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Authors: Lady Eleanor's Secret
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gossip revealed the true state of things between herself and her brother? Eleanor hid her face in the brim of her bonnet. She had no wish to discuss her personal life with anyone.
The remainder of the journey was spent in silence; the laboured breathing of her husband the only sound in the closed carriage. She prayed she was not to be made a widow before the day was out. If Bentley died then she was a murderer. Her stomach roiled. What must Foster think of her? His master was at death’s door and it was all her fault.
She closed her eyes, trying to make sense of the incomprehensible. Would she be arrested? Her heinous action had been accepted by her husband, but if he was dead would his family feel the same about the woman who had struck him down? She didn’t know if he had any relatives apart from his three children; surely if he had siblings they would have stepped in and offered comfort and a home to his little ones?
Some time later the carriage slowed to travel through a village with well tended cottages. They trundled past several shops and a hostelry, as well as more substantial dwellings and swung sharp right into a winding lane. An ancient church appeared on the left and unexpectedly, across an expanse of lawn bordered by dark yew hedges, she saw what was to be her home. The house was pinnacled, symmetrical, and built from rose red brick. The building was stunning.
A forecourt, flanked by projecting gabled wings, led straight to a bridge defended by stone gargoyles, high above which tapered the fantastic tiers of a clock tower. The vehicle slowed to a walk and halted in front of the house. In order to enter, one was obliged to cross a bridge over a dry moat.
Eleanor could scarcely take in what she was seeing. She could not see the main portal as it was set back some way behind another beast protected arch.
“My lady, do you wish me to remain here and take care of Lord Bentley?”
“Yes, please do so, Foster. I shall go in at once and introduce myself to the children. They must not know that their papa is grievously ill.”
Several footmen appeared and their feet echoed on the bridge. The carriage door was flung open and the steps let down. One of the servants offered her an arm. Shaking her head, she descended unaided. She was pleased to see a tall young man, dressed soberly, stepping forward to greet her. This must be the doctor, it could be no other.
“Lady Bentley, I am Dr Stansted, at your service. I am here to take care of his lordship.”
“Thank you, sir. I am most concerned about his condition; he has been unconscious since we left Colchester. I pray the journey has not proved too much for him.”
“I shall do my best, my lady. Lord Bentley has a strong constitution. If anyone can recover from such a head injury he can.”
She hoped he was correct with his prognosis. She stepped to one side to allow the two men holding a trestle to approach. They were obviously intending to carry the patient back to the house. Despite the parlous situation, her lips twitched at the thought of her husband’s reaction should he wake up and find himself so rudely transported.
When things were less fraught she would enjoy exploring the building and its ancient surrounds, but now she must concentrate on the present. Once through the archway, she crossed a cobbled courtyard in order to reach the front door proper. This main portal was dated 1620 .
Goodness!
Blakely Hall was indeed an ancient structure. An august gentleman in black greeted her with a bow.
“You are welcome to Blakely Hall, my lady. I could wish the circumstances were happier. I am Sydney, the butler. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of the staff.”
Instead of a double row of servants waiting to greet her, there was a mere handful. The tall thin woman in navy bombazine was obviously the housekeeper. This lady curtsied, but did not smile. Four footmen and a handful of housemaids were not sufficient to run a house of this size.
She nodded
The remainder of the journey was spent in silence; the laboured breathing of her husband the only sound in the closed carriage. She prayed she was not to be made a widow before the day was out. If Bentley died then she was a murderer. Her stomach roiled. What must Foster think of her? His master was at death’s door and it was all her fault.
She closed her eyes, trying to make sense of the incomprehensible. Would she be arrested? Her heinous action had been accepted by her husband, but if he was dead would his family feel the same about the woman who had struck him down? She didn’t know if he had any relatives apart from his three children; surely if he had siblings they would have stepped in and offered comfort and a home to his little ones?
Some time later the carriage slowed to travel through a village with well tended cottages. They trundled past several shops and a hostelry, as well as more substantial dwellings and swung sharp right into a winding lane. An ancient church appeared on the left and unexpectedly, across an expanse of lawn bordered by dark yew hedges, she saw what was to be her home. The house was pinnacled, symmetrical, and built from rose red brick. The building was stunning.
A forecourt, flanked by projecting gabled wings, led straight to a bridge defended by stone gargoyles, high above which tapered the fantastic tiers of a clock tower. The vehicle slowed to a walk and halted in front of the house. In order to enter, one was obliged to cross a bridge over a dry moat.
Eleanor could scarcely take in what she was seeing. She could not see the main portal as it was set back some way behind another beast protected arch.
“My lady, do you wish me to remain here and take care of Lord Bentley?”
“Yes, please do so, Foster. I shall go in at once and introduce myself to the children. They must not know that their papa is grievously ill.”
Several footmen appeared and their feet echoed on the bridge. The carriage door was flung open and the steps let down. One of the servants offered her an arm. Shaking her head, she descended unaided. She was pleased to see a tall young man, dressed soberly, stepping forward to greet her. This must be the doctor, it could be no other.
“Lady Bentley, I am Dr Stansted, at your service. I am here to take care of his lordship.”
“Thank you, sir. I am most concerned about his condition; he has been unconscious since we left Colchester. I pray the journey has not proved too much for him.”
“I shall do my best, my lady. Lord Bentley has a strong constitution. If anyone can recover from such a head injury he can.”
She hoped he was correct with his prognosis. She stepped to one side to allow the two men holding a trestle to approach. They were obviously intending to carry the patient back to the house. Despite the parlous situation, her lips twitched at the thought of her husband’s reaction should he wake up and find himself so rudely transported.
When things were less fraught she would enjoy exploring the building and its ancient surrounds, but now she must concentrate on the present. Once through the archway, she crossed a cobbled courtyard in order to reach the front door proper. This main portal was dated 1620 .
Goodness!
Blakely Hall was indeed an ancient structure. An august gentleman in black greeted her with a bow.
“You are welcome to Blakely Hall, my lady. I could wish the circumstances were happier. I am Sydney, the butler. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of the staff.”
Instead of a double row of servants waiting to greet her, there was a mere handful. The tall thin woman in navy bombazine was obviously the housekeeper. This lady curtsied, but did not smile. Four footmen and a handful of housemaids were not sufficient to run a house of this size.
She nodded
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