the Duchess of Haverford

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Tea with a lover

Eleanor kept peeking at her lover over the rim of her tea cup.  Strictly speaking, she supposed, he was her betrothed. Certainly, he had stated his intention to marry her. It had been thrilling, at the time.

“I want to take you back to the townhouse you have rented, lock all the doors, take you to bed, and show you those young people at the farmhouse had no expertise in what they were doing. And after that, I want to marry you, make you my duchess, and spend the rest of my life loving you.”

She supposed, in accepting his invitation, she had replied, in a way. She would be his wife and his duchess soon. But meanwhile, she had taken a lover for the first time in her life, and she intended to enjoy the naughtiness of it.

“A penny for your thoughts, my love,” James said.

Eleanor felt the heat rise. She must be bright scarlet. She had been thinking about precisely how naughty James had been when he took her to bed not three hours ago.

She had been nervous, and no wonder. Though she had been a wife for thirty-six years and had given birth to two sons, both now adults, she knew next to nothing about bed sports. Just what she had picked up from the gossip of wives who had been more fortunate than she. Since Haverford appeared to have no trouble attracting women of every class, she had always wondered if some sort of a lack in her caused his perfunctory attention to bedding her, as if it was a tedious duty to be completed as quickly as possible.

“I don’t know what to do,” she had told James, shyly, as he helped her out of her clothing. He was kissing her back, going lower with each button opened, and there were a lot of buttons. But at her comment, he stopped. “Anything you wish, Eleanor,” he said.

“But I don’t know what to wish,” she objected, annoyed at herself for her own ignorance. She should have asked more questions when the conversation turned risque, instead of reminding those present that they were ladies by introducing another topic of conversation.

James turned her in his arms so that she was facing him. He had removed his outer clothing, and his shirt gaped at the neck. She stared at a patch of dark chest hair, wondering if it would be soft or wiry to the touch.

“Tell me what troubles you, my love. If you wish, we can wait until we are wed.”

For pique at his obtuseness, and to distract him, she almost reminded him that he had not proposed and she had not accepted. But that was hardly relevant to her dilemma. “I want us to be lovers, James. Now. Today, that is. But I have never done this before. Haverford never…” She took a deep breath and shut her eyes so that she did not have to seem him. That made it easier to explain. “In my marriage, I waited in bed. He visited. He pulled back the sheets, climbed on top, pushed himself into me, heaved a few times until he was done, and then left. I know there is more, and I trust you to show me, but James!” Her voice rose into a wail. “You have to tell me what to do!”

His voice was strained when he replied. “Give me a minute, beloved. I am fighting the urge to mount horse immediately, ride to Kent, fetch your husband out of his tomb, and kill him again.”

Her eyes flew open. Her lover’s face looked as if it had been hewn from granite, and his eyes blazed. His anger reassured her. James didn’t believe that her dismal experience of marital relations had been her fault. “A better revenge, I suspect, would be to thoroughly tup his wife.”

He laughed at that. “True. And show her the many ways that our bodies can give one another pleasure. Let me take you to Heaven, Eleanor. You don’t need to do a thing, but anything that occurs to you is good, too. Do whatever pleases you. And if anything I do does not please you, then tell me, and I will stop.”

It had worked. And it proved to be true that a man of his age had stamina and staying power. She smiled at her lover as she recalled her three occasions of pure bliss before he found his own completion.  “I was thinking that we should finish our tea then go back to bed and do it all again,” she said.

The proposition above is what James, the Duke of Winshire, said to Eleanor, the Duchess of Haverford, towards the end of Paradise At Last. Come on! It’s hardly a spoiler. You knew they were going to end up together, but what a journey they had to get there! Between the end of the last chapter of that book and the Epilogue that follows (a letter to her son who is on holiday in Europe), they clearly followed through on James’s suggestion, but I don’t show that in the book. So here is part of that scene. I left the bedroom door shut for the crucial part, because Eleanor is, after all, a lady and little shy about such things. Except, as it turns out, with James.

Paradise At Last is being published on March 15th, as part of Paradise Triptych, and is available on preorder.  Order now on https://books2read.com/Triptych

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Villains on WIP Wednesday

I’ve been having fun with the last surviving villain from the group of them that have hounded my Haverfords, Redepennings, and Winshires through a dozen books. My WIP excerpt today is from Paradise at Last, the last novella in Paradise Triptych, which I plan to publish in March. My Duchess of Haverford puts her trust in the wrong employee. Please share an excerpt that includes your villain. Just pop it in the comments.

“How could you, Marigold?” Eleanor asked her former secretary. Not that she had fired the treacherous female, but conspiring with a criminal to disable her servants and abduct Eleanor herself was surely tantamount to a resignation.

“I am merely seeking a better position, Your Grace,” Marigold sneered. “One your money will buy me.”

“Us,” said her collaborator. “You will buy us a future, Ellie. Do your friends call you Ellie? Your son took everything I have and you owe me. My first idea was to kill you, Haverford’s wife, and all three of his sisters. Let him feel what I felt when he took everything away from me.”

He slipped his arms around Marigold from behind and fondled both her breasts. She tipped her head back, and he bent to kiss and then lick her neck, which made the girl groan.

Marigold surrendered utterly to the sensual spell the boy wove, but he was watching Eleanor the whole time, his eyes cold and alert.

She gave no reaction—to his words, or to his behaviour.

One of his hands crept down Marigold’s body to the cleft between her legs. Eleanor steeled herself to show nothing.

Marigold’s words stopped his hand. “But you have me, now, Kit. And when we get our money, we will be able to run far away. We will have everything, you and I.”

Kit nuzzled her neck again, before letting her go. “Everything,” he said. Including my revenge. You should be grateful, Your Grace. Marigold’s idea was much better than mine. Have you written the letter, darling?”

Marigold nodded. “Ten thousand pounds, in gold. It will take them a while to get that much, Kit. Could we not settle for less?”

He rounded on his accomplice, snarling. “I am already settling! They owe me their lives!” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly then visibly forced a conciliatory smile. “We will give them time, darling. I have it all planned. You have done a wonderful job, and no one will know where we have gone.”

He turned his attention back to Eleanor, his smile gone. “Now. I can untie you, and you can walk out of here yourself, keeping your mouth shut, and climbing into the carriage like a good little dowager duchess. I will have a gun and a knife on you at all times. I warn you not to make any fuss! I really did like my first plan.”

He sighed. “But I have promised Marigold not to hurt you as long as you behave, so if you cannot give me your solemn promise that you will not attempt to escape or to attract attention, I will just have to knock you out, gag you, and take you out the back door rolled up in a sheet.” His smile was stretching of the teeth without an iota of humour.

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 21

Epilogue

Winshire House, London, January 1813

Eleanor had not visited her friends in Winshire House in nearly a year; had not seen them since they quit London in July, after the series of attacks on the family.

Today, she was going to ignore the prohibitions of the despot who ruled her family. He was convalescing in Kent, and would be away for at least another month. By the time he found out that she had made a condolence call on Grace and Georgie, it would be far too late for him to stop her. She hoped to see her goddaughter, too, who had married James’s eldest son just before the turn of the year, a day before the Duke of Winshire died.

At first, she had thought to go on her own, but Matilda and Jessica wanted to express their sympathies to Georgie’s daughters, who had been their friends since the cradle. Rather, they seized on the excuse to visit with the girls, whom they had sorely missed during the feud between Haverford and Winshire. No one could possibly imagine that anyone in the Winshire family actually mourned the sour old man who had just died.

Since she was going for precisely the same reason, she agreed, and then Aldridge announced that he planned to escort them. “When I am duke, Mama, I hope that the new Winshire and I will be able to work together, and I like what I’ve seen of his sons.”

In the end, they all went, late in the afternoon. Only Jon was missing. A month ago, he had sailed from Margate in Aldridge’s private yacht, and just this morning, a package had been delivered by a weary sailor, with a report from Aldridge’s captain for the marquis, and a brief note from Jon for his mother. “Married. Safe. More news later.” Aldridge grinned at the scrawled words. “Jon has landed on his feet again, Mama,” he told her. He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. “I don’t know how he always manages to do that!”

The Winshire drawing room was crowded, of course, but the Haverfords were invited to remove themselves to a private parlour, where their hostesses joined them after the other visitors had completed the polite fifteen minutes and been shown out.

“Do stay for refreshments,” Grace begged, and before long Lord Andrew Winderfield had carried Aldridge off for a game of billiards, the girls from both families had gone up to the twins’ little sitting room, and the older ladies settled in to catch up on all that had happened in their lives while they had been separated.

James joined them part way through the conversation, staying when his sister assured him he was not intruding. I did not come to see him. Of course, she had not. And yet, here he was and she felt herself turn towards him, a sunflower to his sun. She hoped her reaction was hidden from her friends. Thank goodness, my all-too-perceptive son is out of the room.

The new Duke of Winshire. Had my father accepted his offer for my hand, I would still have become a duchess, in the end. And there would be no Aldridge. No Jonathan. Perhaps none of the charities she had brought into existence out of her own urge to make the world an easier place for women.

David would still exist, if his grandfather had not beaten him to death in childhood. He’d been conceived before the Duke of Haverford even set eyes on Eleanor.

None of James’s wonderful children, though.

Perhaps Matilda, Jessica, and Frances might have been born, too, though who knew whether they would have survived and what they might have become without her intervention.

As if her thought had conjured them up, the girls came back into the room, and immediately, the Winderfield girls began telling their elders about “Aunt Eleanor’s house party to support women’s education.”

“Matilda and Jessica have been telling us all about it, Papa,” the elder of James’s daughters told him, perching on the arm of his chair and leaning trustingly against his shoulder. “I want to help girls who want to acquire medical knowledge. What do you think, Papa?”

James looked past his daughter to smile warmly at Eleanor. “Your wards are powerful advocates of your cause, Your Grace.” He turned his attention back to his daughter. “Ruth, it is your money to invest. Perhaps you could fund a scholarship?”

The others broke in with objections about finding teachers, and strategies for overcoming that obstacle. Eleanor sat quietly in the warmth of James’s smile. Yes, they could be friends. It would be enough. And the charities she had sponsored as Duchess of Haverford would be in safe hands for the next generation. What wonderful daughters her three were.

THE END

(But, as you all know, heroines deserve a happy ending, as since Eleanor is not yet happy, it is not the end. Watch out for Paradise at Last, the final novella in the three that tell the story of the mountain king and the duchess who loved him.

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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 19

 

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 fosterling,” 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 chick 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.”

***

Haverford Castle, Kent, November 1812

Haverford had not even hinted at coming to her rooms since Jonathan had brought Frances to join her nursery—the little girl a greater gift than her son could ever know. The scandal of the child’s existence was a secret Haverford needed to keep from his royal cousins, and she had been able to use her knowledge of that secret to secure her wards’ future under Haverford’s reluctant and anonymous protection, and to ensure her continued freedom from his intimate attentions.

It had been an unpleasant negotiation, determined on her part and rancorous on his—not that he much wanted his aging wife, but he resented having his will forced. In return for his agreement, she had promised to continue as his political hostess, and to maintain the myth of a perfect Society marriage.

Why was she spoiling a perfectly good afternoon thinking about His Grace? She came up here to explore quite different memories.

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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 Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 8

Chapter Four

Haverford House, London, June 1812

Eleanor had withdrawn to her private sitting room, driven there by His Grace’s shouting. Her son, the Marquis of Aldridge, was as angry as she had ever seen him, his face white and rigid and his eyes blazing, but he kept his voice low; had even warned the duke about shouting.

“Let us not entertain the servants, Your Grace, with evidence of your villainy.”

Unsurprisingly, the duke had taken exception to the cutting words and had shouted even louder.

Could it be true? Had Haverford paid an assassin to kill the sons of the man he insisted as seeing as his rival? An assassin with a pistol in the woods who had been caught before he could carry out his wicked commission.

His Grace’s jealousy made no sense. Yes, James was back in England, but what did that matter to Haverford?

He had been furious when James and his family attended their first ball, and beside himself with rage when Society refused to accept that the prodigal returned was an imposter. She expected him to continue to attack the new Earl of Sutton with words. Even his petition to the House of Lords to have James’s marriage declared invalid and his children base-born was typical of Haverford. But to pay for an assassin?

He had failed. She would hold onto that. And Aldridge was more than capable of holding his own.

As she sat there with her tea tray, sheltering from the anger of her menfolk, she gave thanks that her son had not been ruined by his father’s dictates over how he should be raised. She had been able to mitigate some of the damage, but more than that, his younger brother Jonathan and his older half-brother David had been his salvation, giving him the confidence that he was loved and the awareness that he was not the centre of the entire world.

Aldridge’s fundamentally loving nature helped, too. He was a rake, but not in his father’s mould. Rather, he loved and respected women, even if he did treat them according to the stupid conventions applied to aristocratic males. And he was a good son.

Putting down her tea, she fetched a little box of keepsakes from her hidden cupboard. The fan her long dead brother had given her before her first ball. A small bundle of musical scores, that recalled pleasant evenings in her all too brief Season. Aldridge’s cloth rabbit. She had retrieved it when Haverford had ordered it destroyed, saying his son was a future duke and should not be coddled. Aldridge had been eight months’ old. Anthony George Bartholomew Philip Grenford, his full name was, but he had been born heir to his father, and therefore Marquis of Aldridge, and by Haverford’s decree no one, not even Eleanor, called him by anything but his title.

Even so, the cloth rabbit had not been the first time she secretly defied her husband. She had been sneaking up to the nursery since Aldridge was born, despite the duke’s proclamation that ladies of her rank had their babies presented to them once a day, washed, sweetly smelling and well behaved, and handing the infants back to their attendants if any of those conditions failed or after thirty minutes, whichever came first.

It was not enough for Eleanor, if she had grown bolder and bolder and slowly taken control of her life, it was for their sweet sake.

Hollystone Hall, December 1791

Eleanor poured tea for Tolly Fitz-Grenford, wondering if he would agree to her plan. After Haverford had exiled David and sent Aldridge off to school, she had pleaded with him to bring them both home, but he had laughed at her; pointed out that she had no power over him. In fact, he declared, her open defiance was enough to cancel the agreement they had made before Jonathan’s birth.

So, she had then packed her bags and retreated to this lesser estate, the one place in the vast Haverford holdings that belonged to Her Grace and not His Grace.

“There, Tolly. Milk and no sugar. Is that not correct?”

Tolly took the cup. “Yes, Your Grace. Thank you.”

She smiled. “We are brother and sister, Tolly. Will you call me ‘Eleanor’?”

Tolly’s face heated. As Eleanor knew, his relationship to the duke was not precisely a secret, but he had never been acknowledged. The father they shared had brought the son of a favourite mistress to be raised on the estate, and had even kept on his half-brother’s tutor to train Tolly in the skills he would need to serve the duchy. Still, he had not been encouraged to show any familiarity, and the duke liked Tolly no more than Tolly liked the duke. “His Grace…”

Eleanor scowled. “I do not mean to concern myself ever again with the opinions of His Grace, except as I must for my safety and that of my children and the servants. Will you not call me by my name, Tolly, when we are not in company? Will you be my friend? For I stand in great need of one.”

Tolly leaned forward to pat her hand. “I will always stand your friend, Eleanor,” he told her.

“Good, for I need your help. Can you find me information with which to blackmail Haverford?”

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 6

Chapter Three

A Haverford townhouse in Brighton, May 1812

The package was stamped with the welcome postmark—ST PETERSBORGH, all in capitals. Eleanor guessed its origins when the butler brought it into the room, properly presented on a salver. The package itself was anonymous from across the room, but her butler’s face, usually professionally impassive, told the tale. Only dear Jonathan brought that lift to the corners of Parswarden’s lips, as if he was fighting a doting smile.

Sure enough, she recognised the slanting hand, just far enough away from a scrawl to escape his tutor’s heavy hand. She reached out for it, grinning at Parswarden. “News from Jonathan,” she affirmed. “Wait while I open it, Parswarden, and I will give you news to take below stairs.”

Parswarden’s smile almost escaped his control.  “If Your Grace would be so good, I am sure Cook would be pleased to hear how our young lord is managing in those foreign parts. I will send for a tea tray for Your Grace, while you open your package, shall I?”

Fifteen minutes later, the butler sailed out of the room, as close to hurrying as his dignity would allow, eager to regale the upper servants with stories of their young lord and his adventures: racing a troika—a sleigh pulled by three horses; dancing with a Russian imperial highness; hunting wolves with a wild band of Cossacks.

Eleanor shivered at the risks he took, but she had to admit that Jonathan led a charmed life, and waltzed through danger that made her hair curl. Indeed, he had been both charmed and charming since his birth.

She smiled as she sipped her tea. He had arrived after a further miscarriage, when she had almost lost hope that the birth of a son would deliver her from the consequences of her husband’s lifestyle. Haverford had kept his word. As soon as it was certain that she was with child, he stopped visiting her, and before long she and her husband had established a pattern of separate lives, intersecting only when Eleanor would be a social or political asset to the duke.

Later that summer Haverford demanded she serve in such a role when he insisted on her joining him for a house party in Wales, where he wanted her assistance to impress a former ally who had changed sides.  Later, she looked back on that chance meeting with the daughter of a local mine owner as a watershed moment in her life. The woman’s son had the Haverford hazel eyes.

He arrived at her house a few months later, escaping his cruel grandfather after his mother’s death. In helping him, Eleanor discovered what became her life’s passion: helping the helpless, particularly those with a call on His Grace or the Haverford family.

Perhaps it was not the life she had dreamed of, but she had made a difference in many lives. She mattered. Her pregnancy ended in a difficult birth, and it took her time to recover, but by the time Lord George Jonathan Creydon Walter Grenford received his unwieldy list of names at his baptism, the boy from Wales was established in her house. In her hidden cupboard, tied into a neat package, lay the notes that confirmed her in her path.

Haverford House, London, August 1787

Thomas Oliver, or Uncle Tolly as her son called him, balanced the delicate porcelain cup carefully on his knee, not taking his eyes off his hostess. A slow blink was his only reaction to her announcement that she intended to defy both Society and her husband. The Duke of Haverford was not a gentle man, and did not tolerate rebellion in his household. As his base-born brother, Tolly Fitz-Grenford had reason to know this fact at first-hand.

“The duke will not be pleased,” he warned.

“His Grace will not wish to upset me.” The duchess smiled serenely, and placed a hand on her middle. Tolly nodded his understanding. Eleanor had lost several babies since the son who secured the succession. Even His Grace would hesitate to counter his duchess’s express commands when she had recently delivered the backup hope of the Haverfords.

“Does His Grace know the boy is here?” Tolly asked.

“His Grace left London immediately after Jonathan’s christening, Tolly, which gives me time. I would like to be armed with some information before he discovers David’s presence.

“So, what, precisely, do you wish me to do?” Tolly asked.

Eleanor had her answer ready. “Talk to the boy, then trace back his steps and talk to the people he met on the way. I have made my own judgement based on my meeting with him and his mother. Your report will confirm or disprove that he is fit company for the Marquis of Aldridge and the baby. I believe him, Tolly, but I do not trust myself in such an important matter.” She waved an impatient hand. “You understand. You are His Grace’s half-brother, as David is half-brother to my sons.”

Fitz-Grenford smiled, despite the caution he felt impelled to offer. “Unacknowledged half-brother, and the duke will bar the door to me if I presume on the relationship in the least. Very well, Your Grace. I shall see what I can find out.”

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Tea with Eleanor: Paradise Lost Episode 4

Chapter Two

Haverford House, London, April 1812

Eleanor had seen James—the Earl of Sutton, she supposed she must call him. Not that she would have a chance to call him anything. The Duke of Haverford had ordered his household and his dependents and allies to cut the entire Winshire family, and to refuse to attend entertainments where they were present.

Eleanor would have to make do with the glimpse last night at the Farningham ball. She had looked up when the room fell silent, and there he stood on the stairs, surrounded by members of his family, whom she barely noticed. James looked wonderful. More than thirty years had passed, and no person on earth would call him a fribble or useless now. He had been a king somewhere in Central Asia, and wore his authority like an invisible garment. And he was still as handsome as he had been in his twenties.

Eleanor caught herself sighing over James like a silly gosling. Silly, because women did not age as well as men, as the whole world knew. She no longer had the slender waist of a maiden, her hair was beginning to grey, and her face showed the lines her mother swore she would avoid if she never smiled, laughed, frowned, or showed any other emotion. Of course, she had not followed her mother’s instruction, but those who had were no less lined than Eleanor, as far as she could see.

Besides, she was a married woman, and he was a virtuous man who had, by all accounts, deeply loved his wife. Even if he was willing and she was a widow, she would never take a lover. Somewhere within her might lurk the monster that was consuming her husband. Perhaps not. According to the physician, she had a better than even chance. But she would not know until she was sick, or until she was on her deathbed and still clean of the dreadful thing.

***

Haverford Castle, East Kent, 1784

The Duke of Haverford did not bother with greetings or enquiries about Eleanor’s health. He flung open the door without knocking and marched into Eleanor’s sitting room, saying, “What is it, duchess? I have a great deal to do today.”

Inwardly, Eleanor quailed as he stood over her, threat in every line of his posture.  Unlike her father, he had never beaten her in cold blood, but she had every reason to fear his temper.

But fear would not serve her here. She was fighting for her life and for the wellbeing of her son. She maintained an outward semblance of calm and gestured to a chair. “Will you not be seated, Your Grace? As I said in my note, I have an important matter to discuss with you.”

Haverford grumbled, but sat; even accepted a cup of tea. The delicate porcelain cup might not survive the next few minutes, but its sacrifice was a small price to pay for giving the discussion a façade of normality.

As she’d hoped, the good manners drilled into every English gentleman in the presence of a lady, even his wife, kept the duke sitting during the ritual of preparing the cup, but he burst out as soon as he accepted it from his wife’s hand. “Well, duchess?”

Eleanor prepared her own cup, glad to have a reason not to look at him as she spoke. “Your Grace, you will be aware that I have been very ill this past six weeks. It is, indeed, why I removed myself to Haverford Castle.”

“Yes, yes. And I’m glad to see you much improved, madam. I have need of you in London.” He condescended to provide an explanation. “The bill I am sponsoring—those idiots who will not listen are much easier to convince after you’ve given them one of your excellent meals, and invited their wives and daughters to your soirees. How soon can you be ready to travel?”

What an excellent opening. “I can pack tomorrow and leave for London the day after, Your Grace.”

Haverford smiled. “Excellent, excellent.” He put the cup down, shifting as if to stand.

“If I do not have a relapse,” Eleanor added.

Haverford sank back into his chair, frowning.

Now to get to the meat of the matter. Eleanor grasped hold of her dwindling supply of courage with both hands. This is about saving Aldridge. The situation in the nursery was fit to ruin him. His attendants had always indulged his every whim, egged on by the duke, who considered himself to be the only person the infant marquis needed to obey. Eleanor’s frequent visits and threats of dismissal allowed him to be raised with some sense of structure and decorum. He knew she would not tolerate rudeness or temper, to her or to his nurses and the maids.

After spending four weeks too sick to leave her bed, she found the nursery in disarray, the young heir ruling the roost. He was in a wild tantrum when she arrived, and the next hour left her drooping with fatigue, and she still had to hunt down the boy’s missing head nurse and find out why she had allowed such chaos to reign.

The memory prompted her to deal with the minor issue first. “Your affair with Aldridge’s nurse, Your Grace.”

by

Tea with an ally

Hollystone Hall, July 1790

Thomas Oliver Fitz-Grenford watched his hostess as she poured his tea. Even after his very public split with the duke, he had retained his friendship with the servants at the main Haverford properties, but they had been able to tell him little about her health or her state of mind. Only the bare facts. That she had been sick. That on her recovery, she had argued with the duke. That she had then packed her bags and retreated to this lesser estate, the one place in the vast Haverford holdings that belonged to Her Grace and not His Grace. No doubt she would tell him soon why she sent for him.

“There, Tolly. Milk and no sugar. Is that not correct?”

The Grenford heir, the Marquis of Aldridge, had come up with the shortened form of his name. ‘Uncle Tolly’ had been a favourite of the little boy when he had been the duke’s steward and secretary, perhaps because he found time to talk to the child. His Grace had no interest in or patience for children, and the duchess had suffered a succession of miscarriages before successfully carrying her second son, Lord Jonathan, to term. Also, His Grace had decreed that his heir have his own extensive suite, staffed by his own personal servants, and that the duchess was neither to visit nor to interfere in Aldridge’s care.

Tolly took the cup. “Yes, Your Grace. Thank you.”

She smiled. “We are brother and sister, Tolly. Will you call me ‘Eleanor’?”

Tolly’s face heated. His relationship to the duke was not precisely a secret, but he had never been acknowledged. The father they shared had brought the son of a favourite mistress to be raised on the estate, and had even kept on his half-brother’s tutor to train Tolly in the skills he would need to serve the duchy. Still, he had not been encouraged to show any familiarity, and the duke liked Tolly no more than Tolly liked the duke. “His Grace…”

The duchess’s eyes flashed and she scowled. “I do not mean to concern myself ever again with the opinions of His Grace, except as I must for my safety and that of my children and the servants. Will you not call me by my name, Tolly, when we are not in company? Will you be my friend? For I stand in great need of one.”

He could see that for himself. She had always been slender, but was now gaunt, with dark shadows under her eyes.

The sickness had confined her to her rooms, with everyone, even the children, refused entry. Only the doctor came, so Tolly had been told. Before that, she had very low after Jonathan’s birth, as she had after the birth of Aldridge. Birth seemed to take some woman like that, as if being married to Haverford wasn’t depressing enough.

He felt a wave of compassion for the poor lady, and leaned forward to pat her hand. “I will always stand your friend, Eleanor,” he told her.

“Good, for I need your help. Can you find me information with which to blackmail Haverford?”

Tolly blinked. Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t that.

“Blackmail?” he stuttered in response. “Is he… Has he…” Tolly struggled with a kaleidoscope of mental images. Haverford beating Eleanor. Haverford berating Eleanor. Worse.

Eleanor pursed her lips as if considering how much to tell him, then nodded decisively. “I shall be frank, Tolly. You shall not be shocked, for you know the duke even better than I do, in some ways. He gave me a loathsome disease he picked up from one of his intimate companions. I am recovered, the doctor says. He tells me that many people remain well for their lifetimes, but that continuing to allow Haverford in my bed will make it more certain that the disease will eventually kill me. It may also kill or deform any further children we have.”

Tolly was reduced to stammering again. “I am sorry, Eleanor. Are you safe from him here? How can I help you?”

Eleanor waved off his questions. “I need to broker a truce with him, Tolly, for he has the power to keep my children from me. I wish to live apart, but in the same house. Will you find me the ammunition to bend him to my will?”

Tolly sat back. He had always admired Haverford’s wife; always seen the strength of spirit with which she bore the trials of her marriage. The willingness to fight the duke was new, and he admired her more than ever. It would not be easy. The Duke of Haverford was one of the most powerful men in the country. He feared little and was embarrassed by nothing. Still… “I think I may be able to help, Eleanor. I have a couple of ideas.”

Eleanor’s smile broadened. “I have in mind to be a proper mother to my children; one who spends time with them as real mothers do, and also to do good for others with my position and my wealth. I can build a good life, Tolly, if I can just keep Haverford at arms’ length.”

Tolly narrowed his eyes as he thought. “Entertainments,” he said. “Eleanor, build alliances with the other great ladies of the ton and become a formidable hostess. You have it in you. If you have the support of the ladies, Haverford will have to think twice about acting against you.”

Her eyes lit up. “And if I host his political cronies and support his public life he will have far less objection to my removing myself from his private one.”

“You will have to fight him for influence over Aldridge,” Tolly warned.

“I know,” Eleanor agreed. “But I have an advantage there, my friend. I have never bullied or beaten my son.” She lifted her cup as if it was filled with port or brandy rather than tea. “To my freedom, Tolly.”

He grinned and returned the salute. “To your freedom.”