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.