For now, though, Eleanor simply returned to her chambers each night, tired but unbroken, and continued the quiet work of caring for a household and a county that her husband had never bothered to notice. She did not know that her story was only just beginning, or that soon, the very court that had never heard her name would ask a question the Duke could not answer—a question that would change everything between them.
The invitation arrived on a gray morning, carried by a royal messenger whose polished boots and crisp uniform immediately told the household staff that something important had happened. Alaric tore open the wax seal with impatient fingers, expecting news of trade or taxation, but instead found an elegant script requesting his presence, along with that of his wife, at a formal dinner hosted by Queen Adelaide herself, to take place within the month.
He read it twice, his confusion slowly turning into cautious excitement. An invitation directly from the Queen was rare, and it hinted at influence, favor, perhaps even a step closer to the inner circle of the crown that he had long wished to join.
He called for Eleanor immediately, finding her in the small library where she often spent her quiet mornings reading or writing letters to her family.
"We have been summoned to court," he announced, waving the letter as though it were a prize he had personally won. "The Queen wishes to dine with us."
Eleanor set down her pen carefully, surprised but composed. "That is quite an honor," she said. "Do you know the occasion?"
Alaric shook his head. "It does not matter. What matters is that we go, and that we make a proper impression." His eyes moved over her plain blue dress and simple hair, and his expression shifted into something closer to concern. "You will need new gowns, something befitting a duchess in the presence of the Queen. I will not have you embarrassing me before Her Majesty."
Eleanor felt the familiar sting of his words, but said nothing of it. Instead, she nodded calmly. "Of course. I will see to it."
Inside, however, a small knot of unease had begun to form. She had never before been summoned to speak with the Queen directly, and though she had no reason to believe anything was wrong, the suddenness of the invitation felt heavier than a simple social gesture. Still, she resolved to face it as she faced everything else: with quiet composure and careful preparation rather than fear.
Over the following days, Alaric threw himself into preparations with an energy Eleanor had rarely seen from him. He summoned tailors from the capital, ordered new furnishings for their travel carriage, and spent long hours rehearsing what he might say to impress the Queen and her advisers. He barely spoke to Eleanor except to issue instructions about her appearance and behavior.
"Do not speak unless spoken to directly," he told her one evening, pacing the length of their sitting room. "Do not offer opinions on matters of state. Smile, but not too much. The Queen values dignity above charm."
Eleanor listened to each instruction without argument, though she found it strange that a man who mocked her plainness at his own dinner table now seemed almost desperate for her to appear flawless before someone else's eyes.
The tailor arrived within the week, bringing bolts of fine silk and lace in colors Eleanor rarely wore: deep emerald, rich burgundy, pale gold. She stood patiently through hours of fittings, saying little, while Alaric hovered nearby, offering opinions on every seam and stitch.
"That color drains her," he told the head tailor at one point, gesturing toward a soft lavender gown Eleanor had quietly admired. "Give her something bolder, something that will not embarrass the family name."
The tailor, a patient older woman named Mrs. Callahan, glanced briefly at Eleanor's face before nodding and setting the lavender fabric aside. Later, when Alaric had left the room to attend to other matters, Mrs. Callahan leaned closer to Eleanor and said quietly, "For what it's worth, my lady, I think the lavender suited you far better than anything he's chosen."
Eleanor offered a small, grateful smile, but said nothing more, unwilling to create conflict over something as small as a dress color.
As the day of the dinner approached, tension in the household grew thicker. Alaric barked orders at the staff, demanding the carriage be polished until it gleamed, that the horses be groomed to perfection, that every detail of their journey and appearance reflect the wealth and status of the Ashkam name. Eleanor, meanwhile, quietly continued her usual routines: visiting tenant families, checking on the estate's finances, and preparing herself mentally for an evening she suspected would test her composure more than any dinner she had endured before.
The night before their departure, Eleanor sat alone in her chambers, studying her reflection in the mirror by candlelight. She wore one of the new gowns Alaric had chosen, a deep burgundy silk that fit her well, but felt somehow foreign against her skin, as though she were wearing a costume rather than her own clothing. She thought about the years ahead, wondering if her life would always consist of quietly enduring one performance after another, playing the role of Duchess without ever truly being seen for who she was.
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. It was Bridget, the cook, carrying a small cup of warm tea.
"Thought you might need this before such a big day," Bridget said gently, setting the cup down. "You look lovely, my lady, whatever gown you're wearing. Though, if you ask me, you looked just as fine in your gray traveling dress the first day you arrived here."