He placed his fork down and reached for a folded paper at his right hand. Eleanor’s eyes followed the movement automatically. The paper looked official, the sort of thing that could contain rules, obligations, and other quiet disasters.
“This morning,” James said, “we will attend Sunday service.”
Eleanor blinked. “This morning?”
“Yes. It is Sunday.”
He unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat against the table with his palm, as though he were laying out a map before a march.
“And,” he continued, “I have arranged what will be expected of us over the next fortnight.”
Eleanor’s fingers tightened around her teacup. “Expected?”
“The bridal tour,” he corrected, calmly.
Of course he would concern himself with appearances.
James began, tone even, infuriatingly composed. “Tomorrow, an estate walk. Blackmere Park and its immediate grounds. We will be seen. The tenants will be made aware you are present.”
“Tomorrow,” Eleanor repeated, not because she needed clarification, but because the word helped her keep hold of the conversation.
“Friday as well,” he added, as if Fridays were simply another item to be managed. “A second walk, longer route.”
Eleanor’s gaze flicked to the tall windows. Frost sat at their edges. The grounds beyond looked hard and still and cold.
“And on Tuesday evening,” James said, “there will be entertainment in the drawing room.”
Eleanor’s stomach tightened. “Entertainment?”
“Yes. You will play.”
She stared at him. “Play what?”
“Whatever you play,” he replied, as though that were perfectly sufficient. “A harp would be ideal, but the instrument of your choosing will do.”
Eleanor almost laughed, but the sound caught in her throat. He was arranging her like furniture.
James continued without pause. “Wednesday and Thursday, afternoon promenades.”
“In town?” Eleanor clarified, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
His gaze lifted, sharpened faintly. “Yes. In theton.”
Eleanor swallowed. She had only just escaped it. She had only just closed the carriage door on Charlotte’s voice and her father’s scowl and the oppressive perfume of St. George Manor’s rotten excess. The idea of returning so soon made her chest tighten.
James’s voice remained calm. “You will appear at the appropriate hour. You will be seen with me. You will be greeted as the Duchess of Langford. No one will think to challenge this match.”
Eleanor’s fingers curled around her napkin.
“As for social readings,” he went on, “there will be at least one. Small. Controlled. Guests of your choosing.”
“Controlled,” Eleanor repeated.
James did not acknowledge the echo. “And there will be inspections. Blackmere Park first. Langford House after. The household must be reviewed.”
Eleanor stared down at her plate, then at the paper in front of him, and tried to arrange the information into something her mind could tolerate.
Sunday service. Tomorrow estate walk. Tuesday performance. Wednesday and Thursday promenades in theton. Friday estate walk again. Social readings. Inspections. Dinner with a land agent he had hauled down from the Lake District like a piece on a chessboard.
