“No. After the carriage pulled away, a man—a really large man—approached her. She seemed to know him and they left together.
Gilley. Had to be Gilley. Good. She would be safe.
“But she told me to give you a message.”
“What message?”
“She said to tell you, ‘You are not alone. You are never alone.’”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Friday, 21 October 1825
Traverse Hall, Kent
Two in the afternoon
Her boots madesoft crunches in the early snow, the only sound in an otherwise silent world. Even the birds seemed absent this afternoon as Eloise stopped at the top of the low hill that separated her new residence from most of the estate’s tenants. The exquisite view extended in both directions—to the north, where a broad valley hosted the seven farms that supported the estate, and to the south, where the country house of the Sherbourne family had stood for four generations. They were landed gentry, and when Aunt Cynthia had married twenty-seven years ago, she had thought that meant her life would continue as before. Instead she found herself confined to a way of living foreign to naïve city girl.
It had not gone well. Widowed early by a duel meant to defend her honor but created scandal as a result, Cynthia had retreated to Traverse Hall with her young son, becoming a virtual recluse relying on the efficiency of her servants. So while Cynthia was a kind and generous woman, she had little interest in anything outside her parlor, including paying attention to her tenants, preferring to leave that task to her land steward. Her aunt’s idea of adventure, Eloise had discovered, was to spend the evening crocheting instead of knitting.
Eloise had never felt so alone.
Her letters to the city—to Timothy, to Robbie, even those to Adrienne—had gone unanswered. After three months she had begun to despair of even trying again. Her precious Delie, now her closest companion, had met a farmer at a county harvest fair, and had been quite giddy ever since. Eloise had inquired about the man to the servants and had received pleasant endorsements of his character and family. She now expected to hear a proposal by Christmas, which she would, of course, bless enthusiastically, even as she mourned the loss of her last connection to London.
Eloise closed her eyes, embracing the chill of the wintery day, relishing the pinch of the wind circling around her, the scent of damp earth. She missed the city, desperately, but she missed her friends more, especially Robbie. She could still recall the splendor of his touch, the comfort of his weight over her, the trust she had given him with her entire being.
Her eyes stung, and Eloise blinked away the rush of tears. She adjusted the basket draped over her arm—now empty of its jams and other staples she had carried to one of the tenant families—tugged her cloak tighter about her shoulders, and started down the hill toward the hall. Out of boredom as well as curiosity, Eloise had taken to visiting one of the seven families every week, taking gifts and checking on their supplies of coal and feed for their livestock. The families had been wary but welcoming, which helped Eloise deal with the isolation.
Her father’s dictate had been so absolute as they stood on the pavement after court, Eloise dared not defy it. “If you want to remain a member of this family, you will go to Cynthia’s today, and you will remain there. If you do not, you will be disowned and not be given any support or allowed to see any of us. You will have no contact with anyone from the city. Once this scandal has passed, if it does, we will talk again.”
Eloise had begged to be allowed to write Timothy, to which her father had agreed. Apparently, however, to no avail. She had heard from no one.
Entering the rear courtyard of the hall, she paused. A saddled horse stood near the servant’s entrance, tethered to one of the posts. She ran a hand along its neck and it nickered, turning its head toward her. “And who are you, my fine boy? Who left you standing out in the cold?” The horse nodded as if to agree with her.
She knocked as much of the snow and mud off her boots as she could, then Eloise entered the house to find the butler, Mr. Carden, waiting for her in the hallway.
He gave a quick bow. “Lady Eloise, we have a conundrum.”
She slipped off her cloak and hung it on a peg near the back door. “A conundrum? Oh, dear.” Eloise had come to adore Mr. Carden, who was as gregarious and effluviant downstairs as he was staid and precise upstairs.
“A man has arrived with a package for you, but he insists that he will give it to no one but you. He wants to put it directly into your hands.”
“How rude.” Eloise took off her boots and set them beneath her cloak. She picked up the slippers she had left in their stead.
“That’s what I told him. It is not how things are done here.”
“And where is this man now?” She put on her slippers.
“In the servants’ hall.”
Eloise straightened and smoothed down her skirt. “Take me to him.”
Carden led the way, and Eloise followed him into the servants’ hall, where a tall man jerked to his feet and executed a quick bow. She reared back in recognition. “Mr. Saunders?”
The guard—and frequent boxer—from Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium bowed again. “Yes, my lady. You remember me?”
“Of course I do. What are you doing here?” Her eyes were then draw to a wooden box sitting on the table beside him. “What is that?”
