Page 2 of Her Duke in Shining Armor
She turned away to face the undeniable proof of her family’s wealth. Crystals dripped like northern icicles from the grand-tiered chandelier overhead, and the golden light of its candles was flickering over the checkered marble floor underneath.
Ahead of her was the grand staircase. The twin arms of the gleaming mahogany stairwell elegantly rose to commence on a median landing, where two opposite walkways led to the separate wings of the house.
Sighing with exasperation at how the night had ended, Eleanor climbed to the landing and took the east corridor to her suite of rooms. She entered the first one, a modest sitting room with a chaise lounge and wingback chairs surrounding a coffee table and an escritoire. The hearth was dying down and its light flickered over the book-laden shelves she had persuaded her father to build there.
Passing through, she entered the bedroom and spotted a familiar head of brown hair bent over while the young child, not even two-and-ten, was stroking the fire higher.
“Be careful, Maria,” Eleanor said. “The coals are hot.”
“I’m careful, my lady,” the young servant replied as she retracted the iron poker and closed the iron grate. She then stood and curtseyed, gripping the thin cloth of her mud-brown skirts in worn hands. “How d’you do this night, my lady?”
Smiling, Eleanor took out her handkerchief from her reticule and softly wiped off a line of soot on the poor girl’s face. “I am…as usual, Maria, tired of going to all these balls. But Father is all set on getting me married off. I suppose I must play along.”
The servant girl looked confused, “Why is it so troubling, my lady? Wouldn’t it be good to have your own husband?”
“Because—”the men I meet have nothing in common with me and are boring as white soup,“it’s complicated Maria. But things will play out eventually.”
“I am sure you’ll be happy someday, my lady,” Maria said quietly, “I think you’d be a wonderful mother too.”
“Speaking of,” Eleanor asked, “how is your mother?”
“Still a bit ill, my lady,” Maria replied while her hands twisted in her drab dress. “She’s a bit better after she took the medicine the doctor you sent gave her. Thank you for your help.”
Eleanor had never seen Maria’s mother but one day she had caught the child crying and had asked her what was wrong. Through tears, Maria had explained that her mother was sick to her stomach and she did not know how to help.
Immediately, Eleanor had sent for her physician and directed him to go help Mrs. Briks. She had even paid for the woman’s medicine out of her pocket. Thankfully, her father had been off to Brisdane at that time and had not been able to censure her about it.
“I’m glad,” Eleanor smiled. “Now run along, it’s past your bedtime.”
“Do you not need my help disrobing, my lady?” Maria asked.
Tutting, Eleanor shook her head, “I’ve been dressing myself for a long time, Maria, but thank you for the offer.”
“Good night, my lady,” Maria said.
Seeing her go, Eleanor sighed as she took off her shoes and massaged her stocking-clad feet.The poor child. I wish there was more I could do to help her.
There was a knock on her door and a maid, Polly entered, “Your tea, my lady.”
“Thank you, Polly,” Eleanor replied. “Set it on the table there and good night to you.”
When the maid left, Eleanor nimbly unlaced her corset, did away with her petticoat and the stays. Exchanging her stiff chemise for her softer one and donning her nightgown, she unpinned her auburn hair, brushed it out and then went to make her cup of tea. With the steaming cup in hand, she went to sit by the window seat and stared out into the night's sky.
The gibbous spring moon was high in the sky and the tiny stars around it twinkled brilliantly. Her younger self had imagined that one of those heavenly beings was her mother and that the bright flashes it gave off were Elizabeth’s way of saying she was being watched over.
Blowing the silvery steam away from her face, Eleanor took a sip and sighed, “I wish you were here, Mother…I miss you every day.”
As far as Eleanor could remember her mother, Elizabeth Stanley, Duchess of Brisdane had never been ill a day in her life. Then when she was two-and-ten she had come from visiting her friend Amelia to find her father telling her that her mother was gravely ill.
Grimly, she had watched the doctor leave her mother’s room with a staid face and white lips. From the very look, she had known the pronunciation but not wanting to believe it, had fled to the stables to cry. Later that very same day, her father had tracked her down and reported grievous news, her mother had died.
“She suddenly fell ill, Eleanor,” her father had explained, “There was not much we could do to help her.”
For a while Eleanor had believed him but then seeing his actions in the days and years that followed, she had started to doubt him. Not once had he mourned for her mother and he had restricted her from going into her room and his study. Her father had not shed a tear at his wife’s funeral and a few weeks later, declaring the house too much of a reminder of her, had packed them up and moved away.
“I wish you could tell me what happened to you, Mother,” Eleanor sighed. Just like I wish I could trust Father, but I can’t. Not anymore anyway. He has become…a stranger to me. He never was warm or loving but now he is excessively cold and demanding. Nothing pleases him anymore—not evenme—and he is a tyrant.”
She stared at the light amber liquid of her tea. “And furthermore, he is pushing me into courtship and marriage. Mother, I have not met someone who I can truly connect with…I doubt he even exists.”
