She had not attended the party for pleasure. That had been made clear to her before she ever left London. Her brother had not had to convince her to go, either. Anyone there might have thought that it was so she could find a husband, but they would have been mistaken.
She was there simply for a change of scene. She had accepted the invitation not because she wished to, but because she had run out of reasons to refuse.
London had become difficult.
Eleanor stilled, her hand resting against the edge of the table. Difficult was an insufficient word. It suggested inconvenience,something minor that would be easily managed with the right attitude.
She drew a slow breath and reached for the pins in her hair, removing them one by one and placing them carefully on the table without looking at them.
It was done. She was in the country. Whatever had been believed in London, whatever had been hoped for, it had come to nothing. There was no use in returning to it, no purpose in revisiting something that had already been resolved.
She would not make that mistake again.
The last pin slipped free, and her hair fell more loosely around her shoulders. Eleanor set the pin aside and met her own reflection for a brief moment.
The stay would be brief, but long enough to allow the matter to fade. When she returned to London, it would be nothing more than a passing disappointment.
Then she remembered the steadiness of his hand. Eleanor blinked, the thought catching her off guard.
It was absurd, entirely so. Of all the things to remain, it was that which returned most clearly. Not the conversation, not the familiar sharpness of his remarks, but the way he had guided her through the dance as though it required no effort at all. She letout a quiet breath, almost a laugh, though there was little humor in it.
Eleanor reached for the lamp, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before lowering the flame. Darkness settled gradually around the room. It should have been enough, and it would be, she told herself firmly.
By morning, it would be.
CHAPTER 2
By the time Eleanor left her room, the house had not yet fully returned to life.
She preferred it that way. Without the expectations that were placed on her, the house felt far more comfortable. Eleanor was not entirely certain of the way she had to go, but with nobody else around her she had time to find it.
At last, she reached the gardens.
The air was cooler than she had expected, touched with the faint freshness of early spring. It was quieter there, not silent thanks to the birds, and it was welcome.
She moved further along the path, her pace unhurried. There was no need to speak, no need to perform, no one observing her closely enough to draw conclusions. It allowed something in her to ease, though she did not dwell on it.
A movement to her left caught her attention.
Eleanor turned her head slightly and found herself being watched. The child stood a short distance away, half concealed by the low branches of a flowering shrub. She had not been there a moment before, or at least Eleanor had not noticed her.
They regarded one another in silence. The girl did not move, though her gaze was steady, curious rather than fearful, as though she were assessing before deciding whether to retreat.
Eleanor did not approach immediately. She remained where she was, and when she did speak, her voice was light.
"You have found a very good hiding place."
"I am not hiding."
"No?" Eleanor glanced briefly at the branches beside her. "Then I must apologize. I have disturbed you."
"You did not disturb me," the child said, though she did not step forward.
"That is a relief. I should not like to begin the day by causing any inconvenience."
The girl considered this, her gaze still fixed on Eleanor’s face. She was young, about five Eleanor reasoned, but there was a steadiness in her gaze that was beyond her years.
"Do you live here?" Eleanor asked.