Haverford House, London, 1794

The two ladies having tea with Eleanor clearly had something on their minds. They kept exchanging glances, and frowning at the servants who bustled in and out. Eleanor was entertaining two dear friends on this lovely day in 1794; Lady Sutton, daughter-in-law to the Duke of Winshire, and Lady Georgiana Winderfield, his daughter.

As the servants wheeled in the refreshments Eleanor had ordered, and made sure that the ladies had everything they required, the three friends spoke of the fashions of the current season, the worrying events in France, the reopening of the Drury Theatre, and their children.

As the last of the servants left, Eleanor spoke to her companion-secretary, a poor relation of her husband whom she was enjoying more than she expected. Largely because she had decided to find the girl a match, and was gaining great entertainment from the exercise. Eleanor could hit two birds with a single stone if she sent dear Margaret to her husband’s office, where his secretaries currently beavered away over the endless paperwork of the duchy. “Margaret, Lady Sutton and Lady Georgiana have a wish to be private with me. I trust you do not mind, my dear, if I send you on an errand? Would you please ask that nice Mr Hammond to find the accounts for Holystone Hall? I wish to go over the coal bills.” Margaret blushed at the mention of Theseus Hammond, and left eagerly. Very good.

Grace was diverted. “Matchmaking, Eleanor?”

“A little. He is as poor as a church mouse, of course. We shall have to see if we can find a position in which he could support a wife. But what is it you wanted to tell me?”

Grace and Georgie exchanged glances, then Georgie leaned forward and took Eleanor’s hand between two of hers. “We thought you should hear it from us, first. Word will undoubtedly be all over Town in no time.”

Georgie’s unexpected touch alarmed Eleanor. Embracing — even touching — was Not Done. A kiss in the air beside a perfumed cheek, but nothing more. Except for her son Jonathan, who was fond of cuddles, no one had held Eleanor’s hand since Aldridge crept from the schoolroom to sit all night with her after her last miscarriage. “What can possibly be wrong? Not something Haverford has done?” But what could such a powerful duke do to give rise to the concern she saw in the eyes of her friends.

“Not Haverford.” Georgie again exchanged glances with her sister-in-law. “His Grace our father received a letter of condolence on the death of my brother Edward.” Another of those glances.

“Out with it, Georgie,” Eleanor commanded. “I am not a frail ninny who faints at nothing. Tell me what you think I need to know.”

Georgie sighed, and firmed her grip on Eleanor’s hand. “Eleanor, the letter was from James.”

Who was James? Not Georgie’s brother, the one love of Eleanor’s life. James was dead, killed by bandits nearly fifteen years ago. They got the letter. The Duke of Winshire himself told her. She was shaking her head, shifting herself backwards on the sofa away from Georgie, whose warm compassionate eyes were so much like those of her missing brother. Missing?

“Not dead?” Her voice came out in an embarrassing squeak, as emotions flooded her. Joy. Anger. A desperate sadness for so many years lost to grieving.

“Alive,” Georgie said. “James is alive, Eleanor.”

The room spun and turned grey, and Eleanor knew no more.

***

Haverford House, London, July 1812

After that, from time to time, her friends had shared smuggled letters with her. Not often. A year or more might pass before another message made its way across the vast distance between James’s mountain kingdom north of Persia and his sister in England. Often enough, though, that Eleanor shared in the delight of two more children, the grief of his wife’s death, weddings for four of his children and the birth of grandchildren.

She hadn’t told him that she knew much of what he told her today.  Hearing the stories in his own dear voice was such a pleasure. She smiled again. Yes. Surely, one day they could be friends?