She fell into silence, brooding a little, unaware of his watching her.
‘What are you thinking?’
She blinked and withdrew her gaze from the flames, brought back to the present. Her eyes were suddenly clear and cold as she pushed herself upright in her chair, spine braced against its curved back. Her voice was equally cool and measured.
‘Why, I was thinking about what I must do now. It is perfectly clear to me that my marriage did not exist. I can no longer deny it, even to myself. We have heard nothing today to undermine Sir Edward’s written evidence and I must accept it.’ She took a visible deep breath. ‘I need to consider my future—I can put it off no longer.’ Spreading her fingers, palm downwards, before her on the table, she contemplated them with a little frown. Then, without comment, she slid a gold ring set with a hoop of diamonds and sapphires from her finger and placed it carefully, deliberately, in front of her on the table between the empty plates and glasses. The sapphires gleamed balefully at their rejection, the diamonds glinted. She could not take her eyes from them, shocked at what she had just done, but she spoke firmly as if compelled by an unseen force. ‘I need to make some decisions and act on them. And I may as well start now! It would seem that I have no right to wear that ring. Thomas gave it to me on the day that we were wed. I know that it is one of the Faringdon jewels and that your mother wore it as a bride.’ She touched it with one finger, almost a caress, before drawing her hands away into her lap, fearing that in a moment of weakness she might snatch up the ring and replace it on her finger. ‘I cannot wear it.’ Her eyes, glassy with unshed tears, were no less bright than the stones that she had just discarded amongst the debris of the meal.
Her action stunned him. And painted for him, more clearly than words could have done, the quagmire that the future would hold for her. He opened his mouth to deny her words, to say anything that would restore a fragment of hope, but could not. He would allow her to speak her mind before offering any advice, before putting forward his own suggestions.
‘So what will you do, Eleanor, if matters stand as Baxendale would have us believe?’
‘I do not know.’ A hint of panic nibbled at her determination to be strong-willed and positive, to take her future into her own hands. ‘I do not as yet know where I will go.’
‘Your family home, perhaps?’ It was not a plan that would seem to hold much attraction, for any number of reasons.
‘Yes. I can return to the village where I was born. My mother still has the house there, so there will always be a roof over our heads and we shall not starve.’ She shivered a little as if a draught had suddenly crept into the room. ‘I don’t think I can do that.’ Her courage wavered a little. ‘Everyone in the village has known me since I was a child—they would know about my present…situation. What would I call myself? Miss Stamford? With a child, but with no claim on its father? And not even the right to call myself a widow?’ She laughed, but there was a sharp edge to it, and her eyes were desolate. ‘I cannot contemplate it. I will have to accept talk, of course, but not intimate knowledge from everyone I meet. It would be too humiliating, day after day.’
He remained silent, but filled her glass again and pushed it across the table. Her fingers toyed nervously with the stem as she allowed her thoughts free rein.
‘Are you aware,’ Henry enquired finally, when the silence stretched uncomfortably, her thoughts apparently bringing no joy, ‘that Sir Edward has made the suggestion to Hoskins that the estate pay you a small pension?’ How would she react to that? he wondered.
‘No!’ Her head snapped up, her eyes sparkling with quick temper. ‘The thought of such charity appals me!’
‘Are you in a position to refuse? For your son, if not for you?’ He kept his voice deliberately gentle. ‘You married Thomas in good faith. I suggest that the estate owes you enough and more to allow you and the child to live in comfort. Don’t reject it out of hand, I beg of you.’
‘No!’ He watched her struggle for control, but then she sighed, and although she kept her head high in defiance against the agonies that the fates had flung in her path, her answer was bitter and plumbed the depths of despair. ‘Your are right, of course. How could you not be? For my son’s sake I must realise that I have no right to refuse. I must accept Edward’s… kindness!,
‘Can I tell you what I think?’ Unable to remain seated, unable to bear her pain without sheltering her in his arms, Hal rose to his feet to stand beside the fireplace. ‘I don’t think you should shut yourself away in the depths of the country. It would be a terrible mistake. You are young. Very beautiful. There is no reason why you should not attract a husband and marry again. And find contentment, even happiness.’
She was silent, eyes wide as they connected with his.
‘You look as if you had never contemplated the possibility!’
‘No. How could you expect it? My situation would hardly attract a husband. No man would want his wife to be the subject of gossip and speculation. And without a dowry, not to mention an illegitimate child into the bargain.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘Apart from the fact that my experience of marriage would not encourage me to repeat it. I think not!’
Henry remained motionless, elbow resting against the heavy oak mantel, face set, no hint of the direction of his thoughts. Then, ‘I would marry you, Eleanor.’ He ignored her sharp intake of breath, as much surprised as she. ‘I would protect your reputation from the world’s censure with my name.’ He stepped across to her, reached down to still her restless fingers with his own. ‘Consider the advantages before you refuse.’
As he watched her reaction, one of utter amazement, he was forced to admit to his own astonishment at his words, which had come unplanned, unbidden, but at the same moment knowing in his heart that he wanted it more than anything—to protect and shield her from his brother’s disastrous and ill-chosen course of action. But he was by no means certain of her response to his offer, and could have wished it unsaid as he saw the reaction sweep over her.
Eleanor flinched as if she had been struck, a sharp open handed slap, her face becoming ashen as blood drained from beneath her fair skin. Her hands flexed under his. When she could find words to speak around the confusion of horror and intense longing in her mind, it was the horror and bone-deep humiliation that emerged to the surface, to colour her answer.
‘Do you really think that I would leap at the prospect of marriage to you, Hal? After your deliberate and callous rejection of me?’ Her voice was low, a bare whisper, but laced through with deadly venom.
‘Why not?’ Her refusal did not surprise him to any degree—but the tone of it hurt. ‘I did not reject you…’ What use going over this old ground? ‘Surely we can deal well enough together, given the present circumstances. I can offer you security and respect, a comfortable life for you and your son.’
But not your love! ‘Two years ago you did not want me.’ She held up her hand, palm outward toward him, as he would have refuted this accusation once more. ‘So why change your mind now? How dare you offer me pity!’
‘I would never offer you pity, Nell.’
‘No? It is the only reason I can think of, why you would offer me marriage now! Or do you think that our night here together might compromise my reputation? It may have escaped your notice, Hal, but I have no reputation.’ The bitter irony lay heavily between them. ‘You owe me nothing! I suppose I should thank you for making the grand gesture so selflessly, in spite of your attachment to Rosalind. You should feel proud of that. But you will doubtless be relieved to know I refuse your offer! There is no need to make the ultimate sacrifice for me.’ Pushing back her chair, she stood, her eyes now level with his and full of contempt.
‘Think what you wish, Nell. But don’t be so quick to misjudge me.’ There was a hint of temper in his voice, brows snapped together. ‘I would give you and the child—Thomas’s son—some security, some respectability—some recompense for the loss of