of the waltz in London, Eleanor rose with alacrity and accompanied her uncle into the ballroom. Though she looked somewhat nervously around her in case Mr Guthrie should be watching, there was no trace of him. He had not, it seemed, found anyone else to dance with. Perhaps he had not tried?
They returned to her uncle’s house in South Audley Street that evening without any further mention of Mr Guthrie. But her aunt’s somewhat high-handed action had roused Eleanor’s spirit and she was determined to find out more about him. She waited until Lady Walcot was in her bedroom and then went along to visit her. They discussed the evening for a moment or two, then Eleanor said, ‘About Mr Guthrie, Aunt…?’
‘Why are you so fascinated by the subject of Mr Guthrie? I would much rather forget him—he is an unworthy topic of conversation.’
‘But you must see that I am consumed with curiosity! Now that we are private, can you not tell me why you refused to let me dance with him, when just a minute before you had said you would find me a partner? I am not Bella, Aunt Hetty. I am not accustomed to being treated like a child.’
Lady Walcot looked in affectionate exasperation at her niece. ‘My dear Eleanor, you may be six-and-twenty, but you are still a young, unmarried woman! Oh, I know that you have been more or less in charge of Stanyards ever since you were a girl. I am sure anyone would admire the devoted manner in which you have looked after your mother—’
‘There is no cause for admiration there, Aunt Hetty—I adore her!’
‘—and managed the Stanyards estate—’
‘I adore that, too!’
‘Be quiet and let me finish, Eleanor!’ said her aunt, smiling. But she quickly grew serious again. ‘I have been thinking for some time that I should say something to you, and this seems to be a good occasion. Come and sit by me, my dear.’ She thought for a moment, then, taking one of Eleanor’s hands in hers, she said carefully, ‘The…somewhat unusual circumstances of your upbringing have given you an independence of mind which you do not trouble to hide. And of course this same independence has recently stood you in good stead while you have struggled to keep the Stanyards estate going. But, sadly, it is not generally regarded as a desirable quality in a young woman, and I fear it does not endear you to prospective suitors—nor to society in general.’
‘Father always said I should think for myself, Aunt Hetty—’
Lady Walcot gave a small exclamation of impatience and said with sisterly scorn, ‘Your father always had his head too high in the clouds to be a judge of anything. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to him that that is the last thing to teach a young girl! Neither he nor your mother ever had the slightest idea of what goes on in the real world.’
Eleanor removed her hand. ‘We were very happy, all the same.’
‘But what now? Here you are—a very pretty girl, but six-and-twenty and no sign of a husband. Why on earth didn’t they insist that that brother of yours run the estate if your father didn’t wish to? Why leave it to you? It is no occupation for a woman!’
‘Since both my father and my brother are now dead, it is difficult for them to reply, Aunt Hetty,’ said Eleanor, colouring up. ‘I loved my father, and my brother, just as they were. And I love looking after Stanyards—I always have.’ She got up and moved away. ‘Moreover, I came here to talk about Mr Guthrie, not about the shortcomings of my family.’
Aware that she had overstepped the mark in criticising her brother to his daughter, Lady Walcot accepted Eleanor’s reproach with grace. She said gently, ‘My dear, I was trying to help you, believe me. I wish you would abandon this interest in Mr Guthrie. It might be well to think over what I have said about your own behaviour, rather than speculating on that of a known scoundrel. I want to see you settled—married, with a future which is secure, not tied to an ailing estate.’
‘Ailing, Aunt Hetty? What do you mean? What do you mean by ailing?’
Lady Walcot looked at her niece sympathetically. ‘It is time that you faced facts, Eleanor.’
‘Stanyards is doing very well, and Mama and I are perfectly happy to live there together. I do not need a husband!’
‘Then there is no more to say—tonight, at least. I hope you will come to see things differently before it is too late, my child. Goodnight, Eleanor. I shall see you tomorrow.’ She turned away and rang for her maid.
Eleanor went back to her own room with a distinct feeling of grievance. How dared her aunt suggest that Stanyards’ future was not secure? It was true that it was not as prosperous now as it had been in her grandfather’s day, but it was still a handsome property. Eleanor dismissed uncomfortable thoughts of damp walls and decaying barns—they would soon be put right, just as soon as there was money for them. Quite soon, in fact.
And how could her aunt accuse her of not attempting to hide the fact that she had opinions of her own? That really wasn’t fair! Why, ever since she, Eleanor, had been in London, she had taken great pains to behave as Lady Walcot wished, though it had been far from easy. During interminable calls she had meekly listened to the vapid gossip which passed for conversation in Lady Walcot’s circles, had attended innumerable routs and parties at which she had confined her remarks to the conventionally obvious, had danced with young men who, in spite of their town bronze, were as limited in their interests as the young men back home in Somerset. She had begun to doubt that she would ever find anyone interesting in the whole of London! Yet she knew that outside her aunt’s narrow acquaintance there was a vast world full of interest and excitement waiting to be explored. It had all remained frustratingly closed to her. She thought she had been successful in hiding her impatience. It now appeared she had not.
Her mind returned to the subject of Mr Guthrie. What had he done that was so disgraceful? It was flattering that he had braved an inevitable snub to ask her to dance, and his boldness had intrigued her. But her interest in him might have remained slight if her aunt’s refusal to discuss him had not roused her curiosity and a feeling of rebellion at being treated like a child. She fell asleep with Mr Guthrie’s dark features floating before her eyes…
The next morning Eleanor rose at her usual time and, since she usually kept country hours, this was very much earlier than the rest of the household. Lady Walcot had tried in vain to convince her niece that it was highly unfashionable to be up and active before midday, but when that had proved impossible her indulgent uncle had arranged both a horse and a groom for his niece’s use, and Eleanor rode every morning. At this hour the park was usually pretty deserted, and the air comparatively fresh, and of all her activities in London these morning rides were her favourite. Lord Walcot, who sometimes accompanied her, was not up so early this morning, and Eleanor was alone except for her groom. This was a relief, for she was still wrestling with the spirit of rebellion which had been roused the night before. She made herself recall her aunt’s many kindnesses, she told herself that her aunt was wise in the ways of London society, and she finally reminded herself that she would shortly be back in Somerset where none of this would matter.
As for Mr Guthrie—she would probably never see him again, and it was better so. She nodded to herself. That was right—she would forget him, remove him from her mind. She urged her horse to a brisker pace and rode forward, aware of a feeling of virtue and common sense. She was therefore slightly disconcerted when Mr Guthrie drew in beside her and raised his hat. He appeared to bear her no ill-will and greeted her cheerfully. ‘Good morning, Miss Southeran. I see you are an early riser.’
The colour rose in Eleanor’s cheeks as her composure deserted her. ‘I am not sure, sir, that my aunt would approve of…of…’ Her voice died away as he looked at her with such quizzical amusement in his eyes that she found herself wanting to respond.
‘She wouldn’t want you even to bid a perfectly respectable acquaintance good morning? I find that hard to believe. Your aunt is a stickler for the rules, I’m sure.’ There was a dryness in his voice that roused Eleanor to defence.
‘I doubt very much that she would describe you as “perfectly respectable”,