The Unaccomplished Lady Eleanor (3 page)

As the carriage drew to a halt
and the door was thrust open,
a wave of
nausea wash
ed
over
Eleanor
.  For goodness
’
sake, she chided h
erself, she was not a child now
: s
he was a grown woman
- o
ne who knew her own mind and could stand up for herself in any situation.  She would not, she resolved, act like a frightene
d ninny.  Taking a deep breath in, she
alighted the
carriage then proceeded to climb the wide stone steps to the enormous
door
of the castle
, held open by an
elaborately dressed butler.  

The man inclined his head of thick grey hair. 
‘
Good evening, my lady,
’
he said gravely
,
as Eleanor made her way into the impressive wood-panelled entrance hall. 
‘
My name is Giles.  Welcome to Whitlock Castle.
’

Eleanor offered him a weary smile. 
‘
Good evening, Giles
. 
I believe my g
odmother is expecting me.
’

The man’s
ruddy
face and
voic
e re
mained completely
expressionless
. 
‘
Indeed she is, my lady
.  I am to show you to your chambers then you
are to meet Lady Ormiston i
n the drawing
-
room in half an hour.  If you would like to follow me,
I will show you to your rooms.
’

Eleanor nodded her compliance, grateful for the chance to stretch her legs. As she followed his stout frame through the maze of d
imly
lit corridors, steps and stairs, she temporarily forgot her nerves and found herself gazing in awe at the ancient wall hangings, antique furniture, suits of armour and imposing family portr
aits lining the
stone
walls.
How
many people, she
wonder
ed
, had lived in this
c
astle over the years
;
and what tales would the walls be
able to tell of the dramas that
had unfolded here
?
  

Lost in he
r musings, she started
as she realiz
ed Giles had come to a stop and was
mid-flow issuing
a stream of instructions.

‘
… and left again to the drawing-
room,
my lady
,
’
he
was saying
. 
‘
I will leave you
now to
acquaint yourself with your chambers.
’
He pushed open an ancient oak door, which creaked loudly. 
‘
Her g
race will expect you in half an hour,
’
he concluded, inclining his head before
marching
briskly
back
from whence they had come.  

‘Um … thank you
, Giles,’ muttered Eleanor to the departing figure.  Moving to the threshold she peered inside the room.  Her eyes widened as she absorbed the welcoming sight before her. 
Her last memories of the rooms a
t Whitlock had been shabby, old-
fashioned and draughty.  From what she saw of this room
,
however, it was clear that the building had undergone some major refurbishment.  The first thing that astounde
d her was the sheer size of it
:  her c
hamber at home w
as
large but this room was enormous.
On the wall to her left, a huge fire burned in the grate, its hospitable warmth
instantly
envelop
ing
her as she stepped insid
e and closed the door
.  In addition to the glow of the fire, there were three large
silver candelabras
plac
ed about the room, creating a cosy
ambience, w
hich immediately lifted Eleanor’s
spirits.  The wall
facing her housed
a row of three windows.  Their shutters had been closed, blocking out all evidence of the miserable weather outside.  In front of the windows, was a mahogany writing desk and
chair
,
and in the corner a high-
backed armchair covered in cream damask.  By far the most imposing piece of
furniture
was the ancient
oak four-poster bed, draped with heavy brocade curtains in deep rose
, with
a matching coverlet. 
Unlike the walls
and ceilings of the corridors
, those of her bedchamber had been elaborately plastered with fashionable panel
ling and intricate coving,
the
detail
of which was
shown off perfect
ly
by the warm shades of cream in
which the room had been decorate
d.  On the walls hung an assortment of landscape paintings
,
each encased in a heavy gold frame
,
while an Aubusson carpet in subtle shades of pink covered the floor.  A door to t
he right of the
marble firep
lace
led into a large dressing-
room complete with a small blue velvet sofa, a three-drawer dressing table and a very large, unavoidable free-standing mirror.  Eleanor groaned loudly as she caught sight of her reflection.  She looked exactly as she felt – tired, dirty and d
ishevelled.  Her dark-
green travelling gown and pelisse were cre
ased and dusty, her thick
auburn hair
-
unruly at the best of times
–
now
wild and disorderly as it escape
d
the confines of her bonnet.  Not at all the impression of the grown-up, independent young woman she wished to portray to her godmother.  She should really repair her toilette and change her attire but
,
in the absence of her valise, she would have to make do.  She removed her pelisse and bonnet, splashed her face with water from the washstand, re-pinned her loose strands of hair and smoothed down her skirts.   Then, feeling slightly more refreshed, she perched on the edge of the bed and attempted to prepare herself mentally for the meeting she had been dreading for the past four-and-twenty hours.  Being normally of a sanguine disposition, she brusquely set aside all negative thoughts regarding the scheming Hester, and turned her attention to the positives of her situation.  Taking in the beautiful décor and exquisite furnishings of her chambers, she decided that perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad at Whitlock after all.  Having seen fi
t to provide her with such
comfortable
quarters, perhaps
her godmother
was actually looking forward to her
company.  In fact,
she pondered,
perhaps Hester had
done her a favour: perhaps it
was
time she left home
,
experienced new things
,
saw a little of life.  She certainly had no wish to marry
,
but she could make the most of her circumstances. She would, she resolved, greet her godmother as an equal, on a level footing and she woul
d, under no circumstances
, let the old woman intimidate her.    

Feeling relatively
cheerful, she
cracked open the creaking
door and marched assertively
into the corridor.  No sooner had the do
or swung shut behind her, though
, than a
wave
of apprehension
engulfed her
.  Compared to the cosy warmth of
her
rooms
, the cold stone corridor,
lit only by a few sparsely placed old-fashioned wa
ll lant
erns, emitted a sinister
air.  The
objets d’ art
which she had admired only a few minutes before, now appeared threatening and ghostly in the faint flickering light.  A sudden vision of the Wailing Whitlock Widow, futilely searching the corridors for the ghost of her beloved dead husband, flashed through Eleanor’s mind.  She shi
vered
as
several sets of dark, painted eyes bor
ed
into her.  For goodness
’
sake, she chided herself, shrugging away her apprehension as pure foolishness, they w
ere only paintings, and there was
no such thing as ghosts.  Desperately, she tried to recall some snippet of the directions Giles had given her
,
or at least something of the route they had
taken
.  Well, it could only be left or right, she determined, so she would try left first
,
which was the direction in which Giles had disappeared earlier. 

Her kid leather boots scuffing against the stone floor was the only sound as she made her away along the corridor, the heavy silence a
dding to her unease. 
She released a long
sigh of relief when, at the end of the passageway, she located a narrow stone staircase
.  She
scampered down the st
airs
hoping to find something sh
e recogniz
ed and some sig
n of life on the floor below. 
The corridor in
which she found herself, though
, was not at all familiar, containing an array of stag
s’
heads, which
u
ndoubtedly
she
would have remembered.  At a complete loss as to which way to go now, she turn
ed right but, a few minutes later,
met
a dead end.  Sighing
,
she retraced her step
s
.  Overcome with fatigue and hunger, all her
optimism
dissolv
ed and
frustrated tears pooled
in her eyes.   Quickly,
s
he pulled herself together
, blinking
back
the tears.  With her head
held
high she continued to the end of the corridor, ignoring the two other, equally sized passages leading from it.  Suddenly, just as she
passed
one of the ancient studded doors, it burst open and before she knew wha
t was happening, something
large and solid ba
rged into her
. 
Eleanor tumbled to the floor, landing wit
h a hard thud on the cold flagstones. 

‘
For goodness
’
sake
,
woman!  Don’t you look where you are going?
’

Completely taken aback, Eleanor tilted
up
her head
and found herself gazing directly into the face of a clean-shaven young
man, with a mop of tousled
black hair and a decidedly angry countenance. 

‘
Well?
’
he demanded. 
‘
What have you to say for yourself?
’

Opening her mouth to reply, Eleanor found herself devoid of speech
as a sudden wave of emotion washed
o
ver her.  The man, hands on
hips, continued
to stare
at her,
making
her
wish she were anywhere in the world other than lying in a crumbled heap at his f
eet in this enormous menacing c
astle.  Covering her face with her hands, she
was
unable to hold back the tears she had been fighting most of the day
.  T
hey began silently streaming down her face.

‘
Now then, n
ow then
, what’s
going on here?
’
boomed a stentorian voice.  Startled
, Eleanor whipped her hands from her face
and was this time met by a much mo
re familiar sight: that of her g
odmother, Lady Ormiston.  Her memory of the woman had not diminished at all.  She was as loud and as fearsome as Eleanor remembered: her large form dwarfing everything around her; her grey hair pulled back from her round face in a severe bun, topped off with a lace cap.  Dressed head-to-toe in mourning black, she bustled towards them, her wide
,
old-fashioned panniers swaying violently from side-to-side, almost knocking over the ancient artefacts lining either side of the corridor.  Eleanor cringed inwardly at the irony of the situation.  Only mi
nutes ago she had resolved to m
eet her godmother as an equal, on a level footing, and here she was crying in a heap on the floor. Before she had tim
e to gather her thoughts
, the
dowager
came to an abrupt halt in front of them.