19
Melville missed all of their scheduled sittings the next week. He sent over apologies, citing his work, but the excuse felt weak, and Eliza worried over the true reasoning as a dog over a bone. The portrait would not suffer—that was not the issue. By now, Eliza had spent so much time staring at Melville that she might well know his person better than she knew her own. She knew the exact shape of his deep brown eyes, knew the curve of each of his knuckles, the sound of his laugh . . . Even if she hadn’t made such a full study, by this point in the proceedings, when she was merely fussing with the detail, other artists would have dispensed with the need for a subject altogether.
But though she might not need his presence, she felt the lack keenly. The parlor felt bigger, colder, less interesting without Melville. One did not laugh on one’s own, and Eliza could not even be entertained by Margaret, for her appointments with Caroline continued uninterrupted and every moment that Eliza heard their bright voices travel up the corridor was one when she regretted her mishandling of her last conversation with Melville. She could not know quite what had upset Melville, whether it had been the lie, when she had first denied her engagement or . . . something else. Their intimacy with one another had taken on new heights since Somerset had left and Eliza, feeling so much the easier in his presence, had stopped checking him. Or herself. And she supposed that, under such circumstances, to warn a gentleman that his customary flirt was engaged was only polite, was it not?
Whatever the reason, over the next week, though Eliza looked for his dark curls in the Pump Room, tried to spot his yellow pantaloons upon Milsom Street, pricked her ears for his voice in Meyler’s library, Melville was nowhere to be seen. And with no Somerset and no Melville, Bath felt exceedingly quiet. And at least with Somerset she had the comfort of his weekly letters to assuage any missing of him. Not that the two ought be compared, of course, given that one was almost her fiancé and the other . . . was not.
By the day of Lady Hurley’s rout, Eliza was suffering from a severe case of the blue devils—even as she regarded the sight of the finished portrait standing before her. Well, almost finished. For while she could think of nothing further to do to it, now that she had fussed over the waistcoat buttons until they were just right, scraping away the paint and reapplying it four or five times at least, Eliza could not shake the feeling that something was not quite right with it. If only she knew what.
“We ought ready ourselves,” Margaret said, knocking her knuckles on the open doorway to attract her attention. “Lady Hurley will be most displeased if we are late.”
Eliza took one last look at the portrait version of Melville. I’ll make it right, she told the portrait in her mind.
Upon arriving at Laura Place, it became immediately clear that Eliza’s idea of an intimate gathering and Lady Hurley’s were quite different. There were twenty persons gathered for the dinner party alone, with more to come for the dancing. And although Lady Hurley’s grand townhouse was very large—the dining table alone was expansive enough to seat twenty and it was the only house in the whole of Bath with a terrace leading off the ground-floor drawing room—Eliza could not quite understand, as she joined the line of persons greeting their hostess at the entrance, how they were all going to fit.
“A veritable squeeze,” Caroline noted, entering just behind them. In an exquisite gown of lilac silk and gauze, it would be difficult for a lady to appear any more elegant than Caroline Melville did that night.
“You look very fine!” Caroline said to Eliza and Margaret.
“Thank you,” Eliza replied. She was very pleased with the effect of her dress that night: black gossamer net over a white satin slip, the short French sleeves edged with a rich Vandyke lace, and instead of the jet jewelry she had been confined to the past year, diamond earrings and a triple necklace of pearls lay about her neck. “I do not look like a magpie?”
But Caroline did not answer, as she was too busy taking in Margaret’s gown of pomona-green crêpe. Eliza could not blame her, however, for it was Margaret’s most striking toilette to date, and Eliza could only be pleased that Caroline seemed to think so too, her eyes lingering avariciously upon Margaret’s satin bodice, so beautifully ornamented with white beads and drops à la militaire.
“You look very fine,” Caroline repeated to Margaret, more seriously than she had upon the first instance.
“As do you,” Margaret said, cheeks a little pink, while Eliza tried subtly to peek over Caroline’s shoulder to where Melville was handing his cloak to a footman.
“Oh, don’t you all look well!” Lady Hurley said, as the persons in front of them disappeared into the room. She was wearing a diaphanous yellow gown that made her appear as a voluptuous sunflower. “Dinner will be served presently: my François has outdone himself tonight. There are jellies, fondues and blancmanges enough to feed the five thousand!”
“How wonderful,” Melville said as he appeared, not sounding at all enthused. Though he and Mr. Fletcher were both dressed elegantly—Melville in a coat of blue superfine, and a waistcoat of navy velvet subtly adorned with silver embroidery—they appeared distinctly careworn. Eliza tried, unsuccessfully, to catch his eye.
“Ignore him,” Caroline said. “He and Mr. Fletcher dined together last night and were drunk as wheelbarrows. He is more moan than man.”
“Splendid, but,” Mr. Fletcher said, pressing a weak hand to his chest, “not at all the thing.”
“You have it, sir,” Melville agreed, rubbing his brow. “I think we are to be commended for attending this evening at all.”
As the highest-ranking lady and gentleman in attendance, Eliza and Melville were paired together to walk to dinner. For the first time in recent memory, Eliza was not sure what to say to him—and for the first time in memory, Melville did not seem inclined to speak first.
“Have you been keeping well?” she asked.
“I have,” Melville said.
“You enjoyed your evening with Mr. Fletcher?”
“Assuredly.”
“Medea is progressing well?”
“Yes.”
She had never known him to talk so little. Perhaps this is how Melville had felt, trying to make conversation with her at their first sittings. She wished she could wind back the past week and scrape off a layer as one could with a painting and resume the easy acquaintance they had used to enjoy. As soon as the first course was served out, Melville turned very properly to speak to Lady Hurley, seated on his right, while Eliza had to make conversation with a recalcitrant Admiral Winkworth. The loud sounds of Melville and Lady Hurley’s enjoyment in her ear, as they began a rallying discussion of their favorite poets, did nothing to improve her mood. Under Lady Hurley’s influence, Melville’s effervescence seemed to have returned; Eliza tried not to feel too bitter, sipping instead at the delicious champagne in front of her.
By the time the second course was being placed—the Soup à la Reine and Chicken à la Tarragon replaced by dishes of baked carp, oysters in batter, a blanquette of fowl and a raised pie, reinforced by a bountiful array of vegetable dishes—and Melville turned reluctantly to speak to her, Eliza was feeling distinctly lightheaded.
“Have you read Dante’s Divine Comedy?” he asked.
It seemed very important, all of a sudden, that Melville think Eliza quite as literary as Lady Hurley.
“Yes,” Eliza lied recklessly. Margaret had read it, which came to the same thing.
“And what did you think?”
The unfortunate truth was, of course, that Eliza knew nothing of the volume save for its title and the fact that Margaret thought it very clever.
“I thought it was very clever,” she said.
“But the latest translation . . . I myself found it a little confusing, no?” Melville asked. Eliza hoped the question was rhetorical, but by the lengthy pause—and the way he was regarding her patiently—this was not the case.
“I wonder if—if the point was to be confused,” she proffered sagely.
Melville looked at her.
“You have not read it,” he guessed.
“I have not read it,” she agreed.
As if despite himself, Melville laughed.
“Why lie?”
“So that you might think I was very clever,” Eliza admitted, taking another draught of champagne.
“I already thought that,” Melville said. “Now I just think you a liar, too.”
Eliza looked at Melville sharply. Was he . . . ? Was that a reference to . . . ?
“I did not lie,” she said, quietening her voice to a murmur, hoping this was her moment to clear the air.
“You omitted,” Melville said, catching on at once.
“Out of necessity,” she whispered. “And only a little: we cannot be formally affianced until April. Until then, we are only . . . engaged to be engaged.”
“Oh,” Melville said.
A pause.
“How whimsically indeterminate.”
He sounded so much his normal self for a moment, that Eliza found herself leaning eagerly toward him.
“I am sorry for the deception, nonetheless,” she gabbled in a whisper. “I should not otherwise have concealed it to one I consider—one I consider a true friend.”
Melville took a thoughtful sip of his glass.
“And I do read,” she added defensively—for once again, this seemed important to establish.
Melville did not smile, but his eyes began to crinkle in amusement.
“I have not accused you,” Melville said.
“I know you are awfully bookish,” she retorted, so relieved at the tacit acceptance—for that is what it was, surely?—that she felt almost breathless.
“Awfully,” Melville agreed. He paused, then added, in more of his usual manner: “I could hardly write as I do, were I not.”
“The classics,” Eliza said, as knowingly as she could. “You enjoy reading such books? Homer and . . . the other one.”
“The other one most of all,” Melville said, smiling. “The scholarly populace would have them seem daunting, but they are just stories—magnificent and sprawling, but stories, nonetheless.”
“Before I read your Persephone, I did not understand them in the least,” Eliza admitted. “My husband bade me read more classics to improve my mind but I could not hold my attention.”
She had thought herself too stupid to understand all the unknown words, places and names—but Melville’s poetry had a way of re-spinning the tales, elaborating upon the romance, hinting at the salacious that . . . Well, one didn’t pause to worry if one was intellectual enough, in the hurry to gorge oneself upon it.
“There is more kissing in my versions, I will allow,” Melville said easily.
“It is more than that,” Eliza chided him. “It is a skill, to invite people in as you do.”
Melville blinked, fiddling with the stem of his glass as if unsure of how to respond—as if, despite all the praise he lavished on her, he was not expectant of receiving any in return.
“I am glad,” he said slowly, looking searchingly at her. “I was a boy, when I first read them—a swot even then,” he said, as if confessing something. “And I fancy even now I could return to the texts a thousand times over and still find something new to inspire me.”
“And is that what you mean to do?” Eliza said. “Write a thousand of such poems?”
“I . . . One day I . . .”
Melville’s eyes glanced warily around the table—the first instance Eliza had seen him concerned for eavesdroppers.
“It was my intention,” Melville said, quietly. “Once I had sufficient popularity, to write poetry inspired by classics of a different kind.”
Eliza tilted her head in question.
“My mother was a great linguist,” Melville said, speaking faster now. “Urdu, Persian, Sanskrit . . . She was educated in them all, and she would read to us, each night, from manuscripts she had brought with her from India. The Shahnameh, the Mahabharata . . . these are some of the longest epics ever to be written, as fascinating as the Aeneid and their warriors as great as Achilles or Ajax.”
Eliza’s eyes flickered over Melville’s face, waiting for him to continue. Out of all the conversations they had shared, all the confidences exchanged, she had the sense that this was the most intimate of all of them—here, at a dinner party, with the incongruous swell of conversation all around them—and Eliza would not have interrupted him for the world.
“There are thousands of stories within them,” he told her, hushed and reverent. “If I could just . . .”
Melville’s eyes, bright and animated, dimmed suddenly.
“Find a publisher willing,” he finished around a sigh.
His fingers clenched around his glass and Eliza fought the urge to brush his hand with hers.
“You will,” Eliza said. “I am sure you will.”
If anyone could, it was he.
“Perhaps one day.”
They paused as the table was replenished once more, this time with fruits, creams and jellies of all sizes, shapes and colors. Eliza, impatient to resume their conversation, accepted a selection at random and she leaned back toward Melville as soon as she could. It would be proper, of course, to have instead turned back to Admiral Winkworth: correct dinner table behavior, as Eliza had been taught since childhood, was to alternate conversational partners with each course, but nothing could have enticed her to do so tonight.
“You speak so many languages,” she said, marveling at how it would be to possess such accomplishments—her adequate talent at embroidery seemed very feeble in comparison.
“Not all of them well,” Melville said wryly. “When our parents . . . Well, there were fewer opportunities to keep up with them.”
Eliza wished that they were having this conversation in the privacy of her parlor, so she might have captured the soft melancholy of Melville’s expression in that moment.
“Thank goodness for Caroline,” Melville said reflectively. “Or else I would have felt most alone.”
Eliza’s heart clenched. She was so used to thinking the Melvilles’ singularity somehow prestigious—she had never stopped to consider it might also be lonely.
“You do not have a sister,” Melville said, accepting a footman’s refill of his glass with a murmur of thanks.
“I have Margaret,” Eliza said. “But no sister by blood. I used to wonder if it might have made my mother . . . easier upon me, were there another to share the attention.”
“She was firm?”
Instinctively, Eliza gave a little grimace. Melville laughed.
“I am sorry,” Eliza said, strangely apologetic to have broken the mood in such a way. “She is very firm—her opinions so strong, so loud, that it makes mine shrink, just to be around them.”
Though Eliza had not spoken untruthfully, she still found herself abruptly guilt-stricken to hear herself speak such words to one outside her family.
“I have made her sound all bad,” she said repentantly. “She is not. There were occasions that her always knowing best, her taking charge, gave me so much comfort.”
Melville waited, a faint question in his eyes that he did not voice. Eliza looked again to Admiral Winkworth—sucking busily upon his chicken bones—and then to the persons opposite—Lady Caroline, who she would not mind hearing anyway, and Mr. Berwick, staring dreamily into space.
“In the early days of my marriage,” Eliza said slowly. “When I . . . When there was no child . . .”
When each month had brought the same gut-wrenching disappointment, and each month her husband had grown colder and more distant, ever more critical . . .
“I did not know what to do,” Eliza said. “And . . . she helped me.”
Without having to be asked—for Eliza would not know how to ask, how to frame such an awful fear—Mrs. Balfour had begun directing her, in the same no-nonsense way she had once dressed Eliza’s hair. Her twice-weekly letters became a lifeline, each one offering a new panacea Eliza might try, divined from unknown sources—a doctor or herbologist or botanist, it had not mattered—and Eliza would find herself picking strawberries at midnight under a waning moon or some such remedy.
“She gave me something to do, when I might otherwise have . . . lost myself,” Eliza whispered. Lost herself wandering Harefield’s empty halls, ruminating upon her own inadequacy, speculating on what her family and the earl’s might be saying about her, behind her back. But even then Mrs. Balfour had protected her. When each Christmas passed with still no child to be seen, Mrs. Balfour had countenanced no discussion of Eliza’s failure from the family—the merest mention would bring on Mrs. Balfour’s gimlet eye with truly alarming rapidity. When Eliza had been more alone than she had ever known herself before, it had been her mother who had held her to earth, more even than Margaret.
Eliza cleared her throat, blinking rapidly. Melville was watching her calmly, not at all alarmed, as some gentlemen were, in the face of feminine misery, but accepting, regarding her openly. He had a way, on occasion, of considering you with his whole being, all the movement and the chatter and humor pausing entirely, to focus the entirety of that bright mind directly upon you. It felt—now as it had the first time—rather as if one had stepped into warm sunlight.
“I have never told anyone that before,” she said. “Not even . . .”
She did not finish the sentence and Melville was tactful enough not to ask.
“I am sorry that I have missed our sittings this week,” he said instead.
“That is all right,” Eliza said. “The portrait is almost finished, anyhow.”
Melville’s eyes lit up with curiosity.
“Can I see it?”
“Soon,” Eliza promised.
A tinkle of a glass being tapped with a spoon had them turning toward Lady Hurley, who had stood from the table to announce the dancing would begin momentarily. The younger gentlemen and ladies began to chatter excitedly as they stood from the table, to move into the drawing room with Lady Hurley pairing partners. By now, Eliza was so comfortably full that she was almost glad to not be joining the dancing. Almost.
“It appears I am needed,” Melville observed, as Lady Hurley beckoned to him imperiously. “If you will excuse me . . . ?”
There was a moment—a brief, wild moment—where Eliza was about to demand he stay, that he ignore the requirements of civility and stay by her side for a little longer. But she mastered herself before the hasty words could trip off her tongue. There were more ladies than gentlemen and Melville would be in demand all evening. It would be selfish to make such a request—tempting, but selfish.
“Of course,” she said, and Melville flocked obediently to Lady Hurley’s side to be partnered with Miss Gould. Whereas Eliza . . . Eliza sank into a cushioned settee with a dejected sigh, while the string quartet in the corner of the room struck up a lively jig. Watching as Melville and Miss Gould bowed to one another, Eliza did not think she had ever felt the constraints of her widowhood more keenly than this moment.