Eleanor looked up from the library catalogue she had been compiling—a painstaking process involving the cross-referencing of the existing (and woefully incomplete) records against the actual contents of the shelves—to find a footman hovering in the doorway with a silver tray.
“Thank you, James.” She had learnt the servants’ names within her first week, a small act of attention that earned her more goodwill than any grand gesture could have. “You may leave it on the desk.”
The footman complied and withdrew, and Eleanor returned to her work for several minutes before curiosity got the better of her.
The letter bore a familiar hand—looping, careless, the penmanship of someone who had never needed to write with precision because her words had always been received with enthusiasm regardless of form.
Lydia.
Eleanor set down her pen.
She had not heard from her cousin in months—save for a brief, formal note acknowledging Eleanor’s marriage to the Duke of Thornwood. That letter had been polite and utterlydevoid of warmth, the sort of correspondence one sent to distant acquaintances rather than family.
But then, Eleanor thought,we were never truly family.
She broke the seal.
My dearest Eleanor, the letter began, and Eleanor nearly laughed at the endearment. Lydia had never called herdearestin person. Had never, in truth, called her much of anything except ‘Eleanor’, and then in tones that suggested mild surprise at finding her still present.
I write with the most wonderful news. Edmund and I have been blessed with another child—a daughter this time, born last month and named Arabella after your dear mother. She is perfectly healthy and quite beautiful; everyone says so.
Eleanor’s hand tightened on the paper.
Arabella.
They had named their daughter after Eleanor’s mother.
I hope you will not think it presumptuous.I know how much your mother meant to you, and I thought it would be a lovely tribute to her memory. Edmund agrees that it is a most fitting name for a child of such beauty—he says she will grow to be as stunning as her namesake.
Eleanor set the letter down.
She could not continue. Could not read another word of Lydia’s careless happiness, her thoughtless appropriation of a name bound so tightly to grief Eleanor had never fully confronted. Could not bear the casual mention of Edmund as though he were merely a husband offering opinions on infant names rather than the man who had shattered something fundamental in Eleanor’s understanding of herself.
The memory rose unbidden, sharp as a blade even after seven years.
You are pleasant enough, Eleanor, but pleasant does not maintain a household.
She had been two-and-twenty.
Young enough to believe in romance. Old enough to understand that her prospects narrowed with each passing year. Her father’s debts had already begun their final, fatal descent, and Eleanor had known—with the cold certainty of a woman who understood numbers—that nothing would remain when he died. No dowry. No inheritance. No security.
And then Edmund Hale had arrived.
He had been visiting neighbours, passing through on his way to somewhere more important, yet he had stayed. Had extended his visit by a day, then two, then a week. Had sought Eleanor’s company with a persistence that set her heart racing and her practical mind whispering warnings she refused to heed.
“You are reading Italian?”he had exclaimed, finding her in the library on the third day of his prolonged stay.“How remarkable.”
“It is merely a hobby.”She had tried to sound modest, had tried to temper the flush of pleasure his attention stirred.“I find the poetry beautiful.”
“Will you translate something for me?”
She had. A sonnet by Petrarch—one of the love poems, because she had been young and foolish and wished him to hear longing in her voice. He had listened with every appearance of fascination, had asked questions suggesting genuine interest, had regarded her as though she were something rare and precious.
For three weeks, she had allowed herself to believe.
Three weeks of walks in the garden. Three weeks of conversations about books, poetry, and ideas. Three weeks of his hand brushing hers as he passed her a cup of tea, his smile warming when she entered a room, his attention finding her even in crowded spaces.
Three weeks of hope.
