base-born daughters of the Duke of Haverford

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 20

Thank goodness she had been strong enough to hold out for the right to keep the children. As long as he never saw them, was not expected to acknowledge them in any way, and provided nothing extra for their support, he chose to treat her fostering as an eccentric hobby.

Frances had been the third, her birth a scandalous secret even Haverford did not want disclosed. Eleanor loved the three girls with all her heart, loved them as fiercely as she loved her two sons. And she could not regret bringing them into her home, selfish of her though it was.

She had learned better, especially after the disastrous end to David Wakefield’s time under the Haverford roofs. For years now, she had been quietly settling her husband’s by-blows in less scrutinised households, carefully supervised to ensure they had the love and care she wanted for those who shared blood with her sons.

As for the three sisters, their origins and the prominence of the family meant they would face many barriers in a quest for a fulfilling life. If only they did not so strongly bear the Grenford stamp! Still, with her support and that of her sons, all would be well. She hoped. She prayed.

Time to announce her presence. “Miss Markson, is this a good time for an interruption? I have come to take tea with the young ladies.”

***

Hollystone Hall, December 1812

Eleanor smiled at the family gathered in her private sitting room. Matilda was pouring the tea, and Frances was carefully carrying each cup to the person for whom it had been prepared. Jessica was sitting on the arm of Aldridge’s chair, regaling him with stories about the kitten she had adopted from the kitchen. Cedrica sat quietly, as usual, but the distracted smile and the glow of happiness were new, and her thoughts were clearly on her French chef, whom she had, unless Eleanor missed her guess, kissed in the garden last night.

Jonathan—dear Jonathan, back in England and arriving by surprise on Christmas Eve—was making Jessica laugh with faces he was pulling out of Aldridge’s view, though from the quirk in the corner of Aldridge’s mouth, he was well aware of his brother’s antics.

Eleanor smiled around the room at her children, her heart at ease to have all five of her children with her. Two sons of her body, and three daughters of her heart. Deciding to bring the girls into her nursery had been one of the best decisions she had ever made.

Eleanor accepted another cup of tea from Frances, exchanged a smile with Matilda, and saluted the other three with her cup. How fortunate she was.

If she had been a cowed and obedient wife, her life would have lacked much richness. She had regrets—who didn’t? If she’d been braver, she would have permitted the girls to call her ‘Mama’, rather than ‘Aunt Eleanor’.  But that would have been a red rag to the duke’s bull. The safer path was, probably, the right one.

Eleanor caught Frances’s eye and patted the seat beside her. “You did that very well, my dear,” she told the girl. Frances was much younger than the other two, and Eleanor was pleased she’d be at home for a while longer. Perhaps, by the time Frances married, one of the others would have given her grandchildren. She smiled again at the thought. Yes, Eleanor had been very fortunate.

 

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 13

Haverford House, London, July 1812

Her strategy had worked very well, and she had gloried in her two little girls. Haverford’s disinterest had the benefit that she did not need to counter his influence in choosing servants or selecting tutors. She had no need to fear he would suddenly command the children’s attendance and carry them off to activities that no child should witness.

Indeed, the presence of their little sisters had much to do with the sweetness of character both of her sons managed to retain, and the truth that their treatment of women was so much better than their father had taught them.

She could trust Aldridge to manage this situation with Haverford. Her son would get Haverford to the castle, and Eleanor must go and prepare for an evening in Society. The future of her girls might depend on the social alliances she strengthened tonight.

It was some time later that Eleanor realised Aldridge hadn’t asked, and she hadn’t explained, why she needed to hear that Sutton was unhurt before the rest of Society got hold of the story. Had anyone been listening, they would think that Sutton was more to her than a fond memory.

 

Chapter Six

Haverford House, London, July 1812

As soon as she arrived home, Eleanor ordered a tea tray to her room and then sent the servants away. Her visit to Miss Clemens’ Oxford Street Book Palace and Tea Rooms had left her trembling, but gloriously happy.

Grace and Georgie had been unable to attend their arranged meeting, but James had come in their stead. No, Sutton. No, James. She would call him James in her own thoughts. She had seen him, of course, in the street or at various entertainments. But to see him up close—to touch him, even with her gloved hands! To talk with him for upwards of half an hour, just the two of them, alone!

Ah, she was every kind of fool. The Earl of Sutton was famous for having defied his father to remain with the Persian princess he married; the mother of his children. They had spoken of her today, the Princess Mahzad. James loved her still; it was in every word he spoke of her. Poor James, a widower for more than a decade.

But they had talked! It was a gift beyond price. Perhaps, when all this nonsense with Haverford was over, she and James could be friends?

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 11

Haverford House, London, May 1792

Tolly advised against the meeting. He said he would deal with Miss Kelly’s problem. “I quite agree Haverford ought to do something to assist the opera dancer, given he is the immediate cause of the young female losing her job and needing to spend all her savings.” Haverford would not, so it was for Tolly and Eleanor to intervene, as they had before. “You should not speak to such persons yourself,” Tolly insisted. Tolly was quite firm on the subject, which Eleanor found sad, since his mother had been another such person.

Eleanor had insisted, so here was Miss Kelly, sitting in one of the smaller parlours at Haverford House, a delicate tea cup cradled in both hands.

She was exceptionally pretty; slender, with a heart-shaped face framed by dark curly hair, and blue eyes that were currently wide with wonder as she looked around the parlour.

The duchess allowed her a few minutes, until she overcame her curiosity and remembered her manners. “I beg yer pardon, Your Grace. It’s rude, it is, to be staring at yer things like this. I can’t be telling ye how grateful I am that ye agreed to see me.”

“I must also admit to curiosity, Miss Kelly,” Eleanor replied. “The gentleman who brought you here advised against my seeing you, but I ignored him.”

The question, ‘and why was that?’ sparked in Miss Kelly’s expressive eyes, but she simply repeated, “I am grateful.”

Eleanor leaned forward to examine the unfortunate consequence of Miss Kelly’s association with the Duke of Haverford, currently asleep in a basket at Miss Kelly’s feet. The little girl was well wrapped against the cold, but the tiny face was adorable. Dark wisps of curl had escaped from the knitted bonnet, and a tiny hand clutched the blanket, pink dimples at the base of each chubby finger.

“My friend tells me that you seek a home for the baby,” Eleanor commented.

Miss Kelly heard the question. “I cannot be taking her home, you see. I have a chance… There’s a man. He wanted to wed me when my Ma and Pa died, but I had my head full o’ dreams. He went home without me, but he’ll take me yet. He knows how it is for girls like me. He’ll not blame me for not being a maid, but—Patrick is a proud man, Your Grace. He’ll not raise another man’s babe. Or if he does, he’ll make it no life for her, and we’d finish up hating one another and the poor wee girleen.”

Eleanor could see the point. “So, you will leave her behind.”

Miss Kelly must have assumed a criticism in that. “I’d keep her if I could, Your Grace, but here in London? How can a girl like me earn enough to support her and keep her with me? I want a good home for her; somewhere safe where she can grow up to better than her Ma. Then what happens to me don’t matter, so I might as well take Patrick as not. Better than another protector. Leastwise, if I get another baby in my belly, I’ll have a man to stand by me.”

As Haverford had not. He had turned his pregnant mistress out of the house in which he’d installed her, with a few pounds to ‘get rid of the brat’. Miss Kelly did not have to tell Eleanor that part of the story. She knew it well enough from past liaisons. Tolly proposed to find a childless couple who wanted a daughter to love.

At that moment, the baby opened her eyes, looked around with apparent interest, then fixed her gaze on Eleanor, or—more probably—on the diamonds sparkling in Eleanor’s ear lobes. The little treasure smiled, and reached up her arms, babbling an incomprehensible phrase.

Eleanor was on her knees beside the basket, reaching for the dear child before she thought to look up and ask permission. “May I?”

When she called for her secretary, thirty minutes later, little Matilda was still in Eleanor’s arms. “Ah. Clara. This is Miss Kelly. She will be staying in the nursery for the next few days. I need you to hire me a wet nurse and a nanny to look after Matilda after Miss Kelly leaves. I also want to purchase a smallholding in—Kinvara, was it not? It shall be your dowry, Miss Kelly.”

It was nearly five months before the Duke of Haverford discovered that the nursery, recently vacated by his younger son Jonathan, was once again occupied. He was moved to challenge his wife on her presumption, but her only response was to tell him the child’s full name—Matilda Angelica Kelly Grenford—and to add that the scandal of her presence was long past, but the scandal of her removal would be ongoing. As his duchess and a leading figure in Society, the woman had the power to make the outrageous threat stick. He dealt with the impertinence in his usual fashion. He left, and never mentioned the little girl’s existence again.

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Tea with the Society

In the following passage from the novella Melting Matilda, my heroine (a ward of the Duchess of Haverford) is attending a meeting of a society formed to offer succour to war veterans and their families. Their patroness is, of course, The Duchess herself. Click on the title to read more about the novella, and the Fire & Frost page on the Bluestocking Belles’ website to read about the other five stories, all of which involve The Ladies’ Society for the Care of the Widows and Orphans of Fallen Heroes and the Children of Wounded Veterans and the events they organise during a cold January and February in 1814.

Matilda and her sister Jessica entered one of the less formal parlors, where the duchess waited for them, her current companion at her side, and Cedrica Fournier, her previous companion, already seated before a table, pen and paper ready to take notes.

Madame Fournier had left her position to marry, but she had volunteered to be secretary for this committee. Jessica and Matilda took turns in greeting her with a kiss in the vicinity of her cheek, and as they did, the other ladies began to arrive.

The first part of the meeting was given over to reports. The work of the Society was organized by small groups, sometimes as few as two or three ladies. Lady Felicity Belvoir, through her connections to half the families of the ton, kept them aware of social events at which they could canvas for votes in Parliament. Lady Georgiana Hayden was in charge of writing pamphlets to sway opinion, and Lady Constance Whittles marshalled a miniature army of letter writers for the same purpose.

Many of the Society’s members also volunteered at hospitals where injured veterans were nursed and orphanages that cared for veterans’ children.  They visited widows where they lived, some in very insalubrious areas. The duchess agreed with the necessity: how else were they to meet real needs if they did not first talk to those who were suffering? She insisted on the volunteers and visitors travelling in groups and being escorted by stout footmen.

Once all the groups had reported back, they discussed their next fundraising event. The ladies offered one idea after another. The duchess would hold a charity ball, of course, as she did every year, but none of them felt that would be enough to really draw attention to the cause. Something special was called for. Something unusual.

Matilda was not sure who suggested a Venetian Breakfast, but the star suggestion of the day came from a shy girl who was new to the Society. Miss Fairley rose to her feet and waited for Mrs. Berrisford, the meeting’s chair, to notice her.

“I wondered if we might hold a picnic basket auction,” she said, flushing pink at being the center of attention. We have done them at home as fundraisers for the church, and they are very popular.”

Two of the ladies objected that midwinter was hardly time for a picnic, but Mrs. Berrisford called for silence. “Go on, Miss Fairley,” she encouraged. “How does it work?”

“The ladies provide a basket of food,” Miss Fairley explained, “and the gentlemen bid for the right to share the basket with the provider. It is usually the single ladies, of course.” Her voice faded almost to nothing as her blush deepened to scarlet.

Mrs. Berrisford called for order again, as the Society’s members all tried to express an opinion at once.

The duchess rose, and those who had not already stopped talking fell silent to see what she thought. “If we can ensure propriety, ladies, such an auction would be just the thing to bring in donations from the younger gentlemen, who are far more likely to spend their funds on less helpful activities.”

That settled it, of course. Discussion turned to ways and means, and before the meeting was over, several more groups had been established, to cover the various aspects of three events: Venetian Breakfast, auction, and ball, all on the same day.

“Could the auction prize include a dance at the ball later?” Jessica made the suggestion. “That way, gentlemen who have bought a basket will also be obliged to buy a ball ticket.”

The suggestion was met with a hum of approval.

“We will need to enlist the ladies of the ton,” Mrs Berrisford said. “I suggest each of us talks to as many as possible; older ladies to the mothers, younger to the girls. The men, too, of course; but ladies first.”

“We can start at Lady Parkinson’s in two days’ time,” one of the other ladies proposed.

That seemed to be the end of the decision making, though many of the members lingered for another cup of tea and one of the delicious little cakes Monsieur Fournier supplied to the duchess for her meetings.

Matilda and Jessica, in their role as daughters of the house, moved from group to excited group, knowing Her Grace would wish to know what was being said in these more casual conversations.

Everyone was excited by the plans, and more than one person was hoping that the fog would lift so that Lady Parkinson’s soiree would proceed and they could begin their campaign.

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Attraction on Work-in-progress Wednesday

Every romance writer needs to build in enough emotion that readers will believe in the attraction between the main characters. This week, I’m asking you to post excerpts in which that attraction is just beginning. Mine is from the next Bluestocking Belles’ box set, and neither party want to acknowledge it.

Hamner escorted his mother through the rooms until they found her friends.

“Now run along, dear, and find someone to dance with.”

Did he ever used to enjoy this kind of event? It wasn’t fashionable for men to admit to any kind of pleasure in a ballroom, but two years ago, an event like this would have been a treat. He would not have sat out a dance, though nor would he have danced twice with the same female.

He loved the company of women, from the innocent pleasures of dancing and conversation with Society’s maidens to the more robust and earthy delights to be enjoyed savored with discreet widows.

A wealthy earl needed to be cautious. But if he went nowhere alone, and paid attention to them all and none to anyone in particular, he raised no expectations and could simply enjoy himself. He had. Until he had set his sights on Lady Felicity.

There she was now, in conversation with the duchess’s two wards. For the last two seasons, Miss Grenford, Miss Jessica, and Lady Felicity had been close friends. Before last season, her older sister had married and almost immediately gone into mourning for a relative of her husband’s. Rather than miss the Season, Lady Felicity had been taken under the wing of the duchess; the three young ladies clearly intended to spend this Season together, as they had the last.

It was intolerable that he wanted to yearn after Lady Felicity, who would have made him a perfectly unobjectionable wife: an ornament to the Hamner name. Instead, he could barely look at her. Not when she stood next to Miss Grenford.

As he continued around the room, he fought to control his reaction to the pernicious female’s presence.

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Where to start on WIP Wednesday

At last, Unkept Promises has gone to the proofreader, and I’m two chapters in to the novella for the next Bluestocking Belles project. Where to start is always a question — I often cast around for a while, and I don’t always get it right.

This week, I’m inviting you to post the first few paragraphs from your work-in-progress. Here’s mine.

If the two of them made it out of the near-invisible city streets alive, Matilda Grenford was going to kill her sister Jessica, and even their honorary aunt, the Duchess of Haverford, wouldn’t blame her. Angry as Matilda was, and panicked, too, as she tried to find a known landmark in the enveloping fog, she couldn’t resist a wry smile at the thought. Aunt Eleanor was the kindest person in the world, and expected everyone else to be as forgiving and kind as she was herself. Matilda could just imagine the conversation.

“Now, my dear, I want you to think about what other choices you might have made.” The duchess had said precisely those words uncounted times in the more than twenty years Matilda had been her ward.

When she was younger, she would burst out in an impassioned defence of whatever action had brought her before Her Grace for a reprimand. “Jessica is not just destroying her own reputation, Aunt Eleanor. Meeting men in the garden at balls; going out riding without her groom; dancing too close.”

Was that the lamppost by the corner of the square? No; a few steps more showed yet another paved street with houses looming in the fog on both sides. Matilda stopped while she tried to decide if any of them were in any way familiar.

Meanwhile, she continued her imaginary rant to the duchess. “Even in company, she takes flirtation beyond what is proper. This latest start — sneaking out of the house without a chaperone or even her maid — if it becomes known, she’ll go down in ruin, and take me and Frances with her.”

Matilda had gone after her, of course, taking her maid, but she’d lost the poor girl several mistaken turns back. Matilda had been hurrying ahead, ignoring the maid’s complaints, thinking only about bringing Jessica back before she got into worse trouble than ever before. Now Matilda was just as much at risk, and she’d settle for managing to bring her own self home, or even to the house of a friend, if she could find one.

Haverford House, for preference. Turning up anywhere else, unaccompanied, would start the very scandal Matilda had left home to avoid. If Jessica managed to make it home unscathed, it would have to be murder.

In her imagination, she could hear Aunt Eleanor, calm as ever. “Murder is so final, Matilda. Surely it would have been better to try something else, first. What could you have done?”

Matilda startled herself with a bark of laughter that echoed oddly in the fog.

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Tea with a gallant teenage rescuer

The Duchess of Haverford examined her two sons as they waited for her to pour them a cup of tea each. To an outsider, they would seem totally at ease — Aldridge relaxed on the sofa, an amused twist to his lips and his cynical eyes fond as he teased his brother about the horse the boy had bought on a jaunt into Somerset; Jon laughing as he defended his purchase, suggesting warmly that the marquis’s eye for a filly blinded him to the virtues of a colt.

To their fond Mama, they appeared worried. Eleanor saw strain around the younger man’s eyes, and quick darting glances at her and then at his brother when Jon thought she wasn’t watching. Aldridge had that almost imperceptible air of being ready to leap to Jon’s defence in an instant; a watchfulness, a vague tension.

Aldridge’s cup was prepared as he liked it, and he came to fetch it from her hands, thanking her with a smile.

She would let them raise the subject, if that was their plan, but she did not intend to let them leave this room without knowing about the new addition to her nursery: a nervous withdraw little girl of three or four years old. “If she was a bumptious little lordling and not a poor trembling mouse,” Nanny said, “she could be one of my lads come again. Same shaped face and eyes. Same colour hair with the curls that won’t brush out. Their lordships have your eyes, Your Grace, and this wee sprite doesn’t, but I’ll tell you who has eyes just that colour: so close to green as never so.” Not that Nanny did tell the duchess. She did not need to. Those eyes were more familiar to Eleanor than her own.

She handed a cup to the younger son of the man with those eyes.

The child came from Somerset. Jon had brought her home in his curricle, leaving his groom to ride Jon’s horse and manage the colt. On finding out about the little girl, and learning that Jon had deposited her in the nursery and then gone straight out to search town for his older brother, Eleanor had been tempted to question the groom.

However, she wanted Jon to tell her the story.  Or Aldridge, perhaps. It was more likely to be his story than Jon’s, given the age of the child. Jon was only 19. Furthermore, it was in Somerset that a certain outrageous scandal blew up five years ago, resulting in the exile of the sons of two dukes: Aldridge to a remote Haverford estate in northern Scotland, and his accomplice overseas.

Nanny didn’t think the little girl was old enough to be a souvenir of Aldridge’s visit to the Somerset town, but her size might be a result of neglect. She had been half-starved, poor little mite. The bruises might be from falls or other childhood accidents. Nanny suspected beatings, which made Eleanor feel ill to think about.

She sat back with her own cup, and took a sip. As if it were a signal, Jon gave Aldridge another of those darting glances and spoke.

“Mama, I expect you’ve heard about Frances.”

Ah. Good. She was to be told the story. “Is that her name, Jon? Nanny didn’t know it, and little Frances isn’t talking.”

Jon nodded, and smiled. There was a sweetness to the boy that the elder never had, perhaps because he was a ducal heir from the moment of his birth. “She is a little shy, Mama.” His smile vanished and he frowned. “She has been hardly used, and for no fault of her own. I could not leave her there, Mama. You must see that.”

Eleanor arched one brow, amusement colouring her voice as she answered. “If you tell me her story, my son, we will find out.”

It was much as Eleanor already suspected, though the villain in the piece was neither of her sons. Lord Jonathan Grenford, arriving in Fickleton Wells to inspect and pay for the offspring of a horse pairing that he coveted, found that the whole town, except for the owner of the horse, gave him a cold shoulder, and no one would tell him or his groom why.

Only on the last night of his stay did he hear the story. He came back to his hotel room to find a woman waiting for him. “A gentlewoman, Mama, but with a ring on her finger, and quite old — maybe 30. I thought… well, never mind that.”

Aldridge gave a snort of laughter, either at Jon’s perspective on the woman’s age or at his assumption about her purpose.

Jon ignored him. “Anyway, I soon realised I was wrong, for there on the bed was a little girl, fast asleep. The woman said she belonged to Haverford, and I could take her. I argued, Mama, but I could see for myself she was one of us, and that was the problem. The woman’s husband had accepted Frances when she was born, but as she grew she looked more and more like her father.”

“He resented being cuckolded, I suppose,” Eleanor said, “Men do, my sons, and I trust you will remember it.”

Both boys flushed, the younger one nodding, the older inclining his head in acknowledgement, the glitter in his eyes hinting he did not at all appreciate the gentle rebuke.

“He took his frustrations out on Mrs Meecham, which she surely didn’t deserve after all this time when I daresay he has sins of his own, and on little Frances too, which was entirely unfair. Mrs Meecham said that if Frances remained as a reminder, the Meechams could never repair their marriage, and that she feared one day he would go too far and seriously hurt or even kill the baby. So I brought her home. Can we keep her, Mama?”

Eleanor looked at Aldridge, considering.

“She is not mine, if that is what you are thinking, Mama,” her eldest son told her. “She might have been, I must admit, but she was born fifteen months after I was last in Fickleton Wells. I’d been in Scotland for six months when Mrs Meecham strayed outside of her pastures again.”

Six months after the scandal, His Grace the duke had travelled back to Somerset, to pay damages to the gentlemen of Fickleton Wells who claimed that their females had been debauched. He had greatly resented being made a message-boy, and had been angry with his son and the females he had shamed for their indiscretions and beyond furious at the cuckolded gentlemen of the town for imposing on his ducal magnificence with their indignation. The mystery of Frances’s patrimony was solved.

“She is so sweet, Mama, and has been through so much. She needs tenderness and love. Don’t tell me I must give her to foster parents or an orphan asylum. I know His Grace will not be pleased, but…”

Eleanor smiled. “The problem with Fickleton Wells, Jon, as I’m sure Aldridge is aware, is that it is a Royal estate. Wales was mightily annoyed at what he saw as an offence against his dignity. He insisted on Haverford making all right.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped. He clearly thought this presaged a refusal.

Aldridge was seven years more sophisticated and had been more devious from his cradle. His eyes lit again with that wicked glint of amusement. Eleanor nodded to him. “Yes, Aldridge, precisely.”

Aldridge put down his cup. “Wales is not best pleased with His Grace at the moment. A matter of a loss at cards.”

Eleanor and her elder son grinned at one another, and her younger son perked up, looking from one to the other.

“Should one be grieved by the loss of a fostering,” Eleanor mused, “and take one’s sorrows to, let us say, a Royal princess who might be depended on to scold her brother for the behaviour of one of his favourites…” Eleanor stopped at that. Jonathan did not need the entire picture painted for him. He gazed at her, his eyes wide with awe.

“His Grace will not dare make a fuss. If His Royal Highness finds out that the very man he sent to save him from the offended citizens left a cuckoo in the nest of an esteemed leader of the community…”

“Precisely,” Aldridge agreed. “Mama, you are brilliant, as always.”

The duchess stood, leaving her cup on the table, and both boys . “Let us, then, go up to the nursery, and make sure all is well with your new baby sister.”

***

The foster-daughters of the Duchess of Haverford appear as secondary characters in the Children of the Mountain King series. The eldest, Matilda, is also to be the heroine of an associated (as yet unnamed) novella that is coming out early next year. The Fickleton Wells story was co-written with Mariana Gabrielle, and Aldridge’s co-rogue is her hero Nick Northope, later the Duke of Wellbridge and the hero of Royal Regard.

Aldridge, once he is Duke of Haverford, and Wellbridge continue to be friends and appear in Never Kiss a Toad, a co-written novel starring Sally Grenford and David Northope. We’re publishing it on Wattpad, and will be finished soon. Then back to the drafting board to lose more than half the words.

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Tea with a bereaved aunt

When Mrs Watterson had asked for this meeting, she had seemed so nervous that the Duchess of Haverford had offered to meet her in the housekeeper’s sitting room, thinking the woman might be more at ease on her own ground. It had made no appreciable difference. The housekeeper sat bolt upright, not sipping from her cup, her knuckles white with tension, her voice strained as she tried to make conversation.

Mrs Watterson praised the baby, little Miss Matilda, reminding Eleanor that she would far rather be upstairs in the nursery than down here in the cluttered little room, where the furniture was overstuffed and the fire too hot.

Eleanor was discovering the joys of mothering a baby, and would have spent the whole day in the nursery with her little ward, had her duties allowed. The duchess was a mother twice over, but both the ducal heir and the spare had been taken from her at birth, handed over to a retinue of servants, and thereafter presented for a ceremonious inspection for a few minutes a day whenever she and they happened to be in the same residence.

When Aldridge was born, she had been so oppressed by her marriage and the expectations that crushed her, she had accepted the duke’s dictate: that aristocratic women had little to do with the children they produced for the well being of the title. By the time Jonathan arrived, she had recovered some of her confidence, but the pregnancy and birth, coming after years of miscarriages, left her frail both emotionally and physically, and her little boy had been nine months old when she wrested control of the nursery from the despot who had ruled there since Haverford appointed her in the early days of their marriage.

The woman had been gone for more than five years, and sweet little Matilda was in the care of her replacement: a woman chosen by Eleanor, with testimonials from people Eleanor trusted, and completely devoid of the physical attributes that were the only qualifications of interest to the duke when he interviewed a female for any position.

An apology dragged Eleanor’s attention back to the conversation. Mrs Watterson had finally begun to approach the matter that had her so anxious. “Forgive my impertinence, Your Grace,” she said, “but is it true that Miss Matilda… that her mother…?”

Seeing Eleanor’s raised brows, she rushed on. “I don’t ask out of idle curiosity, ma’am. It is just that…”

All suddenly became clear. Eleanor sighed. “One of the  maids? Or a villager’s child?”

Much of the tension rushed out of Mrs Watterson, expelled in a huff of air. “My niece, Your Grace. I would not have said anything, but…” Tears began to roll down the pale cheeks.

Eleanor patted her hand. “I shall help, of course. A pension. A place to live in a village where she isn’t known.”

Mrs Watterson shook her head, the tears increasing in volume. Eleanor suppressed a sigh for her lost afternoon with Matilda, and devoted her energies to soothing the housekeeper and eliciting the rest of the story.

It was a sad one, but one she had heard before during nearly fifteen years of marriage to the Duke of Haverford. Jessie, the orphaned daughter of Mrs Waterson’s only sister, worked for a neighbouring household. “I would not have her in this house, Your Grace, saving your pardon,” the housekeeper said. It did not save the girl. She was returning from an errand to the village when a gentleman (Mrs Watterson began ‘His Gr…’ then changed the word) overtook her on the road. He saw that she was young and pretty, and led her off into the woods on the side of the road. Having exercised what he regarded as his rights, he rode on his way.

Jessie told no one until six months later, when one of the maids with whom she shared a room noticed the swelling she had managed, until then, to conceal. Of course, she was dismissed, but her aunt found her lodgings in the village, and paid for her keep and the services of the midwife. “It was a hard birth, Your Grace,” Mrs Watterson explained. “Little Jessica survived, but my niece did not. I’m the only kin she has, poor little baby, and what is to become of her?”

Haverford had only just noticed Matilda, and had not been pleased. Eleanor had managed to threaten him in a way that did not cause his unstable temper to explode. Another of his by-blows in his nursery might be a straw too far, and when Haverford was angry, he cared nothing for consequences.

On the other hand, Matilda would benefit from growing up with another little girl of much the same age. The seven year age gap between Aldridge and Jonathan meant they both lacked companionship, except for that of their servants.

Eleanor temporised. “Where is the baby now, Mrs Watterson?”

“The midwife knew a woman who could feed her, Your Grace, having recently lost her own youngest. Mrs Fuller. It was the best I could do, ma’am, but I don’t want to leave her there.”

Eleanor didn’t blame her. Cold, neglect, and disease carried off Mrs Fuller’s children with alarming frequency. She was one of those woman that every village seems to produce — almost certainly not entitled to the honourable honorific, making a living for herself and her surviving offspring by serving drinks and food in the local tavern, and other more intimate services wherever a man with a coin might care to take her. Eleanor had tried to help the female into an honourable job, but whether she was too beaten down by life or just preferred earning her living on her back, the experiment had not worked out.

Eleanor stood. “Very well, Mrs Watterson. We shall visit Mrs Fuller and meet little Jessica. Then we shall see.”

She had, of course, already made up her mind. No need to tell His Grace this was another of his unwanted children. This time, she would not even wait until he noticed. She would simply announce that she had taken in another orphan to keep Matilda company. She would not discuss the child’s origins. As long as he did not feel she was censuring his behaviour, he probably wouldn’t care.