She knew the first door she came upon would lead into the library; she had seen Justinian standing outside it often enough. She almost continued on but a quick look through the open curtain on the double doors showed the chair behind the great desk as empty as the room beyond. She thankfully slipped inside, setting down Jingles long enough to shrug out of her damp cloak and wrap the wetness away from the papers and books. She glanced about the lamp-lit room again, reassuring herself that Justinian was indeed not in residence, although a warm fire glowed in the grate and papers were spread upon the desk. Unfortunately, in the brief moment she had surveyed the room, she had lost sight of Jingles.
She tiptoed farther into the room, peering under the legs of the various chairs and book tables but could not find the kitten. A dull thud behind her sent a chill through her. Whipping about, she found not Justinian but something far worse.
“Jingles, get down!” she cried, rushing back to the desk where the kitten was capering about on the open papers. Jingles ignored her, pushing the stack of crackling parchment ruthlessly to the floor as if annoyed it dared share the desk with him. Eleanor grabbed him up and held him firmly against her. “That is quite enough, my paper despot.” She glanced down at the parchment, and her heart sank. What was once nicely written prose was now muddy blobs of watery ink dotted with the unmistakable footprints of a kitten. Remembering how much Justinian’s work had always meant to him, she shuddered to think how he would react when he knew it was ruined.
“We must find a way to fix this,” she told Jingles, bending closer. The page that had been smeared, she saw, was nearly the last page of a rather long piece. Perhaps if she took it and some of the earlier pages, she might be able to recopy it on the parchment in her room, then replace it before Justinian knew it had gone missing. It was certainly worth a try. If he discovered it before she finished, she would simply explain the circumstances. She wouldn’t have to give him another task to undertake.
That night in her room, however, she was surprised to find not some weighty estate matter or a legal writ before her but the finale of what was surely a novel. The descriptions conjured pictures in her mind, she found herself liking the character who was obviously the hero, and she was so caught up in the scene of the hero confronting the villain that when she found she had not picked up the final pages, she nearly cried in disappointment. It was some of the most well-written prose she had ever read, and it had surely been written by Justinian Darby.
She sat back in her chair at the writing table in her room and pulled Jingles away from the precious pages. Justinian Darby, a novelist. She envied him, and she pitied him. As a renowned scholar, he would never have been respected for publishing anything so frivolous as an adventure story, which this obviously was. As the Earl of Wenworth, it was unthinkable. She doubted whether anyone but herself had ever so much as read a page. That was the greatest pity, for it was as good an any she had seen. How difficult it must be for him to find time to write it, and to hide it away.
Over the next two nights it was a labor of love to decipher and recopy the smeared sections. As she did so, her respect for the piece only grew. Surely there was some way he could publish it. He deserved the literary acclaim it would certainly receive. Lord Byron and Walter Scott published their works under their own names. Yet, they did not bear the proud name of Darby. Perhaps he could publish it anonymously as the woman was doing who had written
Sense and Sensibility
.
She pondered the matter so thoroughly that the countess caught her wool-gathering the next day. Eleanor jumped as Lady Wenworth rapped her knuckles sharply with her quizzing glass.
“And what is more important than my most entertaining story of the bruise on my toe?” she demanded, eyes narrowing.
Eleanor shook her head with a smile. “Oh, certainly nothing
I
might think of.”
The countess grinned. “That’s my girl. Seriously, my dear, is something troubling you? You have seemed rather pensive of late. You aren’t thinking of leaving us, are you?”
Eleanor managed to keep a pleasant smile in place. “I promised to stay until Christmas, did I not? But I regret, my lady, that my plans have not changed. Once Dottie is home and settled, I must move on.”
“That school cannot need you as much as I do,” the countess complained, pursing her lips into something very much resembling a pout. “This is most vexing. I’ve done everything I can think of and still you and Justinian do not seem to have come to an agreement.”
Eleanor swallowed. The woman could not mean what she thought. “An agreement?”
The countess was watching her, and there was no mistaking the shrewdness in those blue eyes. “Yes, an agreement. My son may sometimes be obtuse, but I’m sure he noticed that you bear a striking resemblance to Norrie Pritchett. I must admit, however, I find Eleanor much more elegant.”
“You know?” Eleanor whispered.
“Whatever other ailments I may have, I’m not blind, my dear.”
“But you couldn’t have met me above four times!” Eleanor protested.
“I believe it was five, and you are very memorable, dear. A mother usually remembers her son’s first love, if she is lucky enough to be privy to it.”
“He didn’t love me.” Eleanor shook her head, and she wondered suddenly who she was trying to convince.
“Oh, but I disagree. Justinian quite wore his heart on his sleeve, the poor lamb. Why else did you think my husband felt he must send you away?”
Eleanor hung her head. “He thought I had designs on the Darby fortune. I assure you, your ladyship, I didn’t then and I don’t now.”
“Ah.” The countess let the word hang in the air for a moment, then sighed. “Then you don’t love my son.”
Eleanor couldn’t lie about that. She kept her head down. “Your husband was very convincing. It isn’t appropriate for someone like me to love a Darby.”
“What exactly did he say to make you think that?”
She didn’t stop to wonder why the countess would ask. “He said a great many things. The one I remember most often is ‘the best you can hope for from my son is to bear his bastard.’ I didn’t stay to hear any more.”
“I should think not.” The countess’ blue-veined hand reached out and lay on top her clenched fingers. “My husband was very opinionated, my dear, and I’m ashamed to say that I condoned it. Goodness, I most likely encouraged it. I’m very opinionated myself, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Eleanor sniffed back tears and managed a smile. “I had rather gotten that impression.”
The countess’ smile was gentle. “And you are not opinionated enough, if you let yourself believe all that was told you. We Darbys are famed for our arrogance as well as our generosity. Thank God Justinian seems to have inherited only the generosity of spirit. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, my dear. You could still have him.”
Eleanor surged to her feet. “If you are suggesting as your husband did that my best hope is becoming Justinian’s par amour, the answer is no. Do not suggest that again, or Darby or no Darby, I shall pack my things and leave this house immediately.”
“Oh, honestly,” Lady Wenworth sighed, “you young people are entirely too volatile. I had to wait until I was at least sixty before throwing such ultimatums at my elders. I am suggesting nothing of the sort. You would make my son an excellent wife.”
Eleanor’s legs suddenly refused to bear her weight, and she sank back onto the chair. “His wife? Me?”
“Oh, you are so delightful. You shock so easily. I vow it’s simply too much fun. Yes, dear, his wife. I could plant the idea in his mind, if you’d like.”
“Yes, no! I mean you certainly are capable of doing so, but I wish you would not.”
The countess raised her eyebrows. “Whyever not? You have as much as admitted you love my son. You have all the qualities I would wish for in a daughter-in-law – you are devoted and caring and you aren’t afraid to speak your own mind. If I read my son correctly, it would take very little to sway him.”
“No,” Eleanor repeated, scarcely knowing what to think. “I cannot let him make such a mistake. He has his family name to consider, your family name.”
“Pish tosh. I was a Burns long before I was a Darby. The old line could do with some new blood.”
Eleanor shook her head. “Please do not tease me on this. If you care anything for me, you will let things stand the way they are.”
The countess’ eyes narrowed. “You should know by now that the only person I care for is myself. I do as I please around here.”
Eleanor rose again, shaking out her skirts and trying to hide the fact that her hands were trembling. “Then you do it without me. Persist in this line and I will leave tomorrow morning.”
The countess glared up at her, and Eleanor glared back. They stood locked, gaze to gaze, lips compressed, jaws firm. With a determined thud, Jingles over turned the countess’ face powder.
The countess lowered her gaze with a shrug. “Ungrateful kitten,” she muttered. “He has yet to learn the appropriate manners for a Great House.”
Eleanor went to scoop the Jingles out of the pink dust, which coated his fur from tail to nose and peppered the surface of the rosewood dresser. “Some are not born to the manor, my lady,” she replied, dusting him off. Jingles’ pink nose twitched, and he sneezed. “Some of us are content with only a place by the fire.”
“Yes, well, even those can learn to be of service.”
Eleanor bit her lip to keep from responding.
From potential countess to serving girl in a few moments
, she thought with a shake of her head.
“He needs your help, you know,” the countess continued doggedly.
Eleanor held the kitten up and turned him about. “Yes,” she agreed, “he is a bit dirty. I suppose I’ll have to wash him off.”
“Not the infernal cat, my son!”
She turned to find the countess sitting straight up in the bed, color high.
“I thought we just agreed,” she replied to the countess, “that there was nothing appropriate I could do for Lord Wenworth.”
“You have chosen to see yourself as beneath him. That makes you so in my eyes. Yet you might still be of use to me. He won’t listen to me. He is working himself to an early grave. What am I to do then, eh?”
Eleanor’s mind flashed to his bowed head and felt a chill. “Nonsense,” she replied firmly. “Your son is a brilliant scholar. He’ll find a way out of whatever is wrong.”
“A brilliant scholar he may be, but who’s to know? Do any of them care how brilliant he is?” She waved her hand, but the elegant movement was tight with anger. “His brothers, his steward, those dolts in Wenwood, the people on the estate? They hound him and hound him and never listen to his reasonable answers. A scholar, you say? He is a scholar because I wanted a scholar. Adam was always my husband’s son, and Alex and Jareth belong to no one, but Justinian, Justinian was all mine. I wanted a great philosopher, a poet, a genius. I’m afraid the old adage is true. One should be careful what one wishes for. Justinian is all those things, and as a result, he is a miserable earl.”
“He is a wonderful earl!” Eleanor protested. “He takes his duty seriously, which is more than I can say for the last few Earls of Wenwood.”
The countess raised an eyebrow, and Eleanor felt herself blushing, realizing she had just criticized the lady’s husband and elder son.
“You see, you do have some opinions,” the countess remarked. “Much as I admire your willingness to stand up for the boy, the truth of the matter is, if he is not a miserable earl, he is miserable because he is the earl. You could help him there, I think.”
“How?” Eleanor asked suspiciously, though in truth a part of her would have liked nothing better than to help Justinian.
“Christmas is nearly here. Distract him long enough to let him enjoy it.”
Eleanor gazed at her, a plan beginning to form. Could she truly give Justinian a happy Christmas? Could the school teacher find a gift worthy of giving a Darby? “I can try. But I’ll need your help as well.”
The countess gazed back just as suspiciously. “What must I do?”
“You can start by giving me the addresses of your other sons.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Never you mind. You wanted me to trust you enough to have you arrange my marriage to your son. You can learn to trust me for a simple Christmas. Besides, the addresses are the easy part. If I can contrive to have a Christmas eve celebration in honor of Dottie’s return, you must agree to dress and come down for dinner.”
Lady Wenworth collapsed back upon her pillows. “I haven’t dressed for dinner in over twenty years.”
Eleanor smiled. “Then it’s high time you started, don’t you think?” As if in agreement, Jingles sneezed.
Chapter Eight
Justinian found himself unaccountably depressed as Christmas drew near. He had yet to arrive at a workable solution on the levees, his mother seemed unusually agitated, and he had not had time to touch his novel outside of a short evening some days ago. All those things would have been enough to depress any gentleman, but he suspected that, in reality, the main problem was that Norrie had cut him off so abruptly. His attempts to renew their acquaintance had only served to push her farther away. She seemed to be sensitive to his least remark, so confronting her would hardly prove a remedy. It seemed perhaps his father had been right all along. Somehow, that thought was the most depressing of all.
Trying to ease his mind, he threw himself into his estate work, remaining closeted with the beleaguered steward from early in the morning until long after the sun had set. He was therefore surprised to find, when he left the library late one afternoon, that Faringil and three strapping footmen were busily draping evergreen boughs along the railing of the great stair. Glancing about, he found a similar swag festooning the doorways to the morning room, the withdrawing room, and the dining room. “Are we having some sort of celebration?” he asked with a frown.
Faringil motioned the footmen to keep working and stepped down to his side, dusting off his hands on the apron he wore tied about his waist. “I believe we may be doing so, my lord,” he replied.