Chapter 24

Confinement was tiresome. Especially when one was confined to a bed for four weeks.

'But I am perfectly fine now,' Eleanor pleaded with her husband for the hundredth time. Ever since the healer had deemed it necessary that Eleanor get complete rest for as long as she could to avoid hurting the babe, Nathan had not let her take one step outside the bed, let alone her chambers. He was more adamant and determined than her father had been when she had caught smallpox when she was eight. While she had enjoyed the first week of the muss and fuss, she had grown weary the second and outright restless during the third. The fourth week had been a nightmare and she'd rather put the endless days of Nathan reading dreary old books to her, behind her. Of course, she was glad Nathan had kept her company but one could only listen to philosophy for so long. And now that she had to cater to the needs of a second person who lived within her, she was ready to run away as soon as she could if it meant stretching her legs.

Eleanor placed a hand on her stomach and sighed contently. When she had first gotten the news that she was in the family way, she had remained transfixed for so long, her eyes unblinking, that Nathan had tensed she was out of sorts. It had taken a good while for her to come back to present and absorb the news that she was with child. Her child with her husband.

Initially, she had been alarmed. Freedom, her plans for the future, they were all fantasy were she to have a child to look after. But the more time she spent with her hand over her stomach where her baby was, the more she couldn't wait for her baby to arrive.

Nathan's reaction had been more or less the same as hers from what she had gathered. He had a strained look on his face when it was first announced that she was with child but he had immediately jumped into the role of expecting father and doting husband, making sure Eleanor had all she needed and that she and the child were safe. He rarely left her – not even for matters of the revolution or their current issue with Gresham. And at night, he held her close, sleeping with one arm over her stomach, and woke at the slightest stirring be it her or to the sounds of the crickets outside.

She returned back to the present, watching Nathan fluff the pillows behind her and fill her flask with hot water once again.

''Tis too dangerous for you to walk about,' he replied. 'You cannot risk it,' he said adamantly.

'But Nathan, I have been on bed rest for four weeks now,' she argued back. 'The healer said I could resume my daily activities by now.'

'Poppycock!' Nathan declared, a strenuous expression on his face. 'The healer said you were to not stress yourself any further and to take as much rest as you can. Your daily activities were what put you into bed the first place. I've already put you in great risk by revealing my double life to you. Our child almost died. I would be a blasted idiot if I let you return to initially put you in danger.'

Eleanor tensed. Nathan looked visibly troubled and she realized that he thought himself to be the cause of Eleanor's predicament. He was putting away towels by her bedside, his eyes averted, gaze downwards.

'Nathan,' she called softly, reaching out to grab his wrist. Nathan ceased in his activity but still refused to meet her eyes. 'You are not the reason I'm tied to this bed,' she said firmly. 'You never forced me to marry you or bring me here. I did that of my own volition.'

Nathan laughed humourlessly. 'I didn't exactly give you an opportunity to refuse either did I? Promised you adventure and freedom and now you're tied to me and the baby with no way out.'

'Nathan!' she exclaimed sharply. No matter how true the words were, Eleanor felt it in ill taste to talk about her child in such a manner. True, she may not have wanted a child anytime soon but she could hardly blame the child either when it was she and Nathan who had decided to take a tumble in the sheets.

Her stern glare had silenced Nathan but he still remained put out and did not say a word to her as he moved out of her reach and silently showed himself out of the room.

Eleanor sighed and leaned back into her pillows. It was not as if she had not thought exactly what Nathan had just said. She had realised that although the baby was a detriment to whatever she – and Nathan – had planned, she started to wonder whether this was her freedom – Nathan and the babe. She could not have been happier now – she was helping a revolution (although if found out, she could hang for treason), she was married to the love of her life (albeit initially forced) and she was growing a life inside of her. Of course, Gresham's threat hung over them gloomily like a lurking monster waiting to hit them when it would hurt the most but she believed they would get past it. For heavens' sake, she was dreadfully optimistic lately.

Was freedom not whatever gave me most happiness?

She believed it was. She whole-heartedly believed it.

**********

It was a little past tea time when a letter arrived for Eleanor. She had been reading a book and was contemplating finally writing a letter to her father when the maid caught her unawares.

'Letter for Her Grace,' a maid announced, standing at the door. Eleanor startled but quickly regained composure and admitted her in. The maid left the letter on her nightstand before leaving and Eleanor reeled back at the sight of the letter.

The Marquess of Gloucester's wax seal was unmistakable.

She made for the letter, her hand shaking. Why were they shaking? She did not know but a strange sense of foreboding washed over her. That letter meant harm to her and all she held dear and the urge to light it on fire was ever-increasing.

However, the rational part of her argued that to not read it might cause more harm. A great deal of hesitation – and fear – on her part, she opened the letter. It was short, brisk and unlike the invitation he had sent almost a month back, this one had dispelled all pleasantries for business.

Her Grace

Duchess of Wolverhampton

Huntington Estate

Bombay

4 October, 1875

It has been a month and I have had no answer from you. Your answer has been made blaringly clear to me. After Wolverhampton's refusal, I had thought his scum whore would have made an easy target but you have made it staunchly understood where your priorities lie.

Your ruination is imminent. Expect a letter from the Crown in due time. If you would still like to reconsider, you have until tonight to reach out to get me the money.

Tell Wolverhampton I require double the amount for my silence. Breathe a word of this and the world shall know where your loyalties lie.

Lord Mathew Gresham

Marquess of Gloucester

post script – I believe congratulations are in order. Hopefully, the bastard will know his place better than his mother.

Eleanor let out a scream of anger and frustration before she ripped the damn letter to shreds and threw it in the fire. How dare he? His audaciousness knew no bounds. The man had managed to blackmail, belittle and shame her in a mere letter and her fury was palpable.

What was it with men and money? It seemed all the men in her life were driven by it. Her father had practically sold her to Nathan - who had bought her but thinking on it made her angry at him and right now, she chose to focus her anger elsewhere – and Gresham – the biggest cad she had ever met, even more so than Hadleigh – had blackmailed her for it.

Scum whore, he had called her. As if she was no better than the dirt beneath his shoes. And why? Purely because she had been born with skin a couple shades darker than his? He talked as if it was her fault she was that way.

And even if it was – even if she had chosen the shade of her skin – what of it? Why was someone's worth measured by the colour of their skin?

All her life, she had suffered the taunts of her mother and society for looking the way she did. She had become meek and subdued, believing she was lesser than them although she was the daughter of a marquess – adopted or not. Her grandfather – still very much alive although he was quite old – was a duke! She was even married to one – she was a duchess now! Did that not make her one worthy of respect?

Of course, being a duchess did not mean she deserved respect. Respect is given to those who earn it – be they princess or pauper. And all were judged equally in the eyes of the Lord – had that not been what she and all others were taught? The Lord Himself was born not as a prince but a carpenter's son.

Unbiddenly, she heard her mother's voice in the midst of her ramblings. 'The Lord earned respect because He was the Lord. You, however, are neither the Lord nor His mother.'

Eleanor scoffed out loud. Her mind must be at whit's end if it had managed to imagine her mother's voice in between all this. 'Mother, will you give me no peace even here, 5000 miles away from you?'

'I should think not while you pace so – why, look, you're wearing a hole in the carpet.'

Eleanor jumped. Her mother's voice was definitely not in her head. No, that voice had echoed through her room. A dawning realisation came over her and she muttered a distraught and quiet, 'No.'

'No, what? Have you finally lost your words, girl?'

Eleanor slowly turned around to come face to face with Lady Cantwell, the Marchioness of Salford.

Her mother was dressed in a fine blue gown, her hair draped around her head like a crown and her ears housing diamond studs. Her lips still curled in a slight sneer and her head was held as high as she could, eyes as cold and haughty as Eleanor remembered. Her mother had not changed one bit.

Eleanor could barely wipe the shock of her face. She had a million questions but resolved to ask the most pressing at the moment. 'Mother, what are you doing here?'

Her mother took that as her cue to waltz into her room, her eyes perusing her surroundings. An air of approval graced her as her mother took in the opulent furnishings and rich curtains. She did not immediately answer her question. 'Well, at the very least, the estate is maintained well, although it resides in the backwaters of the city.'

'What are you doing here?' Eleanor repeated, a bite in her words. 'Was I talking out loud? Were you eavesdropping?'

Her mother finally rested her eyes on her, having finished their inspection. 'Indeed you were. I did hear everything. And you can hardly expect us not to come when you haven't been replying to the letters your father sent.'

'Us?' Eleanor repeated, not quite believing her ears. 'Father is also here?'

The marchioness looked horrified. 'Of course! He is downstairs with the duke. Goodness gracious, child, you can hardly expect me to travel 5000 miles to this savage land sans escort.'

Eleanor pursed her lips. 'We left England a few weeks after the wedding.'

'And did not deign to inform us that you were doing so,' her mother countered. 'Imagine our shock when we hear the news you were in India. India!'

Eleanor scoffed and turned away, moving to sit on her bed. She was feeling increasingly tired and Gresham's letter had taken a toll on her body. 'It shouldn't have come as a surprise. I am Indian, after all, as you have pointed out to me, over and over and over again. And I am no longer your burden. I need not inform you of all my comings and goings.'

Lady Salford held her words, knowing she was right. She took another glance about the room before continuing, 'We're here because of the Marquess of Gloucester.'

At the mention of her current foe, Eleanor's head snapped to her mother. 'What of that man?'

'Some nasty rumours have been circulating back in London, Eleanor,' she said and sat down warily onto an arm chair. 'Nonsense about the Duke and the Duchess of Wolverhampton aiding and abetting the Indian Rebellion.' Her mother rested her elbow on the arm and daintily leaned her head against her raised hand. Surprisingly, Eleanor thought her mother looked changed in this state. There was an incredible wariness to her eyes and – could it be – a certain softness as well as she beheld her.

Eleanor cursed colourfully, not caring for the hearers in her vicinity. 'Eleanor, you will cease speaking this instant!' her mother thundered, her eyes murderously red.

'The cad!' Eleanor shouted. 'If he's already managed to spread our secrets in England, then he's been playing us this whole time!' She gives another disgruntled groan. 'And he has the audacity to call me scum, the dratted cheat!'

'Eleanor!' her mother shouted, shooting up from her seat and walked purposedly up to her. 'No matter whether or not the man cheated you, you are still the Duchess of Wolverhampton! Cease your abominable language!'

'What use is it being the duchess when the ton of London is gossiping nastily about me?' she reiterated. 'I will hang for treason!'

'Treason?' her mother screeched, incredulous. 'Eleanor, its just gossip! It is not as if Gloucester has any proof. The Crown does not condemn one to death based on the gossip of mamas!'

Her mother was right, of course. She was being silly. However, she didn't want to give the marchioness the satisfaction of being right and so said nothing.

'Come now, daughter,' her mother continued. 'Has the babe muddled your ability to think as well?'

'You know of my pregnancy?' Eleanor asked without surprise. It seemed to her that she was the one who was out of the loop now, her secrets blown to the wind.

'The duke informed us upon our arrival,' her mother said before proceeded to sit next to her. With a sigh, she continued, 'Look at me, Eleanor.'

Begrudgingly, she did. Her mother seemed resolute, her eyes no longer wary and her lips no longer curling in a sneer.

'Do you know who gave you the name Eleanor?' she finally asked, after a few moments of silence.

'Papa did,' Eleanor automatically answered inciting a scoff from her mother.

'He did not,' she said firmly. 'Albert wanted to name you Rosaline, because you were, as he said, as beautiful as a rose. I was strongly against it and gave you the name Eleanor. Do you know why I named you so?'

Eleanor could only give a slight shake of her head. She was speechless – she did not know her mother had cared enough to name her.

'I named you after a duchess and queen.'

Realising suddenly who her mother was talking about, Eleanor's mouth parted in a whisper, 'Eleanor of Aquitaine.'

Her mother gave a stout nod. 'She was the queen consort of France and England. Mother to three kings. She was a renowned beauty and was considered gracious and kind. When your father brought you first to me, I was livid. How he thought we could raise a savage girl in polite society was beyond me. The Queen's adopted Indian children themselves are mistreated – and they are princes and princesses!' Her mother shook her head as if she could not believe it. 'But then I saw you. And I understood why Albert took a liking to you.'

She paused for a moment before continuing. 'You were only a few weeks old but there was a toughness about you. You did not cry or giggle excessively. And he was right – you were as beautiful as a rose. You still are.' At that, she gave a small smile.

Eleanor floundered for words. It seemed everything she knew about her mother had been wrong. Her mother had cared for her, even though she never showed it. 'But, you were always so horrible to me, mama,' she said with a slight crack to her voice. 'I didn't know you cared for me.'

'Make no mistake, Eleanor, I do not love you,' her mother says resolutely. 'And I care for you only because Albert does. But I do respect you. I named you after a queen because I thought I could give the girl with the eyes of fire the protection of one. You have suffered and handled the insults I and the rest of society has thrown your way with the grace of a queen. Not everyone can do so. It is no small feat.'

Tears were now streaming down Eleanor's face – silent tears that spoke not of joy nor of sadness. They were tears of understanding. Everything her mother had done to her now made sense. And although the insults had made her cry well into the night and meek as a mouse, how quickly she had changed when adversity showed – when she was married off. It was as if the timid mouse she had been was but a distant memory. And although Eleanor did not agree to her mother's methods – and never would – they did produce results.

'And remember, Eleanor,' her mother started to speak with a finality, cupping her chin gently. 'You may be born a savage but I did not raise you to be one. You are and always have been a lady and nothing anyone says will change that. You are not scum. You are the Duchess of Wolverhampton and no matter what anyone says, you deserve respect. And if anyone treats you differently, you will demand it. The art of defiance is a risky business – you will be betrayed and tortured and flayed and hurt beyond compare. But at the end of it, you will emerge as a queen – as you are.'

**********

It has been a very long year. If any of my old-timers are still here then seriously, kudos to you guys.

I have written and rewritten this chapter many times over the past year, suffering from Writer's Block, procrastination, demotivation - you name it. And to top it all off, we were in the midst of a pandemic - we still are.

A lot of you reached out to me about the book, asking me if I'd abandoned it, if I was updating it somewhere else etc.

No and no. I was just barely writing.

When you have no inspiration to write, it really is hard to get it back. My sister and friends would constantly nag me about finishing the book and I'd get so many messages from you guys too but none helped reignite that spark until my mom told me a few hours back - "Richa, please finish your book. It's a great dream of mine to one day see you winning a Pulitzer."

Obviously, I don't think I'll win a Pulitzer for The Art of Defiance but something struck a chord within me when my mom said that and it's as if all the inspiration and words just rushed back. And when I reopened my half-written file to sit and write, the smile on my mom's face was the best sight I'd seen in a long time. The next thing I know, its more than three hours later, 2 am in the morning, and I'm finally finishing the chapter I've been sitting on for the past one year.

So, thank you amma for being my inspiration - this one is dedicated to you.