Eleanor remembered how she’d been overwhelmed with shame and regret as she tried to think of how to answer her grandmother honestly without revealing how truly dreadful the experience was.
In the pause, the duchess had leaned forward to pin Eleanor with her dark, probing gaze.
“The truth, Dohati,” she instructed in a tone of gentle command. “Nothing less.”
With a sigh, Eleanor lowered her attention to the teacup resting on her lap. “Well…it’s been very different from what I expected. I suppose…I didn’t realize…” she struggled to describe the way she’d seemed to disappoint everyone who met her. “Some aspects are a bit more challenging than I anticipated,” she finally muttered before lifting her chin to offer a quick smile. “But it’s been lovely…really quite enjoyable.”
There was a pause. Then, “Ah. I see.”
Though her gaze never wavered from her granddaughter’s face, the duchess sipped her tea, allowing Eleanor to do the same. The spiced brew, so different from the kind of tea the English preferred, was warming and delicious and comforting to Eleanor’s uneasy spirit.
When the older lady lowered her cup again, she quirked an amused smile. “You are a terrible liar, Dohati. I can see the fear in you. Do not forget, I went through the same thing with your mam.”
Eleanor sighed and slumped her shoulders, releasing the effort to conceal her distress. “Yes, but Mother and Father were betrothed from childhood and married before the end of her first season. She didn’t have to convince everyone she was worthy of a good match. My experience has been very different.”
“Hm,” her grandmother harrumphed, giving a more vigorous bobble of her head. “That is why I advised your parents to see you betrothed early, as well. Then you wouldn’t have to endure this English marriage market. Your parents would’ve chosen a proper husband for you and you’d already be happily settled.” She reached out to pat Eleanor’s hand. “There is a reason it is our tradition to have your family choose the one you will marry. We know you and have your best interests at heart. Love matches are flights of romantic fancy with no strong tether to ground them and build a lasting foundation. There is too much risk in love.” The older woman’s expression was unusually serious as she furrowed her brow. “Better to trust the guidance and wisdom of those who have loved you from the day you entered this life. Love for a husband can come later, as it did for me. And your mam.”
Though Eleanor had heard the argument before—the topic had been a long-standing point of contention between her mother and grandmother—and had always felt a certain discomfort with the idea of an arranged marriage…on that day, she’d felt herself wondering if perhaps itwouldhave been the better option for her. She certainly wasn’t having any success in acquiring a husband on her own.
If she truly thought about it, she wasn’t opposed to an arrangement as long as it was with someone for whom she at least had a modicum of affection and admiration. She’d always wanted to have a home and family of her own, where she could create a life based on her own decisions of what was important. A life free of the many judgments and demands placed on her as the daughter of one illustrious duke and granddaughter to another.
But she was starting to worry that she’d never be free. She’d always be seen as an appendage to her family legacy or as some ornament to her future husband. When was she to be herself? Just Eleanor. Who even was Eleanor without all the trappings of the Fairchild name? Would she ever have an opportunity to find out?
“You are conflicted, Dohati.” Her grandmother stared at her, her warm brown eyes probing gently for some deeper truth. “It is difficult to see you struggling in this way. I would wish for such turmoil to be unnecessary.”
Eleanor smiled and lowered her chin. “I know, Nani. But I will be alright.”
She hadn’t been able to explain that her struggle had less to do with finding the right man and more to do with the fact that she couldn’t seem to get through an initial introduction without ruining her chances with every gentleman she met. She knew how socially timid her mother had been in her youth, but it had only seemed to endear her mother to those who wished to protect and assure her—such as her father. Whereas Eleanor seemed to inspire quite the opposite reaction.
Her experience so far had only shown her that she was not suited to society. And she feared she’d never be. But if she failed so completely in the one thing expected of her…what was left for her to do? Could her only purpose in life truly be about satisfying the requirements of a role she never chose for herself?
Her grandmother rested a warm hand on hers. Her eyes were unwavering as she met Eleanor’s gaze. And her smile was gentle. “I know you will, Dohati. I’ve never said this before, but you have a greater strength in you than your mother ever did. There is something fierce in you that runs very deep.” Her deep eyes sparkled and her lips widened. “I see it. And some day you will see it as well.”
Thinking over that conversation, Eleanor wished she could see herself as her grandmother had. But she certainly didn’t feel fierceduring her recent experiences in the company of Lord Waring.
She dropped her face into her hands.
Did she really run out of the shop like a frightened child? How embarrassing. No doubt, the man thought her extremely odd.
As the viscount’s reckless smile and casual gaze came to mind—warming her insides, she recalled another detail about their encounter in Mishra’s store.
The drawing.
Sitting there—amongst her grandmother’s beloved possessions from home—Eleanor suddenly and quite brightly recalled why the image of the necklace had looked so familiar.
Rushing to her feet, she strode toward the antique cupboard, carved and inlaid with semiprecious stones, in which she kept some of the most valuable items her grandmother had insisted upon bringing to her new, far-off home when she’d left India as a hopeful young bride.
The book Eleanor sought was a sort of family history told in Sanskrit verse and beautifully painted scenes. Though the book contained a few original pieces of art from more recent years, most of the images were replicas of ancient artwork. Hundreds and hundreds of them that went back many generations and nearly a thousand years. Countless battle scenes and mythic stories of divine interventions and holy blessings. Tales of love, lust, betrayal, and redemption.
The soft, leatherbound tome—at least five inches thick from cover to cover—was kept in a lidded box to protect it from sunlight, dust, and other damaging elements. After carrying the box to the large table in the center of the room, Eleanor set it down then lowered herself to the pillows. With delicate care and a deep, emotional reverence that always came over her when she looked through this history, she lifted the book from the box and carefully released the brass latches that held it closed.
The scent of perfumes that had been absorbed into the book overcenturies tickled her nose as she slowly turned the pages, scanning each detailed painting for the image she held in her mind. It had been a couple years since she’d perused this antique record of her family in fascination and awe, but she found the page she sought rather easily. It was near the middle of the book and depicted a wedding scene.
Beneath a bower of blooming flowers and fruit, a man and woman—dressed in elegant finery—stood with hands clasped. The detail was exquisite. You could see the design of the gold embroidery on the woman’s red sari and the man’s cream-colored sherwani, the henna on her hands, the petal of each and every flower that created the garlands looped around their necks. Though they were surrounded by people who made up a wreath of figures in the background, the couple held center stage. It was a breathtakingly beautiful image, filled with hope and love and wishes of future abundance.
Eleanor’s fingertip drifted gently over the image of the bride, tracing the lovely kohl rimmed eyes, the touch of a smile, the slim throat encircled with colorful jewels. It was tradition for the bride to wear elaborate jewelry on her wedding, bangles, rings, headpieces, earrings, but most importantly a bridal necklace. Eleanor leaned closer, trying to see the necklace more clearly. With a furrow between her brows, she peered at the image. But with the bride standing in profile and the necklace no more than a tiny detail, it was difficult to detect enough specifics to compare them to the drawing she’d recently seen.
She did, however, notice with a shock of recollection that the decorative border around the painting displayed a repeating motif of a honeybee, which represented her family’s long-standing devotion to the Hindu goddess, Bhramari. In fact, images of honeybees were scattered throughout the entire book and the design of the insect was certainly reminiscent of the viscount’s sketch.
