the one to walk in with authority.
She was learning that confidence could be borrowed until it became real.
The hall smelled faintly of beeswax and evergreen. A maid darted past carrying ribbon. Two footmen stood near the entryway practicing the exact position they would take when the first guests arrived.
Eleanor glanced at them. “How many times have you practiced that.”
One of the footmen, young enough to look guilty, replied, “Eight, Your Grace.”
