Page 25 of Her Duke Next Door
“That does not mean you should have ever had to endure it.”
“That sentiment hardly matters now, does it, Your Grace? Prepare Katie to bid farewell to Eloise. Perhaps we can keep in brief touch for them to meet from time to time.”
“It does not have to be this way?—”
“It does!” she cried, her own desperation climbing up her throat. “Yes, it does. And it is the way I wish it to be.” She hardened her heart that bit further. “I bid you a good afternoon, Your Grace, but you must leave my home now. As I said that first day we met, I hope we remain as strangers.”
Mary kept her head high as she walked away from the Duke of Livingston.
ChapterEight
“You are not running away,” Mary whispered to herself as she folded more dresses into the chest she was packing up. Most of her belongings had been packed. All that was left were her last few dresses. “You are not running away, Mary.”
“I will have the butler take these chests down to the carriage, my lady,” her maid said as she picked up two trunks and carried them out of Mary’s bed chamber. Mary’s stomach clenched and she almost called the maid back.
Do not take them, she wanted to plead.Because then all I have left to do is to leave and I am not ready.
The sunlight filtered in through the open window and she leaned out, closing her eyes, inhaling deeply. She gave herself one last moment of peace before turning to the open door. Bernie stood there.
“Lady Eloise is ready, my lady,” Bernie told her.
Mary composed that strong smile her mother had taught her how to perfect. How to make others not know that nothing was all right but they needed to believe it was the opposite.
“His Lordship awaits you in the carriage,” Bernie added. Mary’s stomach clenched sickly and she tucked her hands behind her back to hide their trembling. The last thing she needed to do was let her daughter see her fear when she went downstairs.
“Then we shan’t keep him waiting any longer,” she answered. With one last mournful look into her bed chamber and all the peaceful isolation the countryside had given her, she bade farewell to the life she had created for herself.
Each step I take feels like a large effort, she thought to herself as she descended the staircase. Her home was beautiful, exactly the way she wanted it, and she would be giving this up, too. Clenching her shaking hands on the balustrade, Mary steeled herself just as Eloise ran into the foyer before the main entrance.
“Mama!” she cried. “Mama, we must not go! I do not want to go!”
The sound of her daughter’s wails almost broke her resolve. She clasped Eloise to her chest, holding her. “Now, now, my darling, do not yell. This is what we must?—”
“I do not want to go to London! I do not like that man!”
“Eloise,” Mary said sharply. “Please, I will not tell you again. Now, let your governess prepare you for our journey home.”
“This is my home, Mama.” Eloise’s lower lip trembled as she looked at Mary with her soft, watery eyes. She clutched a doll in her grip. Of course, she still loved dolls; she just had not wanted the doll from Hugh. “She is sad, Mama.” Eloise grasped the doll by the wrist, letting her go limp at her side.
“You must be strong, Eloise,” Mary chided her. Her fear crept into her voice, turning her stricter. “Can you do that for me?”
“No,” Eloise pouted. “I do not want to be strong, Mama. I want to stay here, in our home, and visit Katie.” Her eyes welled up again. “I did not even get to say goodbye.”
“Darling—”
“I will never speak to you again if we leave for London.”
It was the childish pout of a girl too young to understand and Mary wished to cry with her daughter but she could not. She lifted her chin, nodded to Bernie, and turned to the door. “Then I shall wait patiently for you to overcome your tantrum.” She hated dismissing her daughter’s feelings as a tantrum but she needed Eloise to not slow them down.
“Mama, please,” Eloise begged. “Why can’t we stay? Katie says we need to stay!”
“Eloise,” she snapped. “Please let Bernie put your cloak on and get in the carriage.”
“But that man is there and I do not like him!”
Neither do I but it is the only choice I have. She could not say that to her daughter. Not to anybody. Only to herself, in the quiet recesses of her mind.
“I will not tell you again,” Mary said, gripping her composure as tightly as she could. Her daughter, pinched and angry-faced, scowled at her as Bernie tied her cloak and put on her bonnet. Eloise stomped past Mary, knowing she would not win her argument.
