The train clattered and swayed toward London, taking them by stages to Kent. Eleanor felt uneasy, not quite over the odd moment at the station this morning when she’d woken from a reverie to find the locomotive rumbling toward her and had no idea what it was.
A huge metal Trojan Horse breathing smoke and cinders.
Eleanor had shrieked like a booby who had never seen a train, and felt strangely certain that she hadn’t. Instead she found herself on a deserted street in London with no idea how she’d got there. Found herself in Goodwood House during the long-gone war against Napoleon, Aunt Clara sitting by the fire in one of the dresses now stored in the attic, except that it was new. Found herself most mysteriously in the American state of Connecticut, aware that she was jumping through time and space, and wondering who was doing this to her. A box flickered with moving images, and as she watched a pale hand reached out to do what she knew was called “changing the channel.”
Then Eleanor was back in the station where she’d always been, living the life that—surely—she’d always lived, and felt foolish for having shrieked at a train.
“What on earth was that?” her aunt asked, and Eleanor was glad the station was so noisy that she didn’t have to answer.
Nerves, she supposed, as she settled into their compartment. A case of nerves, Eleanor’s world having tumbled off its axis when she’d met Captain Denholm not a month before on the heights near Goodwood. It had been one of the most important days of her life, despite her odd feeling that she wasn’t supposed to be there, not when Robert Denholm was mourning the loss of his friend—and what was his name?—in a meaningless skirmish in northern India. And in brutal fact, it would have been better if she hadn’t been, not with her aunt preparing to launch a determined pursuit of the captain’s brother.
In some ways, it had been easier to be ill, lying innocently on her sofa. The moment Mr. Blythe had felt sufficiently certain of Eleanor’s recovery to end his lucrative visits to Goodwood (or her aunt had), the campaign for Mr. Denholm had begun. The first step had been a party in the Goodwood gardens, which Mrs. Crosby had held to celebrate Eleanor’s return to health. Captain Denholm was gone by then, having returned to his regiment almost as soon as he’d left Eleanor on the heights. But Edward Denholm remained in Middleford, and almost immediately, Eleanor had to reproach herself for the way she mishandled his attentions.
A hopeful thought: the position of ladies was changing. In generations past, Mrs. Crosby would have been entirely in charge of Eleanor’s marriage, certainly with a rich property like Goodwood at stake. Yet just this past winter, Queen Victoria herself had married for love. For the first time, Eleanor thought she might be allowed some say in choosing her husband, at least if she managed things smartly.
But she’d made a hash of it at the party, hadn’t she? Things had gone wrong from the start, when Kitty had arrived early to help set up a tea table under the marquee. Lady Anne had finally permitted her to come to Goodwood, but the long-awaited visit had been unsettling.
“I’ve spent a great deal of time with Mr. Denholm over the past couple of weeks,” Kitty had said, her eyes on the cups she was arranging, “and I think it was largely because he wanted to speak about you. Always asking, ‘What would Miss Crosby think?’ and ‘What does she like?’”
Eleanor thought she heard an edge in Kitty’s voice, even a touch of resentment. She wondered if her friend had grown to prefer Mr. Denholm to the captain, and hoped she had. Yet Kitty’s irritation might simply be owing to the fact that Mr. Denholm had treated her as a neuter. The young ladies of Middleford knew too much about that, having spent years being pumped by suitors eager for an advantage with Kitty’s eldest sister Elizabeth, a great beauty. Did Miss Mowbray prefer puppies, keepsake albums, whist? A puzzle they all tried to solve, at least until Lizzy demonstrated her preferences by marrying the duke’s grandson.
It wasn’t flattering to be used that way. Nor was Eleanor flattered by Mr. Denholm’s interest, especially when Kitty told her he’d asked about her expectations from Mrs. Crosby.
“I had to tell him I didn’t know.”
“No more do I,” Eleanor said. “I’m sorry if he annoyed you.”
“He didn’t. He’s amusing.”
Kitty stepped back to examine the table, and smiled.
“Although he’s something of a satirist, and not always kind. He’s always so elaborately polite to my mother that she suspects him of being insincere. But how can she object?”
“Hmmm,” Eleanor replied, in Lady Anne’s contralto.
“I have to say, I think his father holds the whip hand over him.” Kitty gave Eleanor a quick glance. “I shouldn’t count on anything, Nell.”
“I’m afraid my aunt does,” Eleanor answered, and sighed.
It was a fine day for a party. A strong sun, a light breeze, and the trees coming into leaf: that hopeful new green. Yet when Kitty left to find her sisters, Eleanor wanted to be anywhere else. To be a flag flying from the peak of the marquee, her pretty dress blowing in the breeze; what an odd thing to think. To sink imperceptibly into the ground, she decided, when Mr. Denholm walked in wearing a suit of the finest brown wool. Eleanor had a moment to prepare as he looked around. Then his face lit up.
“Miss Crosby!” he cried, hurrying over. “You’re blooming! How excellent!”
“If one can bloom when pouring tea, Mr. Denholm,” Eleanor said, with bright impersonal efficiency. “I’d offer you a cup, but I believe you prefer coffee.”
“You remembered,” he said, looking gratified. Then he turned surprisingly gentle. “Although of course I’ll take a cup of your tea.”
Eleanor hadn’t expected that. She blushed and busied herself with the teapot, agreeing disjointedly that she’d recovered, and trying to make sure their fingers didn’t brush when she handed him his cup. He seemed prepared to linger, but Eleanor took immediate refuge in the lady waiting behind him.
“Mrs. Warfield. How lovely to see you. May I offer . . .”
Eleanor was in luck. The whole of Middleford had accepted her aunt’s invitation, and she served cup after cup of tea. Meanwhile she assured everyone that she was perfectly well in the same polite and meaningless phrases, hoping to bore Mr. Denholm into leaving. Instead, he remained persistently by her side, marvelling at the crowd, the excellent cake, the quality of her aunt’s tea. The wretched man stayed beside her even when Lady Anne bulled up.
“Your aunt’s cook serves a great deal of cream with her strawberries. Would you like me to speak with her?”
Half an hour passed before Mr. Denholm finally stepped outside. Her duties arguably over, Eleanor beckoned a maid to replace her, slipping out the back of the marquee and heading for the maze. She wanted to lose herself in its twists and turns, hide herself, break away from the wrong Denholm. When she saw the clipped evergreens in the distance, she kicked into a run.
“No wonder, Miss Crosby,” Mr. Denholm called, making her stumble. “No wonder you’re eager to escape the prosing of society.” Coming up, he took her arm as if she needed steadying. “If that’s what one calls the good people of Middleford.”
“I call them friends,” Eleanor said, taking back her arm.
“But you needed a walk. A break.”
Eleanor smiled politely and turned away from the maze, not wanting to lead him toward privacy. Instead she took Mr. Denholm down the avenue of plane trees, where other couples sauntered. Not that they were a couple, although it was true Mr. Denholm sauntered, his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked back on his head like a boy.
“A lovely spring,” Eleanor said, taking refuge in the weather.
“Now that you’re better.” A searching look: “You’re really not tired?”
“Not in the least. I love a good walk.”
“As do I. In fact, I rather fancy a long one.”
“A long walk. Very well, then. I’ll leave you to it.”
Eleanor smiled and sat down on a bench. But the unshakeable Mr. Denholm only threw himself down on the grass at her feet. As the wispy clouds flitted overhead, he questioned her need for blankets and shawls. Was she sufficiently warm, over-warm, chilled when the sun went behind a cloud?
“Really, Mr. Denholm,” Eleanor finally said, in complete exasperation. “I’m quite capable of asking for anything I need.”
He was leaning against the bench, legs crossed in front of him, showing off his beautiful brown trousers, the wool as light as cambric. “I remember that,” he said.
“I believe I’ve made the point several times.”
“I mean that whenever I’m mildly ill, I’m quite happy to be fussed over by the eternal mother, in whatever guise she presents herself. But the one time I was really sick—as ill as you’ve been—I was determined to prove myself a hardy little soldier.”
“You had a fever?” Eleanor asked, reluctantly interested.
“Cholera, as a boy. My mother hardly dared say the word. But as you see, I recovered. And no doubt”—glancing up at her—“you’re thoroughly relieved.”
“Naturally,” Eleanor replied, and nodded toward a wander of Mowbrays. “Doesn’t Alicia look lovely in her new striped lilac?”
In fact, Eleanor had been deeply struck by what Mr. Denholm had said, although she tried not to show it. He noticed, of course, and looked even more pleased with himself. At the head of the avenue, her aunt looked just as pleased, Mrs. Crosby’s gaze having followed Eleanor around the party like a second shadow.
If only they’d known. The truth was, Eleanor had remembered her aunt mentioning the frequent outbreaks of cholera in Kent, the air being particularly unhealthy in the shipyards.
Apparently Mr. Denholm’s father hadn’t expected to inherit the family estate, being a third son. The first had died unmarried in a carriage accident. The second, a clergyman, had given up his living to take over Ackley Castle and lived there for almost twenty years. He’d married twice and had four daughters, but left no sons when he died. “In a cholera epidemic,” her aunt had said. The castle passed next to Mr. Denholm’s father, Colonel Denholm, who had resigned his commission to come home from India and start a family.
Marrying an eldest son was no guarantee of riches. Eleanor knew that, of course, but now it struck her forcibly. Fever or accident could easily pick off the most cosseted heir, while a younger brother—even in the military—might well inherit riches.
Eleanor wished no evil to Mr. Denholm. He was an amusing companion, as Kitty said, intelligent and witty. (“Your cook isn’t serving sufficient young men to my daughters. Would you like me to speak with her?”) He was even gracious enough to give way to the Browne girls when they arrived to chat, perhaps thinking of Alicia Mowbray, and finding it tactical to offer too little of his company rather than too much.
Teas, musical afternoons. The onslaught of sociability continued. The onslaughts from Mr. Denholm, with Eleanor trying time and again to fend him off, and failing. Yet despite her exasperation, she found herself unable to mention his name to Kitty, even when they took their first long walk. She felt oddly tongue-tied as they wound up Goodwood dale, heading for the moors on another beautiful day.
As they reached the top, Eleanor wondered if she could slip into the subject by hinting that something beyond the order of birth ought to be considered when arranging a marriage. Love, she might begin, if only she could have said the word. Affection—yes, affection was of far greater importance than it had been when their parents were young. Affection was the motive of the new young queen (exactly their age) who had chosen to marry her handsome cousin, even though no one could pronounce the name of the tiny principality his father ruled, Saxe-Coburg-Something, known mainly for its hyphens.
The prince was a second son, she would say. Preferred to the hyphenated heir by no less than Queen Victoria.
Eleanor knew she was really rehearsing for a talk with her aunt. But she couldn’t manage to say it even to Kitty, and only awakened from her reverie when her friend touched her arm.
“Remember?”
They were standing in a field of cowslips. Sharing a smile, they knelt on the grass as they’d knelt when they were children, plucking the yellow flowers in a bleed of white sap and weaving the stems together. Before long, they were laughing like children, ending the morning windblown and happy, running into Goodwood with circlets of cowslips in their hair.
Eleanor flung open the door to her aunt’s sitting room to find Mr. Denholm just sitting down. Her joy evaporated as he stood up again with a delighted smile.
“What a lovely picture! I wish I had your talent with a brush, Miss Mowbray. Perhaps we might ask you to capture your friend Miss Crosby and her cowslips.”
Eleanor glanced at Kitty, but for whatever reason, her friend seemed unprepared to speak. Eleanor removed her circlet, blushing furiously.
“I’m afraid I’m in no mood to be captured, Mr. Denholm,” she said, trying to remain pleasant. “I’ve just barely been freed from the house. Aunt, perhaps Kitty and I may be excused to prepare ourselves for guests.”
“Leave it, my dear. Here’s Mr. Denholm stopping by for an instant. He’s been summoned back to Ackley Castle, his poor mother being ill.”
Kitty seemed ready to sympathize, but Mr. Denholm looked more irritated than worried.
“Again,” he said. “I’m afraid my mother’s health has never been good, but her physician is excellent and I assume he’ll work his magic. However,” he said petulantly, “she’s written to request my return.”
Eleanor put the cowslips on a table, struggling to remember Mr. Denholm’s mother. She had been a null figure when Eleanor had visited Kent as a child, compressed into corners even when standing in the middle of a room. Mr. Denholm’s irritation suggested she suffered from melancholy, which was known even in practical-minded Middleford.
“I hope you’ll have a safe journey,” Eleanor said. She took Kitty’s hand, asking with a squeeze that she ignore Mrs. Crosby, who was signalling her to leave. Eleanor had no desire for a private conversation with Mr. Denholm, nor did Kitty seem ready to abandon her. Perhaps she had grown to like Mr. Denholm instead of his brother. Their stubborn smiles left Mr. Denholm puzzled, until he turned and saw Mrs. Crosby signalling fruitlessly behind him.
“My aunt has a speck in her eye,” Eleanor told him blandly.
“I see,” Mr. Denholm said, and to his credit, he did. He gave Eleanor a surprisingly cool look and picked up his hat. “I must be off.”
“Yes, your poor mother,” her aunt said, accompanying him to the door. “Fortunately it’s almost time for one of my visits to Kent. You’ll see us soon, Mr. Denholm.”
“And Kitty, of course,” Eleanor said.
“Unfortunately not. I won’t say goodbye, Mr. Denholm, but à bientôt,” Mrs. Crosby said.
The heir bowed himself out, leaving Eleanor entirely relieved.
“Ten thousand a year, Eleanor,” Mrs. Crosby said, when the door had scarcely closed.
“My mother says it’s not quite eight,” Kitty told her.
“I’m afraid, my dear, that this is one of those very rare occasions when your mother is wrong.”
Turning to Eleanor. “I wonder when you became so contrary. It doesn’t suit you.”
“But Aunt. Surely I have some choice . . .”
Without letting her finish, Mrs. Crosby stalked out of the room, looking far angrier than Eleanor had ever seen her.
Over the next week, Mrs. Crosby had refused to speak with Eleanor, saying she was too busy for nonsense. Eleanor hadn’t minded, thinking they could talk on the train. But after her odd moment in the station, they climbed on board to find a Yorkshire family taking up most of the carriage, their awful little son already refusing to stay seated, and soon afterwards throwing his book at a tiny overborne governess. When the family left the train at Nottingham, Eleanor hoped for an opening. But a shocking number of thin elderly sisters slid in around them like pipes arranging themselves in an organ. Only when they pulled into Euston Station was she able to manage a hint.
“It’s been so long since we’ve been here. Surely we could stop for a few days?”
“On the way back,” Mrs. Crosby replied. “When we order your trousseau.”
There was the most extraordinary exhalation from the sisters, a series of squeaks and pips and chirrings that made Eleanor think once again of a pipe organ, this time warming up. She was surrounded by mechanical pipes, each with bulging eyes and a hatchet jaw opened and closed by unseen pedals. Marriage, marriage, they seemed to be piping, and although Eleanor had to smile, there was also a plaintive side to their excitement, a plangency coming from the too-obvious fact that all of them were spinsters. Eleanor was reminded what her aunt was hoping to save her from, and it silenced her for the rest of the day.
Mrs. Crosby’s carriage arrived at their inn the next morning, the coachman having set out from Kent before dawn. As they left the yard, Eleanor lifted her handkerchief against the stench of London, unable to remove it until they reached Greenwich and took the road toward Swale. Even then, she and her aunt remained quiet, with Eleanor absorbed in her thoughts. Only as they approached Preston Hall did she rouse herself to say, “You told me once that Colonel Denholm had a brother who died of cholera. I remember you saying he left four daughters. The ladies on the train have made me wonder what became of them.”
Her aunt looked surprised but not displeased.
“One went to the bad, I’m afraid, and we needn’t dwell on her. Although if we did,” she continued happily, “I could tell you that she thought she was eloping with the eldest son of a peer. Of course he had no intention of marrying her. But she was the eldest herself, and the most accustomed to the comforts of Ackley Castle. Living afterwards in a cottage with her mother and sisters proved to be more than her principles could bear.”
“What happened to her?” Eleanor asked. “Did she survive?”
“And prosper. She continues with her seducer, never married, several children, a mainstay of London society, at least at a certain level. Julia Holmes, as the family insisted she call herself.”
“Mrs. Holmes! Isn’t she the mistress of the prime minister? Or”—trying to remember—“the Lord Chancellor?”
“The second of the Denholm sisters managed to marry,” Mrs. Crosby said. “She wasn’t the prettiest girl, but the most sensible, and she accepted a lawyer. The other two still occupy the cottage.”
“So, one marriage among the four.”
Mrs. Crosby looked pleased with her mathematics. “Their father, you know, thought he was robbing the estate to secure his daughters’ futures. But it turned out his steward was robbing both him and the estate. Colonel Denholm needed years to put things right.”
Eleanor remembered being frightened of the colonel as a child, although she couldn’t remember why. He was an upright figure whose boots creaked across the entrance hall of Ackley Castle like the wheels of a plague cart. Creak, click. Creak, click.
Odd to think of a plague cart. Eleanor had no idea where it came from, but the words echoed in her head like a voice she knew well.
Plague cart. Plague cart.
And suddenly she was breathless, eyes open on darkness as she stood in a London street before dawn. Her back was tight to a damp plaster wall as a creak-crack, creak-crick slowly heaved toward her. Creak, creak, crack. She didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to see it. Wanted it to pass by and knew that it wouldn’t, that it would stop at her house and take . . .
Father! A sob in her mind.
Eleanor pulled herself up sharply. She must have nodded off and dreamt about a novel she’d read. More likely one her father had read her when she was young and suggestible enough that the wall’s dampness had insinuated itself into her memory. Yet she couldn’t recall a novel like that and felt baffled. Worse: afraid she was growing hysterical at precisely the wrong time, with her entire future being decided.
“Ackley Castle is just ahead,” her aunt said. “I wonder how much you’ll remember.”
Mrs. Crosby rapped on the roof of the carriage and the coachman stopped. When Eleanor leaned out the window, glad of some air, she saw the castle in the distance behind high walls. She remembered the building as immense but not as imposing as it appeared now. The tower at its centre was ancient, the remnants of a fortress still inhabited a thousand years after it was built. On either side were great wings added during the Restoration. Eleanor had the impression of endless windows and chimneys and a lawn sloping down to what must once have been a moat. Sheep wandered across it, erratic clouds on an emerald sky.
“There’s a passage in Pride and Prejudice,” her aunt said, “where Elizabeth Bennet claims that her love of Mr. Darcy came on so gradually, she hardly knew when it began. ‘But,’ she says, ‘I believe it must date from seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley.’”
“She was joking.”
“The author wasn’t. Miss Austen knew very well that it’s foolish to marry without money.”
Eleanor dared herself to say it. “Just as foolish as to marry without affection. Even the queen . . .”
“. . . married one of a small group of princelings sent her way by her uncle, the King of the Belgians. All of them Prussian, unfortunately.”
Her aunt rapped the roof and they drove on.
“Nerves, Eleanor,” she said. “I don’t really blame you. And, frankly, it doesn’t hurt Mr. Denholm to understand you’re not merely after his money. I’m sure so many girls have thrown themselves at his inheritance that the process has lost its appeal.”
“I wonder if that’s what made him so vain.”
“More likely his mother,” her aunt said. “She’s always doted on him.”
So they were going to have a frank discussion.
“Mr. Denholm was unkind about his mother when last we saw him,” Eleanor said.
“He has his faults,” her aunt replied. “I wonder who doesn’t. But you’ve made him fall in love with you . . .”
“I have!” Eleanor blushed violently. “I’m quite sure I haven’t! And that he hasn’t, or isn’t. We scarcely know one another.”
No more than she knew Captain Denholm, honesty reminded her. Eleanor looked aside, lost in the moment she fell into Robert Denholm’s deep grey eyes. She didn’t have the words to describe the warmth that had spread through her.
“I’m glad you’re going to listen to me,” her aunt said. “A successful marriage isn’t an accident. Nor, I’m afraid, can passion be counted on to last. Mark my words: happiness is a decision one takes, and I can see you and Mr. Denholm taking it. You’re alike in any number of ways. I wouldn’t ask you to marry a stupid man, no matter how great his fortune. But Edward Denholm is clever, as you’re very well aware.”
“Must we have this discussion?” Eleanor asked. “What are you telling me? That I have to marry him? Surely not. Not anymore. Please tell me you haven’t talked about this with Mr. Denholm. Or his father. Even worse.”
“It’s true he’s highly strung,” her aunt said, taking her hand. “A restless young man, and an impatient one. But I promise he’ll settle if you marry him.”
“At least you said if.”
“I meant when. He’s likely to ask you, my dear, and you will accept.”
“You’ve been planning this for a long time, haven’t you?”
Arguably from birth, when her mother had died. Eleanor took back her hand, feeling caught in the way things had been done for years. For centuries. Back at Goodwood, she’d accused her aunt of playing chess with Lady Anne. She’d been amused at the time but it shocked her now. Generations of young ladies being moved around like pawns, like marionettes. Her nightmare of being caught in strings. Nothing had changed. Not really.
“Permit me to take care of you, my dear,” Mrs. Crosby told her. “You’re affectionate, and he already fancies himself in love with you—he does, Eleanor—and everything else will follow. Especially since I know you’re not thinking of anyone else.”
It was a question. Eleanor blushed even more deeply, and her aunt’s eyes turned as sharp as scalpels. But speaking about Captain Denholm was impossible.
“I think,” Eleanor fumbled. “I think perhaps Kitty has grown to . . . that she likes Mr. Denholm. I thought it was his brother at first. But . . . now I think not. I think it’s him.”
Mrs. Crosby relaxed.
“So that’s why she was so firm in her mother’s assertion he has only eight thousand pounds a year. As if that would give her a better chance. I’m afraid she has no chance at all, my dear. You’re being in the way means nothing to her future, and it’s sweet of you—lovely—but you needn’t bridle yourself. The colonel would never permit his heir to marry a girl of small fortune. Nor, I’m afraid, would Edward Denholm even speak to Kitty if she wasn’t your friend.”
Finally hearing her aunt, Eleanor realized that she was going to marry Edward Denholm, not his brother—and now, in modern times, despite the happy choice made by their queen. The party had started and Eleanor couldn’t leave, incapable of running away like Julia Holmes, mistress of whomever.
“How much do you plan to give them with me?” she asked, feeling shockingly bitter.
“It depends how much the colonel requires.”
Her aunt pushed back a strand of Eleanor’s hair.
“Isn’t my daughter happily married to Mr. Whittaker?”
“Yes,” Eleanor whispered.
“Of course, you might prefer Stansfield Mowbray.”
“You said you wouldn’t marry me to a stupid man.”
“He’s not stupid, he’s dull,” her aunt said, trying to coax a smile before turning more serious. “I actually think more highly of Stansfield than you do. He may be a bit slow to come to a conclusion, but he gets there eventually. He also likes to do the right thing, which is an excellent quality in a husband. As long as one behaves oneself.”
It was another question, and Eleanor nodded mutely. Of course she’d behave. Her father had given her principles.
Seeing her capitulate, Mrs. Crosby moved away, letting her breathe.
“Once you’re engaged to Mr. Denholm,” she said companionably, “Stansfield will have to follow the same program of impinging on his acquaintance to find a wife. There’s really no one suitable in the neighbourhood. Except Kitty, of course. It’s a pity about incest. They’re actually rather well-suited.”
“Aunt!”
But Mrs. Crosby only smiled again, not seeming to notice the abrupt lurch of the carriage. Or perhaps it hadn’t lurched. It was only Eleanor’s world spinning further off its axis. When she looked outside, everything was the way it had always been. To her left was a high brick wall. Gateposts lay not far ahead. Beyond them was Mrs. Crosby’s estate.