High Harrogate was in a state of excitement. A most illustrious visitor was expected to grace the ball at the Granby that evening. True, the rumours had not been confirmed, but the visitor was an old friend of a regular patron, so everyone was in high hopes. To add to the excitement, it was known that the golden widow had returned from London. Some might wonder why such a rich and attractive young widow as Mrs Ellen Furnell did not choose to make her home in the capital, where she would doubtless be one of the top society hostesses, but admirers such as old General Dingwall were only too happy that she did not and declared gallantly that London’s loss was High Harrogate’s gain.
The lady in question was currently at her desk in her house on Paradise Row, looking through the correspondence that had accumulated during her absence. Ellen had only yesterday returned from her annual stay in London. To be accurate, she had hired a house just outside the capital, in Kensington, where she resided very quietly, no invitations, no callers. However, from there she might walk into town if she wished, or go to the theatre or museums. And it was convenient for visiting the fashionable modistes and warehouses she patronised to replenish her wardrobe.
The bills and notes from tradesmen she put aside for another day and after a brief hesitation she added to that pile the letter from Lady Phyllida Arrandale. Ellen was sincerely attached to her step-mama, but her letters always exuded an air of calm domestic felicity, and this morning Ellen did not wish to read about such things for it would exacerbate the vague feelings of dissatisfaction that had been growing over the past few months. Ellen pushed aside such thoughts, refusing to indulge in self-pity. She had chosen her life and she did not regret anything she had done since she had stepped off the boat at Portsmouth four years ago. She was very happy living in High Harrogate. She was.
Ellen began to sort through the remaining papers and cards in front of her. There was an invitation to join a house party in Leicestershire for the summer, a politely worded note from the Reverend Robert Mitton soliciting her attendance at a forthcoming recital—which would naturally involve making a generous donation towards the repair of the chapel roof—and numerous invitations for tea-drinking, breakfasts, balls and evening parties. Ellen decided against the house party in Leicestershire, but the rest she would most likely attend, including tonight’s ball at the Granby Hotel. After all, that was what she did in Harrogate: attend lectures and debates, support charitable causes and go to parties. As a wealthy woman of independent means she must always be welcome and her many admirers declared she was a jewel, the brightest ornament of Harrogate society. Ellen might laugh when they paid her fulsome compliments, admired her ready wit or went into raptures over her golden-haired loveliness and sparkling blue eyes, but it would have been false modesty for Ellen to deny her beauty, when her looking glass confirmed it.
‘And you should be thankful for it,’ she muttered, scooping the invitations into a tidy pile. ‘Your pretty face has always made life much easier for you.’
Except once.
She was aware of a sudden contraction of the heart and an unexpected lump in her throat, and she found herself blinking back tears. Perhaps she should stay at home, claim she was fatigued from her journey.
‘But who would believe it?’ she argued with herself. Since her arrival in Harrogate four years ago she had worked hard at her image, becoming an important part of every social event whilst maintaining a spotless reputation. ‘So now everyone knows Mrs Ellen Furnell is indefatigable.’
Because you are afraid to stop and remember.
Ellen rose and made her way upstairs to the nursery. This was where her heart lay now. Not in some distant memory. She reached the top floor and went quietly into the nursery, where a grey-haired woman was sitting on the floor helping a very young boy to build a castle with wooden blocks. The blocks went flying as the child jumped up and ran towards Ellen as fast as his little legs would allow.
‘Mama!’
‘Jamie!’ Ellen dropped down and opened her arms.
With a shriek of delight, the little boy ran into her embrace. The maid climbed slowly to her feet, tutting.
‘You shouldn’t encourage him, ma’am. He’s wild enough as it is.’
Ellen scooped up the boy and carried him across the room. ‘Nonsense, Matty, he is only three, still a babe, aren’t you, my pet?’
‘Aye, and in my day he would not yet be breeched.’
‘And you would probably have left his hair to grow,’ laughed Ellen, ruffling the short curls that were even fairer than her own. ‘Now what are we doing here, are we building a house, Jamie? Perhaps you will let Mama help you.’
* * *
Playing with her son did much to restore Ellen’s spirits and she remained in the nursery until it was time to change into her ball gown. She had no qualms about leaving Jamie: Matlock had been Ellen’s own nursemaid and later, her dresser. Matty loved the little boy as much as she did.
After a solitary dinner Ellen went back up to the nursery. Little James was tucked up in his bed by then and fast asleep, so she dropped a gentle kiss on his golden head.
‘He looks like an angel,’ she murmured, gazing lovingly at her son. ‘I could stay here looking at him for ever.’
‘And what good would that do either of you, ma’am?’ asked Matlock, bustling around the room. ‘You go off and enjoy yourself. Master James will be perfectly safe with Hannah and me.’
Ellen sighed. ‘Ah, Matty, do you really think I enjoy these parties?’
‘Well, you says not, ma’am, but there’s no doubting you need to mix with people and to have some sensible conversation, which you won’t get with a three-year-old, and that’s a fact.’
Ellen laughed. ‘Sensible conversation! There is little enough of that to be had in society, Matty, I assure you. But you are right, it will serve no one if I become a recluse.’
With a smile and a wave of her hand she went downstairs and out to the waiting carriage.
* * *
‘Your Grace? Duke?’
Max started and turned to his hostess, quickly begging her pardon. He had been Duke of Rossenhall for over a year, but he had still not grown accustomed to the title. His hostess brushed aside his apology, not at all offended by his inattention. It was as if polite manners were unnecessary for a duke.
‘I was merely saying that it is time we were leaving for the Granby, Your Grace.’
‘Must we, Georgiana?’ Max grimaced, but followed it quickly with a smile, to show he meant no offence. ‘I would as lief enjoy a quiet evening here with you and Fred.’
‘Well, that ain’t possible,’ Frederick Arncliffe told him bluntly. ‘Georgie promised that she’d bring you to the ball tonight.’
Max threw him a look of pained reproach. ‘And I thought you were my friends. I am beginning to regret my decision to visit you.’
‘You know Georgie and I would do anything for you, old boy, but your presence here ain’t a secret. Dash it all, Max, you are even staying at the Granby!’
‘I had little choice, at such short notice,’ Max retorted. ‘If my business in York had not been concluded so swiftly I should not have come at all.’ Which they all knew was not the truth. Georgiana had written to him, explaining that