Chapter 20
“You have not touched that tea, Thomas. Really, it must be almost cold.” Lady Eleanor Barchester spoke in the sort of offended manner that would only have been appropriate if Thomas was expecting her to drink the cold tea.
And it was not as if he was at Winsford Hall, her father’s country estate, where he might expect to be admonished for impolitely neglecting to drink his tea at the correct temperature. He was in his own drawing room, and he wanted more than anything for Lady Eleanor Barchester to simply go away.
“It is of little matter, Eleanor. I do not want the tea anyway,” he said and gave a broad shrug.
Thomas realized that he had taken on some of his father’s character traits when it came to dealing with people he simply did not want to be with.
It had come upon him little by little, and he knew that he would never have imagined ever being so. Thomas had always been a cheerful and polite young man, one who always took the time to chatter with dowagers at social events and entertain old men who wanted to tell him the same story time and time again. In many ways, he had prided himself on his approach to life and, not only that, but he had enjoyed it.
Thomas rose suddenly to his feet and strode across the room to the drinks cabinet where he helped himself to a glass of sherry. He did not bother to ask Eleanor if she would like one, for it was so early in the day that he knew it would be but a matter of moments before she made some judgemental comment or other.
There was much about the character of Lady Eleanor Barchester which had irritated him over time, but her tendency towards priggishness was the worst of them. It was the one which always needled him greatly and created the most intense internal response.
“It is a little early for sherry, is it not?” Eleanor said in her most disapproving tone, right on cue.
“Is it?” he said with sarcastic innocence, hearing an old phrase rolling around and around in his head and fighting hard against the temptation to simply say it.
A prig will always make you a present of his opinions. Oh, how he would love to voice it.
“I knew you would be in a curious mood today.” Eleanor, her bright blonde hair fixed in controlled, immaculate ringlets, studied him closely as he retook his seat in the armchair opposite the couch where she sat.
Eleanor really was a beautiful woman, although there was very little about her that seemed natural. Her appearance was of the utmost importance to her, and he had more than once had to wait in the drawing room of Winsford Hall for her to finish primping and preening before they could attend whatever little event they were destined for.
She was a popular woman, and he supposed he ought really to be grateful to have her, for she was not only beautiful but the daughter of a wealthy Earl who would undoubtedly settle a great dowry upon her when she married.
Of course, his father would already know exactly how much. The Duke of Shawcross and the Earl of Winsford would have sorted the whole thing out to their own satisfaction and nobody else’s. Thomas could not think of it without the familiar bitterness sweeping over him. Even as a man of title, it was quite possible to have little control over one’s life.
“I do not think I am in a particularly curious mood. I just do not want tea, that is all.” Thomas knew he sounded offhand and even a little arrogant, but he knew better still that it would hardly have any effect on Eleanor.
“I wish you had never gone to the afternoon buffet at Lord Vinton’s,” she said pettishly.
“Why should I not attend an event with Lord Vinton? He is a friend, is he not?” Thomas could feel his agitation rising.
“It has nothing to do with Lord Vinton,” Eleanor snapped.
“Indeed?”
“You know very well what I am talking about, Thomas. Or who, I should say.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It is true then that she was there?”
“Who?”
“Must we play such games?” The fact Eleanor was all business and no emotion came as no surprise whatsoever to Thomas.
“I am sorry, you are right,” Thomas said, deciding that he would behave a little better than he was doing. Not for her sake, but his own. “And yes, Lady Catherine Ambrose was there yesterday. It is the first time I have seen her in eight years, and I daresay I am in something of a curious mood. Forgive me.” He gave her what he hoped was a warm smile.
The truth of it was, he felt absolutely exhausted. He wished there was one person in his family with whom he could talk openly about Catherine, but there was not.
He had said nothing himself to Eleanor about her but was perfectly well aware that she knew of his old affection. He had no real idea where she had found her information on the youthful love that existed between Thomas and Catherine, not to mention how it all ended, but he had never bothered to ask.
Whilst the county did not discuss it in front of him, he had no doubt that it had been discussed over the years. People liked to gossip, and a love affair that ended in one of the parties being sent into exile was certainly grist to the mill of many folks.
“And you have never seen her once in all these years?” Eleanor asked suspiciously.
“How could I have done? She was somewhere in Derbyshire, and that was all I knew. If you have ever been to Derbyshire, you will know what a difficult county it is to search.” He did not bother to tell her that he had waited in the graveyard behind the trees to catch sight of his old love at her father’s funeral; Eleanor would never have understood such a compulsion.
“You searched then, did you?” She made it sound like an accusation.
“Yes, almost eight years ago, long before I knew you, I went to Derbyshire on a fruitless search for Catherine Ambrose. I tried my best, but I could not find her anywhere.”
“Your father could not have been happy about that.”
“My father never knew about it.” He shrugged and stared at her, almost daring her to run to the Duke with a tale. “The only person who knew anything of it was Pierce, and I rather believe he chose to keep that to himself in the end,” he finished quietly.
“But what were you going to do if you found her? It would hardly have helped, would it?” Eleanor was suddenly a strange mixture of curiosity and annoyance.
“I wanted to persuade her to run with me. To elope. To go to Scotland so that we might be married without the interference of our fathers.” He sighed. “But that is a long time ago now, Eleanor. I do not see where this conversation is getting us.”
“I cannot imagine that the daughter of an earl would be happy to have lived in such financial straits. Perhaps it is just as well that you did not find her and be forced to suffer her rejection.” Eleanor seemed disproportionately triumphant.
“Perhaps,” he said in a flat tone, choosing not to tell her that Catherine was a better woman, that Catherine had the courage to run and would have done.
“And did you speak to her yesterday?”
“Of course I did. She is an old friend of mine, and I have not seen her for years. You can hardly imagine that I would ignore her, can you?” He wanted the conversation to be done, but it was clear that Eleanor was having none of it.
“I cannot imagine that you have much in common anymore. You were rather young, were you not, when you had your little friendship?” Thomas felt patronized by her words and knew that he was meant to.
“We were old enough to be considered adults, Eleanor. And people do not change so greatly in a few years. We both suffered as a result of our family’s behaviour, and I cannot think of a greater thing to have in common in this world.” Thomas could hear his own annoyance and wished now that they were at Winsford Hall so that he could at least get up and leave.
“And what did you talk about?” He could hardly believe the question.
“All manner of things. Mostly Derbyshire and Catherine’s life there, all very normal for somebody who has just returned from so far away.”
“Returned? Does that mean she is to stay?” Eleanor sounded outraged.
“No, Catherine is only due to stay for a fortnight,” he said gruffly.
“Good,” Eleanor said, and finally her cheeks flushed a little; clearly, she had not meant to say that out loud and with such gusto.
“Why? Why is it good? Why does it matter to you? You are not acquainted with her, are you?” Thomas felt truly annoyed.
How he wished he had never given into his father’s perpetual insistence that he marry. How could it be that the best of the procession of women who had been paraded before him over the years was Lady Eleanor Barchester?
He knew that she was not the best; she was just the only one in his eyeline on the day that he had finally given in. He had no particular regard for her, but having never had any regard for any woman who was not Catherine Ambrose, he thought it mattered very little who he married in the end. And it was as simple as that. It was as unremarkable as that.
“We do not need any petty interferences in our lives, Thomas. We are to be married soon, and I am sure that your father expects you to keep sight of that. I know that he is very keen for us to have a date settled at the earliest opportunity.”
“And how do you know that?” Thomas said, knowing very well that both Eleanor and her father, the Earl of Winsford, often kept the Duke’s counsel.
He had often thought of the three of them talking together, plotting and arranging, and he had often imagined them as conspirators. No doubt there had been some nervousness at the return of Catherine Ambrose that the three of them had needed to discuss at some point. Presumably, his father would be speaking to him about it sooner rather than later. It could only be a matter of time before he was edged into a wedding date of their choosing.
“Because my father and your father are the firmest of friends,” Eleanor said in a manner which was almost boastful.
It was on the tip of Thomas’ tongue to say the truth is my father would eat your father if he thought it would do him some good, but he did not say it.
“Well, I think we have exhausted this conversation, have we not?” he said in a firm voice that was intended to put an end to it.
“I hope so,” she said significantly.
Thomas looked out of the drawing room window and could see the sun slowly sinking in the sky. Evening would soon fall, and the Earl of Winsford’s carriage would mercifully spirit Eleanor away.