Page 67 of Her Duke in Shining Armor
“Guess you somehow passed that gift onto me, mother.”
Further along, she read little passages about her grandmother, who she had never met, who had come to visit and how her grandfather—who was somewhere in France, she believed—had come to talk business with Fenton. Then, a hasty scrawl—I’m about to give bith!
Eleanor’s laugh was delightful at the missing ‘r.’ Her mother had just proved she was not as infallible as Eleanor believed her to be. With pleasure she read:Her name is Eleanor, with large blue eyes and a tuft of red hair. I wonder how long it will be when she’s my age. Every day I am amazed by our child. She is such a quiet girl, except when’s she hungry, then she screams up a storm. I love how she gets quiet when I read to her. Sometimes I think I can see her eyes tracing over the words, but then that could be me being fanciful.
Lightly, her fingers rested upon the passage and tears of bereavement prickled at her eyes. She missed her mother and knowing that Elizabeth had wanted to see her grow pained her. An urge to stop reading nearly caused her to put the book away but she did not.
Surging on, she read and soon enough her delight began to turn to concern. Phrases like,he does not see me anymore, andhe ignores our daughter, caught her eyes. More troubling she read, his look has become darkerand hedoesn’t speak to me, he snaps.
When she got to a passage where her mother’s handwriting was visibly shaking, she read—he came in drunk and rambling when I tried to speak with him, he railed up, shouted and backhanded me—
Eleanor’s grip was bloodless as she read further:My lip split in half and I had landed on my shoulder. I cowered as he loomed over me like the god of death. I trembled as his shadow fell over me. I could see his fist clenching at his sides but then, thank God, he just snorted and walked off. My first instinct was Eleanor. Would he do anything to her? I had to get her to safety.
Fighting disbelief, Eleanor turned the page and skimmed over it. There was no record of being hurt on that one—apparently, her father had left the manor for a few days—but the other pages, spaced out a page or two at first then continually after that, Eleanor read phrases likeI am scared to death… I cannot get through to him when he is angry…he looks at me with repulsion.
He broke my wrist, and forced me to go through Eleanor’s birthday in pain…he slapped me in the face for my suggestion of going to my parents…he threatened to make me feel the worst pain in my life if I tried to leave him…
Eleanor is the reason I stay. If he had the strength to hurt someone, I would prefer it to be me than my precious daughter…she’s all I have in the world.
If someone could have run Eleanor through with a knife, not a drop of blood would have fallen. She made to get up of the bed and promptly fell to the ground; her emotions were going haywire and as she gained her footing, she swept everything off her dresser to the ground, not caring when the delicate crystal baubles shattered to her feet like so much worthless glass.
She wanted to believe that her father was not the bastard her mother had described but felt it hard to do so. By being cold, distant and demanding she had enough reason to believe he was an abuser.
One thing rang in her head: she needed to speak with Maria’s mother. She knew her mother was not lying but she needed a first-hand account of the terror her mother had lived through day in and day out. A sinking feeling of guilt descended on her chest so heavily that, for a moment, she could not breathe.
Her mother had stayed for her…she was the reason her mother had suffered. She was the reason her mother had endured pain, just to make sure she was all right. The guilt almost crushed her. She needed someone to keep her steady. She had to be safe from her own anguish.
In the blindness that took her, Eleanor could only see one person: Aaron. Grabbing her coat and the book, Eleanor dashed down the stairs and was out the door in a moment. It was after noontime but miraculously, no one manned the foyer so no one had been able to stop her. Even if someone had, she would have barreled through them anyway. She might pay for it later but she had to get away.
By vague memory of Aaron’s direction, she ran to his house. As the properties were miles apart, she had to stop to gasp in desperate breaths along the way. When she got to the townhome, her legs were weak and her chest was on fire. She stumbled up to the few steps to the doorway and banged on it, begging and pleading for Aaron to be home.
* * *
By pure luck, Aaron happened to be passing the foyer when the frantic banging came and, fearing that it was Lady Darcy again, he rushed to open the door. It was Eleanor.
“Ele—”
“He hurt her Aaron,” Eleanor’s chest was heaving and he could see deep pain in her eyes. “He hurt her for years!”
Mystified about whom she was speaking about, Aaron shook his head to his footman, silently refusing his help, and softly guided Eleanor to the room beyond. Taking to the chaise lounge, Aaron pried a book from her stiff fingers and rested in on the nearby table.
She was crying on his chest now; the silent drops tricked down her face like a crystalline river. Her soft gasps pained him even more and Aaron could only hold her. Hushing her, Aaron tried to maneuver his hand to take out a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his waistcoat but could not. He did not mind her crying but he was getting steadily worried about what she was crying for.
Pressing her close, Aaron buried his nose in her fragrant hair and rocked her softly, “Love, will you tell me what is happening? Why are you crying?”
Eleanor did not reply for a long moment before she shuddered and pressed her face into his chest. This was most vulnerable Aaron had ever seen Eleanor and he felt touched that she would come to him first.
Her head twisted to rest sideways on his chest and her voice was thick and hollow. “My father, Aaron…he abused my mother for years.”
The Duke felt like she had stuck him in the middle of his chest with a blistering lance. “What? How do you know this?”
Silently, Eleanor reached out for the book on the desk, one he remembered that she had taken from Maria’s mother, and handed it to him. Taking it, Aaron, one-handed, opened it and, still rocking her, turned the pages with his thumb.
His eyes latched on a passage and he ran over words that carved out a pit in his stomach. Reading the written report of Lady Brisdane’s suffering Aaron could feel Eleanor’s pain.
“My God.”
Maybe he was off in his estimation that the lady had left out a good deal of her misery off the pages. There were some hurts that could not be written down. What depths of despicable acts had Duke Brisdane sunk to in the spaces between the pages?
