A Pansy for Eleanor, Part 1

London

October 1876

Lady Eleanor Ashcombe sat by the parlor window of her father’s grand townhouse, her fingers lightly tracing the delicate petals of a violet and gold pansy. The bloom had arrived that morning in a small, ribbon-tied box, accompanied by a simple note.

"Dear Miss Ashcombe, I can't stop thinking about you."

The words, penned in a strong yet elegant hand, sent a shiver down her spine. She knew precisely who had sent them.

Henry Montrose.

It had been a week since she had last seen him, and in that time, she had told herself a thousand times to forget. To push away the memory of his warm gaze and how, when he said her name, it felt like a caress. The stolen moment of near-indiscretion at the Winter Ball made her cheeks flush. But Henry Montrose was not the sort of man easily forgotten.

A gentleman in neither name nor fortune, he was the son of a merchant, raised on ambition rather than lineage. And yet, his charm and quiet intelligence had made him a favorite in the drawing rooms of London, where ladies whispered about him behind their fans and gentlemen eyed him warily. He had only his wit, his determination, and a restless sort of fire that set him apart.

And Eleanor was to marry a duke.

At least, that had been the arrangement since she was a girl. Lord Rutledge, cold and unyielding, had made his expectations clear. Their engagement had been forged in the interests of wealth and property, not love. Certainly not foolish infatuations with unsuitable men. She tried not to curse her father for his stubbornness in not severing the match after all of Eleanor’s pleading.

Yet here she was, staring at a flower that said more than any banns ever could.

With a deep breath, Eleanor rose and crossed the room, placing the bloom in a small porcelain dish on her dressing table. Her reflection in the looking glass was pale, her dark curls pinned up in a manner befitting a lady of her station. But her lips, full and soft, carried the ghost of a smile.

A knock at the door broke the quiet of the morning.

"Come in," she called, schooling her expression into one of polite indifference.

Her lady’s maid, Mary, entered, holding another note.

"This just arrived for you, my lady." She returned her lady’s secret smile. Mary had long heard Eleanor’s complaints of Lord Rutledge.

Eleanor took it with steady fingers, waiting until Mary had left before carefully breaking the seal. She didn’t want to get Mary into trouble if she was questioned by Lord Ashcombe. In the same script as the note with the pansy, it read,

"St. James Park, at noon. Come if you wish to hear the truth."

Her heart pounded. Meeting Henry Montrose was unthinkable. Scandalous. And yet, as she stood there, staring at the carefully inked letters, she knew she would go.

Because she needed to hear whatever truth he wished to speak.

 ******

St. James Park

The air was crisp, edged with the promise of winter. Eleanor’s breath clouded before her as she stepped off the pathway, away from the more frequented paths, her hands clenched in the folds of her navy cloak. And then she saw him.

He stood beneath the bare branches of an ancient oak, his dark overcoat tailored to his lean frame, his hat held loosely in one hand. His deep brown eyes locked onto hers the moment she stepped forward.

"You came," he murmured.

"You left me no choice," she replied, her voice steadier than she felt.

A smile played across his lips. "Eleanor…" He hesitated. "I had to see you before—before it was too late."

"You have taken a great risk in writing me," she said. "Sending flowers, notes—it is reckless."

"Perhaps," he admitted. "But I have never been one for silence when something is worth speaking."

Eleanor’s breath caught. "And what is it you wish to say?"

Henry stepped closer, his voice low. "That I love you, Eleanor."

Her heart stuttered.

"I have loved you from the moment I first saw you, standing in that crowded ballroom, looking as if you belonged to another world entirely," he continued, reaching up to touch a curl that had come loose under her hat. Her skin burned. "I have tried to forget you. I have told myself a thousand times that I am not the man for you, that you belong to a life I can never touch. And yet, I can’t keep away."

Eleanor could scarcely breathe as she gazed into his eyes.

"Tell me to leave, and I will," he said softly. "Tell me you feel nothing, and I shall never darken your path again. But if there is even the smallest part of you that wishes for something beyond duty and expectation then say so, and I will move heaven and earth to see you happy."

Silence stretched between them, the only sound coming from the squirrels and birds getting ready for the approaching winter.

"I—" Eleanor faltered. "I do not know what to do."

Henry’s expression softened. "Then let me help you decide."

He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small box.

When he opened it, nestled inside was a delicate gold locket, engraved with a single pansy.

"If you choose me," he said, "I will wait for you. However long it takes. I will build a life worthy of you. But I need to know—do I have the right to hope?"

Tears pricked her eyes. For the first time in her life, Eleanor Ashcombe stood on the edge of duty and desire, caught between the path laid for her and the one she wished to forge for herself. And she made a choice.

Slowly, she lifted the locket from its box and fastened it around her throat, her eyes never leaving his. The moment it clicked into place, Henry exhaled, a tremor in his breath as he took her hands in his.

"I'm yours," she whispered.

"And you will occupy my heart forever," he vowed. “I will do everything I must to deserve you.”

He pressed a gentle, reverent kiss to her gloved fingers, sealing their promise and Eleanor’s heart fluttered in excitement.

Come back each Thursday until April 24, and find Eleanor and Henry's story in the Thursday Chronicles.