His features were a little obscured.
“Wearing a fancy dress so as not to upset your new friend, are you, Ned? Why didn’t you put chains on, too? Then he would have felt really at home.”
Ned looked at her. His eyes seemed bluer than ever, Eleanor thought. They roved over her in a manner which, had he not been Ned, would have made her blush.
Alan found her enchanting. It was very plain to him that Ned had not seen fit to mention to his sister the likeness he shared with Alan. Before Eleanor could commit herself further and add to her embarrassment, Alan spoke at once.
“Your mistake, Miss Hatton,” he told her. “I am not Ned.” And he deepened the accent he had not known he possessed until he reached England.
A Strange Likeness
Paula Marshall
PAULA MARSHALL,
married with three children, has had a varied life. She began her career in a large library and ended it as a senior academic in charge of history in a polytechnic. She has traveled widely, been a swimming coach and appeared on University Challenge and Mastermind. She has always wanted to write, and likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor. She derives great pleasure from writing historical romances, where she can use her wide historical knowledge.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Prologue
Temple Hatton, near Brinkley, Yorkshire, 1839
‘O ne of these days Eleanor Hatton, you will go too far,’ sighed Mrs Laura Hatton to her daughter. She was trying to comb Eleanor’s glossy black hair into some sort of order.
‘Really, Mama, if you say that once again I shall have the vapours,’ retorted Eleanor angrily, twisting in her chair.
‘Do sit still, child. You look like an unbrushed pony. No one would think that you were nearly eighteen.’
‘Well, I hate the idea of being eighteen. I’m sure that when I get there Grandfather will start making plans for my marriage to Stacy. He knows perfectly well that I don’t want to marry him. I don’t wish to marry anyone, ever.’
‘I thought that you liked Stacy Trent,’ sighed her vague, gentle mother, who found it difficult to understand her strong-minded daughter. However had she come to give birth to such a hoyden?
‘Oh, I do, I do, as a friend—or as a brother—but not as a husband. Besides, I don’t want a husband chosen for me by someone else. You chose to marry Father, I know.’
Her mother sighed again, and did not need to tell Eleanor that it was the worst mistake she had ever made, Eleanor’s father having been an unfaithful, spendthrift rake of the first water.
‘Really, Eleanor, I think that your grandfather did you no favour when he arranged that you should be educated with Stacy and Ned until they went to Oxford.’
Worse than that, not only did the three of them share a tutor, who had taught them Latin and Greek, but Sir Hartley, her grandfather, had insisted that they should be instructed in Natural Philosophy, or Science, as it was coming to be called, as well as in Mathematics.
Eleanor had been as quick and bright as Stacy, and far more so than her older brother, Ned who hated all forms of learning. She had a mind like a knife, said her grandfather proudly; he secretly wished that her brother, Ned, his heir, was more like her.
Her mother, though, deplored what education had done to Eleanor. It had made her, she frequently and despairingly said, a boy in girl’s clothing, everything which was unfeminine. Besides, her wickedness was all the cleverer for her having been educated. It really served to show that girls should never be taught very much more than how to play the piano a little, paint a little, read a little and the proper way to conduct themselves in public—something which seemed beyond Eleanor.
Her frequent complaints to her father-in-law simply resulted in him saying gently, ‘I have no wish for Stacy to marry a fool.’
Which was all very well, but neither should he wish Stacy to marry a freak. This thought was so painful that Mrs Hatton gave a little moan and dragged the comb through her daughter’s hair more forcefully than she had intended. Eleanor twisted away from her again.
‘Do sit still, child. You will never look like an illustration from The Book of Beauty at this rate.
Eleanor pulled a face. ‘I shall never look like those simpering creatures if I live to be a hundred.’
‘Well, you certainly won’t look like a beauty if you do live to be a hundred! Concentrate on looking like a beauty at seventeen. There, that will have to do. And remember, you must be ready for tea. The Lorimers and some of their friends are coming.’
Eleanor ignored this, racing out of the room and up the stairs, two at a time, shouting as she went, ‘I’ll be back in an instant. Don’t worry so, Mama.’
On reaching her bedroom, she hung out of the window, calling down to one of the stable boys working in the yard below: he was her frequent companion in naughtiness. ‘Nat! Nat! Did you get it?’
‘Yes, Miss Eleanor, you can see it later…’
‘No, I want to see it now. Wait there. I’ll be down presently.’
She shot down the stairs even faster than she had mounted them and ran through a side door into the yard, where she found Nat cuddling an animal which was squirming beneath his jacket.
Nat Swain was a stocky youth from a family which had worked for the Hattons for generations. Although he was three years older than Eleanor he was not much taller than she was, but he was broad and strong, the perfect shape for a stable lad. He, Ned, Stacy and Eleanor had birds-nested and played together as children, and until recently the four of them had been companions and apparent equals.
But
