Chapter Four

The Christmas meal was divine. After so many years spending the holiday in various ports or even aboard ship, Julian had nearly forgotten how lovely a true feast cooked by someone with a full kitchen and weeks to make it could truly be. The black butter alone—made of apples into a delicious spread—almost made him weep with pleasure.

The only flaw was that, though Eleanor had been seated on his left, the Edgleys’ daughter on his right latched on to every chance for conversation with him, scarcely taking a breath, it seemed, and certainly not pausing to eat. He had a suspicion that Henry had deliberately seated Miss Edgley beside him, and if the girl’s prattling was any indication, she was quite keen on the arrangement.

The few times someone else addressed Miss Edgley or a footman served her, Julian turned on the instant to Eleanor, but not once through the meal did she give him any notice or want to converse with him. At the very least, he wished to exchange looks of exasperation about the young Miss Edgley’s chatter, but he did not even find that in Eleanor. She quietly ate her meal, eyes fixed on her plate, almost as if she wished she could escape the room altogether.

Escape his presence altogether? Why was her manner so clearly uncomfortable near him? He thought back to Henry’s ridiculous proposal as they’d walked home from the morning service—and how quiet Eleanor had been even then. The fiery spirit he’d once known would have piped up in protest at what a silly notion such a ball would be.

But not if she is eager to find me another to wife.

Julian had to swallow a knot in his throat at that. He tried to cover the emotion by sipping his wine at the same time. Miss Edgley continued to prattle about something—dresses or the millinery in town or some such. He could not have said for certain what her subject matter had shifted to, even if he’d been faced with walking the plank unless he gave the correct answer. He could not have recalled so much as the color of her gown, because his attention was entirely diverted by the governess seated on the other side of him. Even so, he did his best to be a gentleman, for he would not offend Henry’s guests for the world.

After the feast, the men enjoyed their port while the women retired to the drawing room. Julian held his glass of expensive drink but had no stomach for it. As he watched the door close behind the women, he thought ’twas truly a pity that men and women separated after supper. He had no desire to talk about Parliament, or the navy, or international trade, or the prime minister, or anything else, unless such a conversation were with Eleanor.

What did she think of the current Parliament? He had no doubt that she had an opinion, and that opinion had been of her own creation through careful study and thoughtful consideration of the matters after thoroughly reading about them on her own. As a young woman, she’d eagerly read every newspaper and leaflet she could find, and he had no reason to think her curiosity about the world—or her tendency toward strong opinions—had changed.

Henry and Mr. Edgley sat across the room, discussing women they should be sure to invite to the upcoming ball, which apparently would be held for certain, Julian’s feelings on the matter being irrelevant. They added women to the list based on things like keen eyes, delicate features, and glossy hair. Having Mr. Edgley present felt uncomfortable at best, as the man added comments about how his daughter would make a good match.

None of the comments from any of the men ventured into anything about the women’s minds or hearts. He appreciated a pretty face as much as any man, but pretty faces did not endure, and a keen mind was far more attractive anyway. Eleanor had both.

Julian sipped his port and tried to ignore the discussion over whether Miss Merchant or Miss Pilcher had the more pleasing laugh. He’d hoped Christmas Day would end with some kind of other diversion—a game of whist, if nothing else. Did Henry’s household indulge in entertainment the likes of Snapdragon? The elder Mr. Brunson had been deeply spiritual and wouldn’t have approved, of course. If he hadn’t allowed a mistletoe bough, he most certainly would not have approved of raisins soaked in rum, floating in a sea of more rum, then set afire.

Julian prided himself on being quite adept at the game of Snapdragon: he could snatch several raisins in a row without getting burned. But perhaps that was the sailor in him, and proper folks like those at Willowsmeade didn’t lower themselves to such amusements. Then again, a mistletoe had been hung above the doorway into the ballroom. What other changes had Henry brought to Willowsmeade after his father’s death?

Perhaps I should propose a game of Snapdragon to test his reaction. Julian swirled his port around and around. Watching it spin, he tried to imagine Eleanor playing Snapdragon. He’d seen some women play it, including several ladies, and they always squealed and yelped like panicked birds.

He felt quite confident that Eleanor was incapable of either squealing or yelping. Such an act of silliness wasn’t in her mettle. Though he hadn’t spent more than a few minutes in her presence in ten years, he knew if she were to play, she’d walk right to the burning bowl, perhaps walk around it to analyze the locations of the raisins and determine the best angle at which to snatch one, and then, in one swift movement, she’d stick her hand into the bowl and pluck out a raisin. She’d place it victoriously in her mouth, no worse for the wear and without so much as a singe on her lace cuff.

And if she were singed, she’d calmly pat the spot to be sure it was extinguished, and then carry on as if nothing untoward had happened, as indeed, to her, nothing had. She would not squeal or yell over singed lace. That was the old Eleanor. He didn’t seem to know the current one. Would that he could test the theory, but amusements of that nature were not to be, as the entire household retired at a maddeningly proper hour. The men would be up early for the annual fox hunt, and the women would be up equally early to prepare the boxes for the Brunsons’ tenants for Boxing Day.

Julian hardly slept that night. For the first time in memory, he had no desire whatsoever to go on any hunt. And, for the first time in five years, he was home from the sea during Christmastide. Last time, the hunt had been a welcome distraction, something to do to keep him from thinking about how Eleanor, who had always been a fixture of Willowsmeade to him, wasn’t there.

He hadn’t visited since, and in the intervening years, as holidays came and went, he’d thought of the fox hunt with fondness. Standing on the helm of his ship as the weather grew cooler, he’d looked forward to one day participating in the annual hunt one day. Each year, something kept him away. Usually, the navy kept him away, but one year it was the death of his father and his burial at their family lot several days’ journey away. The year after that, he didn’t want to return right after Mr. Brunson’s death, during the mourning period.

But now he had returned. Eleanor had too, and he didn’t want to leave even for an hour. He couldn’t wait for daylight and a chance to see Eleanor again. He wanted to spend some proper time with her. Yes, even if that meant a day in the noisy and unruly nursery with Andrew and Thomas and three energetic little girls.

When morning dawned, gray and damp, Julian dragged himself out of bed and got dressed for the hunt. He’d likely be glad he went, or so he told himself, much as a parent tried to coax a child. If he stayed behind, Henry would be liable to call a physician or otherwise cause trouble, and Julian didn’t want to draw such attention to himself.

As he headed toward the stables, he caught a glimpse of Eleanor carrying an armload of something and walking toward the main house. He waved and called to her. She glanced his way but didn’t return his greeting with so much as a nod. A moment later, she’d slipped inside and out of sight.

He sighed, disappointment creeping into his soul. She didn’t seem to care a fig for him any longer. Seeing her again, even fleetingly, turned out to be enough to torment Julian. His yearning to be with her expanded with each step he took through the gravel, his boots making a rhythmic beat as he went. He felt pulled toward the house, to find Eleanor—likely in the kitchen, preparing boxes, he presumed—but forced himself to keep going to the stables, where the men were to meet in but a few minutes. Every step that brought him farther from the house, from Eleanor, proved painful, like a dull knife blade slowly reopening a barely healed wound.

At least she wasn’t visiting, so he could feel some assurance that any time in the near future that he would be at Willowsmeade, she would be too. Whether she’d want to spend time with him and whether seeing her regularly would bring only pain or eventually be a pleasant experience, he did not know.

The hunt itself seemed to last an eternity. He was cold and wet and tired, and he didn’t care about spotting foxes or bringing back any quarry. The hours felt like days, and the day itself the single longest of his life. This was not the dream he’d envisioned last Christmastide while on his ship.

When they turned their horses about to head back, Julian breathed a sigh of relief. But then Henry pulled his horse abreast of Julian’s and insisted on talking. Up to that point, the day’s subject matter had been mostly about hunting and horses, but the look in Henry’s eyes set Julian’s teeth on edge. This interchange would not be about horses. He hoped it would not be about the silly aim of finding him a wife at a ball like some children’s tale.

“I don’t suppose you can guess what I’ve had Miss Hadfield—” Henry cut himself off. “I suppose I should call her Eleanor when speaking with you, but she’s been our governess for so long that I’m in the habit now of referring to her that way. What was I saying?”

“Something about Eleanor.”

“Ah. Yes.” Henry laughed, as if he knew that whatever he was going to say wasn’t something that Julian wanted to hear. “I’d wager you can’t guess what I’ve had her working on today.”

“I’d assume she’s tending to the children, unless she is seeing to the traditional Boxing Day activities with Mrs. Brunson,” Julian countered. “Am I wrong?”

“Oh, well yes, she’s done some of both, I imagine, but there’s something else, too. Something very specific I asked her to do.” Henry laughed again in the way he used to when he’d laid a mischievous prank that had yet to be discovered by the victim.

Julian felt quite certain he knew what Henry had requested of Eleanor, but he wasn’t about to mention the ball. His stomach went sour just thinking about it. “What task did you ask of her, then?”

“What, no guesses? You disappoint me.” Henry grinned expectantly, but Julian would not be drawn in. He merely grinned back silently, mirroring Henry’s expression and waiting for his friend to continue. At last, he did. “After our conversation on the road with her yesterday, I thought you’d surely guess.”

The sourness spread beyond Julian’s stomach. Julian tightened his grip on the reins but didn’t allow himself to reveal any other outward sign of displeasure. Henry was treading on places Julian did not wish anyone to be, but if he admitted as much, whether in a gesture, tone, or something else, Henry would be spurred on by the reaction like a horse under the hand of snapping crop. Fortunately, military life had taught Julian how to keep a neutral posture and facial expression.

“You will have to enlighten me,” he said, then silently tried to find a way to make sure the ball wouldn’t happen at all. Usually, a dance over Christmastide could be enjoyable, something to anticipate, and more so knowing Eleanor would be in attendance. But any enthusiasm he might have felt was dampened by Henry’s dastardly plan of a bridal ball.

Henry drew his horse a bit closer to Julian’s, so close their stirrups almost touched, and he leaned in. “If she has managed to do as I requested, and I have no reason to think Miss Had—rather, Eleanor—hasn’t, as she is so entirely capable, then the ballroom will be fully decorated with greenery and gold paper, ready for a ball to be held in two days’ time.” Henry laughed in an almost victorious manner.

“T-Two days?” Julian said, and hated how his voice nearly squeaked.

“Two.” Henry looked rather pleased with himself. “A ball for you.”

Julian felt as if Henry had poured a pitcher of freezing ocean water over his head. “I hoped you weren’t in earnest.”

“I most certainly was—and am.” Henry stroked the neck of his mare, patted it, then faced forward as he went on. “You really must find a wife, and I’m going to see to it. I’m that good of a friend, Julian. My father saw to it that you had some education and a chance at a military career. My duty is to see to it that you are wed.”

“I assure you, that is quite unnecess—”

But Henry was having none of it, and he continued as if Julian hadn’t said a word, “Getting you to return to Willowsmeade for any length of time is a feat, so this is my first true opportunity to find you a wife—something that should have happened a long time ago. And now that the opportunity is here, I am not about to let it slip away. If I have any say in the matter—and I believe I do—you, my dear man, will be engaged by Twelfth Night.”

Julian was shaking his head miserably. He’d rather be in a brig with rats than endure a holiday ball thrown entirely for the purpose of finding him a wife. The thought of being ogled and fawned over by women he had no interest in made him want to flee to the sea after all.

He already loved a woman, and she wouldn’t be one of the ladies there vying for his affections. Alas, Eleanor didn’t appear to return his feelings. Perhaps she’d found contentment in her life as governess, knowing she had a home at Willowsmeade even when she grew too old to work.

Eleanor always had been strong and independent—qualities that made her an equal when the three of them were young, as she could climb trees and run as fast as Julian or Henry ever could, even in a dress.

He’d never suspected that her strength and independence would mean she’d end up a spinster with no interest in spending time with him. He came from humble beginnings but had made something of himself—a captain in the navy. Yet she was a member of the Brunson family, and as such, perhaps not even Henry would view the son-of-a-gardener-turned-captain as good enough for his cousin. He had changed his social standing, but not his blood.

Perhaps a predictable life of comfort at Willowsmeade was preferable to a potentially risky, laborious life with him as he tried to make his way in life with a new profession—one he’d yet to choose.

Yet a sliver of something inside him whispered that she’d always wanted to be a wife and mother. Like the whisper of a breeze, the idea floated about him, hinting that her wish mightn’t have changed, that the possibility existed of Eleanor wanting to marry after all, even to someone born of a lower station.

I could make her happy, he thought. I’m sure of it—if I could but convince her.

“I’ve had Eleanor and Mrs. Brunson working on the guest list and decorations all day, with specific instructions to invite every eligible woman within two leagues who Eleanor believes would make a good match with you.”

Henry laughed again, dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and galloped off, as if he had given the final word on the matter. As if Julian himself had no say in whether to remain a bachelor or wed. As if he had no say over whom he could marry.

The tiny flicker of hope he’d felt on seeing Eleanor again and finding her unbound in matrimony was snuffed right out. How could he hope for the things in his heart—a life with the only woman he’d ever loved—when she was, at that very moment, planning an event for which she would determine the best women for him to choose a wife from?

I want to choose her, he thought miserably. But I won’t ask her to bind herself to me if she wishes to remain free. She must, if she finds the search for my future wife an easy task.

But did she find the task easy? He’d spent the day assuming as much because she hadn’t rejected the notion of the ball when Henry first suggested it.

I cannot know anything for certain without asking her.

He would not be able to dance even once at the ball unless he heard the truth from Eleanor’s own mouth—did she or did she not yet care for him? Were they merely childhood mates reunited in friendship? Or did the kiss they shared when they said farewell still hold them together like a silky thread?

Julian rode on, determined to reach the house as soon as he could, seek Eleanor out, and determine where her heart lay. He’d never have a moment’s peace until he did. He daren’t think about what the next step would be if he learned her love for him had cooled.

One task at a time, he thought. I’ll regroup and determine my next course if needed. Until then, onward.