Chapter Five

Alas, Eleanor found it of no use to insist to Henry that she had no relevant experience in planning a ball or that the children needed her. He rebuffed any attempt she made at evading the assignment by stating that the best possible qualification was knowing Julian as well as she did, and that the children would be cared for by other members of the staff—and, before she could mention the girls’ lessons, he added that his daughters might as well have a holiday recess from lessons, like their brothers.

Thus, Eleanor found herself working with a few members of the serving staff on decorating the ballroom. The group allotted to her was rather small, considering the scope of their job, but many servants had yet to return from their own well-earned holidays, so she had to make do with only two men and three women. Mrs. Brunson was overseeing the food, and tomorrow afternoon, the two of them were to finalize the guest list, with special attention to the young women most likely to make a good match. The thought of that meeting—and the list she would be required to review—made her stomach turn.

To avoid feeling queasy, she threw her energies into decorating, and while the ballroom looked splendid, Eleanor failed to find enjoyment in the fruits of her labors. She would have much preferred guiding Kate through the next section of her reading primer or helping Suzanne improve her elocution with the latest William Blake poem she was memorizing. Eleanor would have even preferred taking the boys to the hothouse to show them how the gardener grew vegetables for the household in the winter, even if such an outing meant the boys running wild among the plants and returning to the house covered in soil. She could picture the dismay on the face of Mr. Wells, who had replaced Julian’s father as gardener, if she were to take the boys to the hothouse.

Naturally, thoughts of Mr. Wells led to thoughts of the man he’d replaced, which inevitably led to thoughts of Julian.

Clutching a silver candlestick that was only half polished, Eleanor cleared her throat, hoping the sound would be enough to halt the direction her thoughts were taking. She looked up and surveyed the room, hoping to clear her mind further.

Hours of decorating had yielded walls festooned with greenery, ribbons, and gold paper; Yule candles; and wreaths dotted with colorful Christmas roses. The latter didn’t look a thing like regular roses, and when Eleanor questioned their name, Betsy, one of the younger servants, explained in a whisper. Apparently, Christmas roses held some mystic or pagan history, which explained why the house didn’t have them about during any of Eleanor’s Christmases as a child; the elder Mr. Brunson wouldn’t have allowed so much as a whiff of paganism to cross his threshold.

Yet the story Betsy related about the flowers, told that morning over making the wreaths, had seemed plenty religious to Eleanor. According to Betsy, legend said that on the first Christmas, when a poor girl had no gift for the Christ child, she wept in distress. Her tears landed upon the white snow, and in each spot a tear fell, a colorful flower sprang to life—Christmas roses.

Such a story would likely have satisfied even the late Mr. Brunson, had he heard it, Eleanor felt quite certain, unless he considered it a falsehood. She had to admit that was likely; he hadn’t allowed novels or poetry in the house because they weren’t strictly truthful.

As a girl, Eleanor had read a few pieces of poetry and even a novel before coming to Willowsmeade. After arriving here, she’d listened, rapt, to the governess, Miss Monson, tell fairy tales, which touched Eleanor’s heart and awoke an understanding in her of new fantastic worlds. Reading fairy tales to the children was the crime that got Miss Monson dismissed. One morning, she simply was not in the nursery. When young Eleanor learned why, she marched angrily to Mr. Brunson’s library and told him that Miss Monson’s stories had more truth than anything in the Bible. She’d been whipped and sent to her room without food for the entire day, and then only bread and water for a week.

As a grown woman, Eleanor still believed she’d had a valid argument. Truth comes in many forms. Even Jesus told fictional stories to teach in a way nothing else could.

Dear Henry had definitely not trodden the same path as his father, and he continued to add more and more changes to the household. Christmas roses were one of the more recent evidences, as was the mistletoe bough.

Unexpectedly, an image flashed into her mind of being kissed by Julian beneath the bough. She stared at the beribboned mistletoe and could see the two of them under the bough, kissing as they had in the gardens the day he’d left for naval training. Only in this waking dream, he wasn’t saying goodbye. He kissed her again and again, periodically stopping only long enough to remove a white berry from the mistletoe. Her eyes burning, she tried to estimate how many kisses the white berries would justify.

Twenty? That would not be enough.

Not that she would ever be kissed by Julian again. Of all people, Henry should have suspected that she yet loved Julian, and Henry would be the only person to know whether Julian returned her feelings. Yet Henry suggested this foolish, wife-finding ball, which could mean, quite simply, he knew Julian did not have such feelings.

She tried to banish him from her mind, even with the knowledge that her effort was in vain. She could not keep him from her mind and heart so long as he remained at Willowsmeade.

What if he never leaves? At the thought, she gripped the silver candlestick harder and stared at the intricate floral design. Her stomach sank at the idea of a future wherein Julian would always be near but never hers—a future that was entirely probable.

He had retired from the navy and could now settle anywhere he wished. Living at Willowsmeade, or at least living in the same county, would be reasonable, expected, even. He would marry, and she would be forced to bear a life of seeing him regularly, having to forevermore wear a false mask before him. Even before Henry and Mrs. Brunson. She had to ignore her love for Julian—no, more than that, she had to stamp it out, extinguish it like a candle thrown into the snow.

No, she’d never have a moment’s peace unless she left Willowsmeade. Eleanor dabbed the cloth in the polish and returned to her task with vigor as she thought through new plans. If asked, Henry would give her an impeccable letter of recommendation. She could find a position in another household far away. Once there, she would direct all her energies toward a new set of children to love and train up. And as she had once before, she’d deliberately forget Julian Stephens.

Her eyes burned again, this time at the pain that leaving Julian would cause, though the pain of staying would be far worse. She would also be leaving the Brunson children behind. Little Emma had never known another governess. Kate had been so young when Eleanor arrived that she didn’t remember another. Departure would be heartbreaking, but staying near Julian would be heartrending. In a word, it would be impossible.

Every breath she took while Julian remained at Willowsmeade was already painful. Foolish to have thought that her memories of Julian and her feelings for him had been entombed and scarred over.

Footsteps with a heavy tread entered the ballroom and echoed throughout the mostly empty space, likely a male servant bringing in a small table or another armful of greenery. The servants seemed to know the plans for the room and what needed to be completed, so unless someone addressed her specifically, she needn’t turn. Good thing, too, as her vision grew blurry with unshed tears. She turned her back to the entrance, unwilling for fellow servants to see her emotional.

The candlestick was quite polished, but she continued the work with zeal, willing the room to empty before she went to the next task. With every second, sadness washed over her again and again, like the waves breaking against the shore. If only they would ebb and remain so. If she could but direct her thoughts toward something happy, away from the reality of her future in a strange place with strange people . . . away from Julian and the children.

She became more aware of the footsteps when they grew louder and then stopped directly behind her. Eleanor held her breath as she waited for the person to ask their question about decorations. She would be able to feign a cheerful tone for a three- or four-word sentence.

Instead of a voice speaking, a warm hand rested on her shoulder with a familiar weight.

“What is it?” Julian asked behind her. His touch and words came so unexpectedly that she turned to him without thinking.

And as she did so, the tears that had threatened before now spilled over. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to look pleasant and somewhat indifferent. Julian clearly did not believe her act, as he stepped closer and fully encircled her in his arms. The gesture only made her love him more, which made her that much more miserable—if she could only stop loving him, rather than feeling her love increase by the minute . . .

Despite herself, she relaxed into his embrace, allowing herself this one brief moment of having him to herself. She cried thus for a minute or two, mostly sniffling—somehow, she reined in the threatening sobs—then evened her breathing and dried her tears. Only then did she lift her head from his silky shirt but didn’t look up, not yet. She noted several tear spots left on Julian’s cravat and smiled sheepishly as she wiped them, though that didn’t fix them, of course.

Julian’s hand came up and pinned hers to his chest. “Eleanor, what is it?” he asked again, oh-so-gently.

His touch sent fire up her arm. If she didn’t take care, she would collapse in a heap, for her knees wouldn’t hold her up much longer. She lifted her chin and looked at him, took a deep breath, and tried to speak. “It’s—it’s nothing,” she said as she stepped backward, away from his embrace.

He tilted his head forward and raised his brows, clearly unbelieving and wanting to know the truth.

Such a good man. And he knows me too well, even after all these years.

She gestured about the room. “Preparing for a large event can be daunting. I’m rather fatigued.”

He surveyed the room and then worked his jaw as if highly displeased. “I wanted to discuss the ball with you.”

Did he not approve of her efforts? Julian had never been a dandy. She couldn’t imagine him caring two shillings about ribbons or anything else about the ball.

“What about it did you wish to discuss?” She turned her head to examine the room, partly to look at the place as he might see it and partly to avoid his deep, piercing eyes.

“Let’s take a turn.” He put his hands behind his back and began to walk, indicating that she should follow. His relaxed tone set her at ease as they slowly traced the perimeter of the room together. Still, she didn’t speak, waiting for him to broach the subject and whatever grievance he wished to air about the ball

“The fact of the matter is . . .” Julian’s voice trailed off before he finally said, “I don’t want the ball to happen at all.”

“You—you don’t?” Eleanor asked in surprise. He hadn’t seemed against the idea when Henry proposed it, not really. “You do enjoy dancing, if I recall. At least, you used to.”

“I do.” He took a couple of steps and then sighed heavily. “But I’m not particularly keen on being expected to find a . . . a match in a single evening.”

Eleanor couldn’t help but notice how he forced out the word match, as if the very idea of marriage was utterly distasteful to him. Perhaps he had no interest in women and would never marry. If that was the case, Eleanor could remain at Willowsmeade, and the two of them could continue to be friends.

Yet I will never stop loving him. Friendship with Julian will never make me content.

She found her eyes welling up again, so she looked away and blinked, pretending to inspect some of the fireplace and Yule log as they continued to walk, so slowly. At this rate, a full circuit would take a quarter of an hour. The two of them had what felt like a cavernous room all to themselves. Where were the other servants? Shouldn’t someone have returned from an errand by now?

Eleanor finally found her voice. “I confess I’m surprised to hear you have no wish to find . . . a match.” She used the same word, as she couldn’t bear to say wife.

“A match formed in another manner would be more to my liking.” Julian kept walking forward, chin up, lips pressed together—all of which Eleanor noted from a sidelong look, not wanting to give away her curiosity by turning to look at him.

“Oh?” Her throat dried right up, so she swallowed to moisten it. “You are not opposed to matrimony, then?”

Julian shook his head and chuckled, but when he answered, something husky had entered his voice. “Rather to the contrary.”

Her middle fluttered and warmed. What were his true feelings and thoughts? How would this conversation end? She hadn’t predicted his words so far, and she couldn’t imagine what he would say next.

But he did oppose the ball. Why? Because he had a certain lady already in mind? If so, likely one he’d met on his many sea voyages—perhaps a Spanish maid or a French mademoiselle.

I should have suspected as much.

His purpose speaking with her now was in her capacity as a friend who would listen. Henry and Mrs. Brunson most certainly would not.

She lowered her eyes to her hands, which she clasped to mask their trembling. She’d buried her emotions for Julian so long that she’d believed them dead. Apparently, they’d only slept, and they’d awakened stronger than ever.

“If you’d like,” Eleanor ventured, “I could extend an invitation to any particular young lady you have in mind.” She forced herself to take a breath. “If Henry knew you have already found a lady, he’d be quite content to invite her, or perhaps cancel the ball altog—”

“Eleanor.”

Her name was all he needed to say; her speech stopped mid-word, and her feet stilled. He stepped in front of her and took her hands—her cold, trembling hands—in his and drew her near. The warm look in his eyes was almost more than she could bear. She wanted to bury her head in his chest once more, if only to feel that nearness one more time. If only to keep herself from seeing him wax poetic as he proclaimed his love for another woman. A burning temptation told her to embrace him quickly to stop him from talking and then flee the room.

Resisting the impulse, she instead looked into his dear face, tightened her fingers around his, and steeled herself for whatever he said next.

Julian didn’t speak right away. He glanced up and around them, then stepped backward, holding her hands as he went, leading her. He wore a smile she could make neither heads nor tails of. He almost looked like the mischievous boy who’d slipped a toad into Henry’s bed years hence.

A few more steps backward and a final upward glance and then Julian stopped and planted his feet before her. He smiled and quirked an eyebrow before looking up once more, this time very slowly, as if telling her that she should follow his gaze.

Comprehension dawned on her like the sun at noonday. Right above them hung the mistletoe. She suddenly had difficulty breathing. She hadn’t noticed where he was leading her, because her emotions had been in such a muddle that she hadn’t noticed much of anything.

Am I asleep and dreaming?

He drew nearer and nearer still, until Eleanor could feel the warmth of his breath on the curl on her temple. “Plenty of berries on it yet,” he said, his voice low but filled with meaning.

Heat flared in her chest and spread throughout her body, setting her heart beating as fast as a galloping horse. Clearly, this was no dream. She stood still, half afraid that any movement or sound would shatter this beautiful moment, half disbelieving that he had any intention of kissing her. Or that if he did, he’d kiss her hand or her forehead as a friend.

She could not hope for more, because hopes of fancy brought brokenheartedness when they were dashed. Eleanor Hadfield could not hope for anything at all, until the moment Captain Julian Stephens lowered his face to hers and gently—hesitantly—pressed his lips to hers.