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Asherton

She could not hold the tears back. Setting the letter beside her, she undid the metal clasp at the front of the box and lifted the lid. Another velvet box sat inside, and opening that one, she gasped. He’d given her a short string of pearls with a pearl and sapphire slide. She lifted it as though it were glass, wiping away her tears. The sapphire was cut to match her ring. He must’ve chosen it weeks ago. And he’d stopped whatever he was doing to write the note and make certain she got the necklace. So he was thinking of her, even if he wasn’t here. That’s something.

“Can you help me put it on?” she asked Cecilia.

“Certainly.” Cecilia rose and took over the clasp’s arrangement from Elinor’s unsteady hand. In moments the necklace hung in place at her neck, the pearls smooth and cool against her skin, and nowhere near as heavy as the gold cross she’d worn for so long.

She lifted her hand to the slide, gently stroking the sapphire. It was beautiful, so well-made, and while elegant, it was simple. But it wasn’t enough. Not today. Choking on a sob, she turned to Cecilia, her hand dropping to her heart. “I-I am sorry. I must seem so foolish. But I can’t seem to stop crying. I wish…”

“You aren’t foolish at all.” Cecilia offered her a pink-embroidered handkerchief. “You’re newly wedded, dragged on a wretched trip with little sleep to a new house and a new title, and abandoned here without your husband’s assistance! I cannot imagine I would have made it this far. I might’ve been sobbing in my room all day.”

“I told him that I had no idea how to be a countess.” Elinor dabbed at her cheeks. “I admit, the idea of it seems so … so hopelessly herculean. I am terrified. If even Cavendish thinks me unworthy, I hate to imagine what else may come. But I thought I could endure it. I could face it because he’d be… But as you say, his spots remain…” She reached for his letter again. “I want this to be true. But the end’s a quote. It’s not him.”

“In my limited experience, men are bad at using their own words when emotions are involved.” Cecilia rang the service bell on the table. “Fresh tea and some proper breakfast will no doubt help your vision brighten. And it’s not as if he’s gone back to Portugal. He’s still in the city. That’s progress.”

Elinor let out a laugh that surprised even her. “Cecilia, if my husband had gone back to Portugal on our wedding night, Napoleon would be the least of his concerns.”

“There you go,” Cecilia grinned. “Threats of violence may work better than tears in this household, truthfully.” Before she could say more, two maids appeared to reclaim the pot and cup Cecilia had been using, and she requested rolls and treats, inquiring whether Cav had yet been dragged from his lair, and grimaced at the news he was still asleep. “Care to enact any more threats of violence on recalcitrant Ruthven males, Elinor?”

“It would be a pleasure,” Elinor said. “As soon as I have breakfasted. As you said, it was a strange day and odd night, and scant supper. I best eat before I deal with Cav, or I’ll be entirely unjust to him.”

Cecilia’s smile held a grim edge. “You could order him hung in the coal cellar by his feet and I assure you, there’d be justification available. You didn’t see the state of the last two governesses.”

Chapter Eleven

Ruthven Townhouse, London. June 18, 1814

Laughter filled the foyer for what must have been the first time since mourning began. Elinor and Cecilia walked arm-in-arm, Cavendish behind them holding a box of sweets at his side. He’d been a much better companion since she’d woken him two days ago. Like any boy his age, he’d been rather upset at the prospect of rising, but a few unkind words had not put Elinor off. She’d even heard the maids laughing when she poured the bucket of water over him. She’d decided that the extra laundry and a possibly ruined mattress were small considerations against firmly establishing order. He’d been well-behaved since—which Elinor distrusted immensely, but enjoyed nonetheless.

Cecilia, she found, was more than a delight, and despite her growing resentment toward the still-absent Tristan, she was grateful to have spent so much time with her new sister. Cecilia didn’t hesitate when she spoke anymore—at least not when they were alone—and her sarcastic jests came easier. Beyond that, she’d been a constant help. They’d spent much of the last two days facilitating the unpacking of their belongings, and when Tristan’s solicitor came by, Cecilia sat with her to help explain his legal mumblings. Fortunately, most of it was fairly straightforward. Until the matter of her allowance was brought up. Apparently, her husband might be errant, forgetful, and absentee, but she couldn’t accuse him of being a nipcheese regarding the household finances.

So, at Cecilia’s urging—and the subtle horror Blackwell showed every time she saw Elinor’s chemises or petticoats—Elinor organized a shopping trip for her third day as Lady Asherton. A wealth of dresses, shoes, and a lovely hat she saw in a window and simply had to have would be delivered within the week. For Cecilia, she purchased a silver hair comb with emerald settings. Cavendish was content with a box of candy, and she chose two dolls to send to Lydia and Elizabeth in Ashforde. All said and done, it’d been a morning well-spent.

“Thank you again for the comb,” Cecilia said, turning as Cavendish hurried up the stairs. “And for whatever miracle you’ve wrought on Cav. He’s been, er, less troublesome.”

“He is not so different from Arabella. Usually when they scream and thrash, it means they’ve got a thorn in their paw. It’s just a matter of figuring out how to remove it.” She dared hope that regular attention, routine, and someone willing to fight just as dirty as him might help Cav reform before Tristan came home and simply packed the poor boy into the navy.

“Strange. I think the same can be said for the Ton.”

Elinor laughed again and, after shedding their coats and handing them to a footman, she and Cecilia walked into the sitting room and sat in their usual places. They slowly made their way through two letters—Cecilia having to explain who the sender was led them into a rundown of Ton gossip. Cups of tea and fresh Turkish Delight helped soothe Elinor into an almost-sunny outlook.

A sudden thunder of footsteps in the foyer and up the servants’ stairways stopped them at the third letter. Elinor put down the quill when the butler’s voice boomed out a rebuke to some unfortunate footman. She turned a questioning look to her sister-in-law, but Blackwell skidded through the side door in the same instant.

“Milady! Lady Cecilia.” She bobbled the speediest curtsy on record, and spoke even faster, “The Earl’s carriage is here. Coming up the street. Do you wish to change? Mrs. McKenzie needs to know about the dinner menu. Are we to alter anything? Only cook must know now…”

“Why ever would we change the menu?” Elinor asked, still confused. “You did say The Earl, yes? Not the Prince Regent.” She lifted a brow. “Besides, it seems unlikely he will be staying for dinner.”

“Did he send word, My Lady?” Blackwell’s eyes were saucers.

“No, but…” Elinor turned to Cecilia. “Why does it seem we are preparing for battle?”

“Father kept a tight ship.” Cecilia’s lips thinned, and her own attention was aimed toward the main doors. “Perhaps you should go change. We’ve been out all day, and you’ll want to be in something fresh for… I’ll speak with Mrs. McKenzie about dinner.”

“But I like what we are having for dinner.” Elinor caught a whine creeping into her own voice and shook herself. Now isn’t the time to sound like Arabella. But the thought only sent a pang of longing through her heart—How she missed Bella!—and did nothing for her disposition.

“It won’t be altered by much.” Cecilia sounded exactly like Elinor reasoning Arabella out of a tantrum. Elinor winced.

“You’re right. I should change. Pray, excuse me.” It wasn’t Cecilia’s fault, so Elinor saved her irritated sighs and huffs until Blackwell walked her through the suddenly crowded foyer, and along the upstairs hallway.