need to know is that the man is a scoundrel.’
‘Who is this scoundrel?’ asked Lord Walcot. ‘No, let me guess. Jonas Guthrie, without a doubt. Why can’t you leave him alone, Hetty? From what he says, Guthrie has decided to leave London soon and retire to the country. And I must say I don’t blame him! Lady Dorothy and her cronies—’
‘Cronies!’
‘I beg your pardon, my dear, I forgot you were one of them—I should have said her friends! You’ve all been making life impossible for the poor devil with your scandalous stories about the Ansteys—not that he needs anyone’s sympathy; he’s well able to take care of himself.’
Eleanor, swift to seize her opportunity, asked, ‘You do not agree with the stories, then, Uncle?’
‘We don’t know enough of the matter to judge, my dear. It’s possible that Guthrie is a villain—I suspect he’s no weakling, and he certainly isn’t a fool—but I have found him to be perfectly straightforward in his dealings with me.’
‘Are you suggesting that that sweet woman is not telling the truth when she says that Jonas Guthrie is the cause of all her misfortunes?’ asked Lady Walcot, bristling.
‘Not at all. I’m certain Mrs Anstey believes every word she tells you. How much she understands of business affairs is another matter. But this is the most idle speculation, and not fit for an evening of enjoyment! Come, Eleanor, if your aunt won’t do her duty and find you a partner, I shall dance with you myself.’
Since Lord Walcot was generally considered to be the best performer of the waltz in London, Eleanor rose with alacrity and accompanied her uncle into the ballroom. Though she looked somewhat nervously around her in case Mr Guthrie should be watching, there was no trace of him. He had not, it seemed, found anyone else to dance with. Perhaps he had not tried?
They returned to her uncle’s house in South Audley Street that evening without any further mention of Mr Guthrie. But her aunt’s somewhat high-handed action had roused Eleanor’s spirit and she was determined to find out more about him. She waited until Lady Walcot was in her bedroom and then went along to visit her. They discussed the evening for a moment or two, then Eleanor said, ‘About Mr Guthrie, Aunt…?’
‘Why are you so fascinated by the subject of Mr Guthrie? I would much rather forget him—he is an unworthy topic of conversation.’
‘But you must see that I am consumed with curiosity! Now that we are private, can you not tell me why you refused to let me dance with him, when just a minute before you had said you would find me a partner? I am not Bella, Aunt Hetty. I am not accustomed to being treated like a child.’
Lady Walcot looked in affectionate exasperation at her niece. ‘My dear Eleanor, you may be six-and-twenty, but you are still a young, unmarried woman! Oh, I know that you have been more or less in charge of Stanyards ever since you were a girl. I am sure anyone would admire the devoted manner in which you have looked after your mother—’
‘There is no cause for admiration there, Aunt Hetty—I adore her!’
‘—and managed the Stanyards estate—’
‘I adore that, too!’
‘Be quiet and let me finish, Eleanor!’ said her aunt, smiling. But she quickly grew serious again. ‘I have been thinking for some time that I should say something to you, and this seems to be a good occasion. Come and sit by me, my dear.’ She thought for a moment, then, taking one of Eleanor’s hands in hers, she said carefully, ‘The…somewhat unusual circumstances of your upbringing have given you an independence of mind which you do not trouble to hide. And of course this same independence has recently stood you in good stead while you have struggled to keep the Stanyards estate going. But, sadly, it is not generally regarded as a desirable quality in a young woman, and I fear it does not endear you to prospective suitors—nor to society in general.’
‘Father always said I should think for myself, Aunt Hetty—’
Lady Walcot gave a small exclamation of impatience and said with sisterly scorn, ‘Your father always had his head too high in the clouds to be a judge of anything. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to him that that is the last thing to teach a young girl! Neither he nor your mother ever had the slightest idea of what goes on in the real world.’
Eleanor removed her hand. ‘We were very happy, all the same.’
‘But what now? Here you are—a very pretty girl, but six-and-twenty and no sign of a husband. Why on earth didn’t they insist that that brother of yours run the estate if your father didn’t wish to? Why leave it to you? It is no occupation for a woman!’
‘Since both my father and my brother are now dead, it is difficult for them to reply, Aunt Hetty,’ said Eleanor, colouring up. ‘I loved my father, and my brother, just as they were. And I love looking after Stanyards—I always have.’ She got up and moved away. ‘Moreover, I came here to talk about Mr Guthrie, not about the shortcomings of my family.’
Aware that she had overstepped the mark in criticising her brother to his daughter, Lady Walcot accepted Eleanor’s reproach with grace. She said gently, ‘My dear, I was trying to help you, believe me. I wish you would abandon this interest in Mr Guthrie. It might be well to think over what I have said about your own behaviour, rather than speculating on that of a known scoundrel. I want to see you settled—married, with a future which is secure, not tied to an ailing estate.’
‘Ailing, Aunt Hetty? What do you mean? What do you mean by ailing?’
Lady Walcot looked at her niece sympathetically. ‘It is time that you faced facts, Eleanor.’
‘Stanyards is doing very well, and Mama and I are perfectly happy to live there together. I do not need a husband!’
‘Then there is no more to say—tonight, at least. I hope you will come to see things differently before it is too late, my child. Goodnight, Eleanor. I shall see you tomorrow.’ She turned away and rang for her maid.
Eleanor went back to her own room with a distinct feeling of grievance. How dared her aunt suggest that Stanyards’ future was not secure? It was true that it was not as prosperous now as it had been in her grandfather’s day, but it was still a handsome property. Eleanor dismissed uncomfortable thoughts of damp walls and decaying barns—they would soon be put right, just as soon as there was money for them. Quite soon, in fact.
And how could her aunt accuse her of not attempting to hide the fact that she had opinions of her own? That really wasn’t fair! Why, ever since she, Eleanor, had been in London, she had taken great pains to behave as Lady Walcot wished, though it had been far from easy. During interminable calls she had meekly listened to the vapid gossip which passed for conversation in Lady Walcot’s circles, had attended innumerable routs and parties at which she had confined her remarks to the conventionally obvious, had danced with young men who, in spite of their town bronze, were as limited in their interests as the young men back home in Somerset. She had begun to doubt that she would ever find anyone interesting in the whole of London! Yet she knew that outside her aunt’s narrow acquaintance there was a vast world full of interest and excitement waiting to be explored. It had all remained frustratingly closed to her. She thought she had been successful in hiding her impatience. It now appeared she had not.
Her mind returned to the subject of Mr Guthrie. What had he done that was so disgraceful? It was flattering that he had braved an inevitable snub to ask her to dance,
