It was not so. As his carriage passed, not one protester called out. Perhaps the men he’d displaced had no more fight left in them.
Eleanor had predicted this, and he’d dismissed her. He’d counted on other people to take responsibility—for the unionsto do their jobs well, for the publishers to negotiate in good faith, for compositors themselves to proactively seek new opportunities, and for industry at large to recognize the value of such a skill set and find room for them in other roles.
Dear Eleanor,
Perhaps I am as cold and emotionless as people think I am.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Is there any knowledge in your head that could help my nephew win this game of lawn bowls?” Lady Wharton asked, gesturing to where Sir Melton stood, pretending not to care that he was being thrashed. Even with her head craned at an odd and uncomfortable angle, Eleanor could see the pink creep up his neck and the way his smile dropped the moment the woman he was trying to impress turned to focus on her own toss.
His embarrassment, in turn, made Eleanor embarrassed for him, even from afar, and she wished she had a magical piece of information that could save him from it.Thiswas why she had rejected Lady Wharton’s suggestion that she go join the young people “just for a moment before I need you again.”
But if she couldn’t rescue Sir Melton from humiliation with trivia, she could at least distract his aunt and her coterie from witnessing it. “Did you know that in 1588, Sir Francis Drake insisted on finishing his game of bowls even while the Spanish Armada bore down on them? His exact words were, apparently, ‘We still have time to finish the game and to thrash the Spaniards, too.’”
Sir Melton was forgotten. “Did they?” Lady Wharton’s cronies still viewed Eleanor with suspicion—none would forgetthat she’d danced with a duke—but their reception to her had softened in recent weeks. They’d even gone so far as to allocate her a seat in the arrangement of chairs from which they scrutinized Lady Marmahen’s garden party. It was the seat with the worst view, obviously, but a seat nonetheless. She’d earned it with her mind and restored some sense of self-worth.
The matriarchs were both addicted to gossip and tired of it. One rumor of a broken engagement or financial trouble looked much like all the rest after decades. Eleanor’s trivia was novel, and if it pertained to scandal of any kind, then it had as much value as any current goings-on.
Eleanor shifted her chair to better face them. “Did he finish his gameandthrash the Spaniards? Yes.”
The Dowager Countess of Watford thumped her cane on the grass with satisfaction. “How splendidly British of him to deliver a national triumph while playing our national game.”
But that was incorrect and Eleanor couldn’t let an error stand, not even in this company. “Cricket is generally considered our national game, Your Ladyship. It is played in more than eighty clubs across the country. Lawn bowls originated in Egypt and is played in only forty-nine. At least, those were the figures in 1873 whenA History of Popular Sportswas published.”
The dowager countess raised an eyebrow, and Lady Wharton nudged Eleanor with her cane. “Are you certain you do not want to join the young ones, Miss Wright?” she asked, knowing very well that Eleanor didn’t.
“If you wish it, Your Ladyship. In which case, I will observe from the sidelines.” She couldn’t throw a ball or swing a bat to save herself. She was as likely to walk into a doorway as through it, and often sported mysterious bruises. She hadlearned to walk before she crawled, much to her parents’ pride, but that was where her physical accomplishments ended.
“A shame,” Agatha said. “I was quite a renowned swimmer in my day, you know.” The women who’d known her long enough all nodded.
It was hard to believe the silver-haired woman with stooped posture and bony arms could have once had the athletic vigor of a swimmer. Though, in order to withstand the weight of her elaborate gowns, Lady Wharton must be stronger than she appeared.
“You are full of surprises, Your Ladyship. What other secret talents do you have? Are you an accomplished artist, juggler,storyteller?” Alluding to Agatha’s secret career had become one of her favorite pastimes. She was always careful not to reveal too much—just enough to make Lady Wharton flush.
“Go tell my nephew that he is needed urgently.” There was nothing gentle about the way Agatha jabbed the cane at her now. “Miss Anthrop is hardly going to marry a man who can’t match her in bowls. It would make one question what else he can’t match her in.”
Eleanor rubbed her shin. “Of course, Your Ladyship.”
Lady Marmahen’s garden was perfectly manicured. The rosebushes were only just leafing out, but tulips and wallflowers and primroses bloomed. Lady Wharton and her set had commandeered a prime position at the top of the slope closest to the house, where they had a good view of the lawn below and the stream that flowed beyond that. Lords and ladies clustered in knots of cream and pastel. Straw boaters and colorfully trimmed Gainsborough hats contrasted prettily against the grass. If Eleanor could capture the pattern of colors and shapes, she would.
Reaching Sir Melton required navigating through the crowd that hovered by the refreshment tent. Her breath caught as she spied the duke. She was so accustomed to seeing him in black and gray that she’d almost overlooked him. He appeared less severe in a tan suit. Warm, almost. His outfit was still more conservative than those of the men near him, and his boater sat awkwardly, as though mirroring his own mismatch with the surrounding festivity, yet he seemed more personable than she’d come to expect. He looked more like the man from the zoo than the soulless aristocrat.
She searched for another route to the bowling green, but there was none that was easy. Resigned, she mustered the courage to face him. Or at least pass him with her shoulders squared and give a polite nod in his direction.
Walking quickly, she kept her head down and hoped he wouldn’t notice her. Her luck was as good as it had been for months. The duke turned at exactly the wrong moment, a cup of lemonade in one hand and a large plate of sandwiches in the other.
His eyes widened. “Miss Wright. You look well.” Was it her imagination, or did he sound as anxious as she felt? Not that he had any reason to be. He had won. Soundly.
“Your Grace,” she replied, dipping a quick curtsey. She had no energy for a fight today, and no cause for one. She could be cordial in defeat. “You’re hungry, I take it.” She gestured to the pile of sandwiches filled with cucumber, cheese, and cold meat.
“My sister is.” He smiled awkwardly. “According to Jacqueline, who heard it from her lady’s maid, who heard it from our kitchen maid, who apparently heard it from Margaret’s kitchen maid, Margaret’s household is consuming as much food withher husband gone as they do when he’s in England. Apparently it’s far more sumptuous.”
Good for her. “Everyone should enjoy the things they love while they can.” She hadn’t said the words with venom, yet he seemed to wince, and she shifted, equally uncomfortable.
What were they now? No longer enemies, since the battle was over, but not friends either. Not strangers. Acquaintances? It seemed a pale description given all that had come beforehand.
“Did you know that in hot weather, the inside of a cucumber remains colder than the air temperature outside? That’s where the phrase ‘cool as a cucumber’ comes from.” It was a stupid way to break the silence and did nothing to relieve her self-consciousness.
