20
It almost makes one jealous for one’s own youth, does it not?” Mrs. Winkworth said, coming to sit down beside Eliza.
Eliza managed to catch the indignant and instinctive squawk before it left her mouth, instead letting out a vague murmur. In the last few weeks, she had managed to avoid Mrs. Winkworth’s company to some success and she had almost forgotten the lady’s deft way of delivering such stings.
“I used to think the waltz a sad romp,” Mrs. Winkworth said, her eyes tracking the figure of her daughter amongst the twirling figures. Miss Winkworth performed the steps gracefully, and Eliza thought she seemed to stand taller with her mother at a safe distance. “But if it is danced at Almack’s then I should think it important Winnie gets her practice in!”
Eliza made another vague murmuring sound. The likelihood of Mrs. Winkworth being sent vouchers to Almack’s was, she felt, rather low. They might hail from a respectable lineage—Mrs. Winkworth, as she was so fond of reminding them, was the granddaughter of a baroness—but only the very select were invited to enter the hallowed halls of Almack’s Assembly Rooms.
“Lady Somerset,” Mrs. Winkworth said, her voice suddenly steely, “I must indeed thank you for the kindness you have shown my dear Winnie. She quite thinks of you as an honorary aunt, you know.”
If dear Winnie actually thought such a thing, when there were fewer than ten years between their ages, Eliza would consider her the most egregious shrew of her acquaintance—but as she knew it was unlikely, she reserved such dislike for the true author of the remark.
“And it is only because of the affection you have shown her, that I should feel comfortable to make a request of you that I am afraid you might otherwise think a sad encroachment!” Mrs. Winkworth went on doggedly.
This could go on for hours if Eliza let it.
“What is it that I can do for you, Mrs. Winkworth?” Eliza asked.
“I am sure I do not need to explain to you, Lady Somerset, the importance of a girl’s first Season,” Mrs. Winkworth said. “I mean to do everything I can to ensure that my daughter makes as successful a debut as possible, but our acquaintance in London is not as large as I would like it. If you would be as kind as to offer me a few letters of introduction . . .”
Eliza raised her eyebrows. Mrs. Winkworth’s instincts were correct: Eliza did think her sadly encroaching. If one was traveling to a town or city where one was unknown, one might indeed ask a friend to give one a letter of introduction to a few persons of their acquaintance in the locality, thereby vouching for the good character of the traveler, and smoothing their way for admittance into the town’s social circle. But to make such a demand outright, to a person one did not truthfully know very well . . . Eliza would be within her rights to give Mrs. Winkworth a set-down. She looked to the dance floor, and to Miss Winkworth, so timid and innocent. As objectionable as she found her mother, she could not deny she wanted all the best for her.
“I shall have a think,” Eliza began, already trying to consider who she might offer. It had been a while since she had been out in society, but she thought the Ashbys might very well have a daughter coming out this year, and the Ledgertons had several sons of marriageable age, all said to be sweet and friendly boys.
“You are related to the Ashfords, are you not?” Mrs. Winkworth interrupted.
Oh. Mrs. Winkworth was aiming very high indeed, then.
“Very distantly, through two marriages,” Eliza said. “But Mrs. Winkworth, I do not think . . . Families with titles tend to marry within their own set.”
It was as tactfully as she could think to phrase it, but Mrs. Winkworth still flushed.
“It is not always the case,” she insisted. “Why, think of Lady Radcliffe!”
“There are exceptions, certainly,” Eliza admitted. “But—”
“And Winnie will have a handsome dowry,” Mrs. Winkworth said. “I do not like to boast of it—I am not so vulgar—but my husband made an ample sum in Calcutta and Winnie will have it all.”
Eliza did not know quite what to say.
“You are related to the Ardens, as well?” Mrs. Winkworth had abandoned all pretense at subtlety now.
“My late husband’s cousins,” Eliza said slowly. “But you cannot be thinking of Lord Arden, for Miss Winkworth?”
Arden had to be almost thirty years the girl’s senior, and while he was well known to have a taste for young ladies in their first bloom, Mrs. Winkworth would surely not be willing to sacrifice her daughter to such a gentleman? But Mrs. Winkworth’s eyes were hungry.
“If your ladyship could offer a letter of introduction to the Ardens,” Mrs. Winkworth said. “I should be most glad . . .”
Eliza stared. She knew better than anyone the machinations of the marriage mart, but for Mrs. Winkworth’s calculations to be so blatant, so openly grasping! Perhaps it was the rich supper she had just ingested, but Eliza felt nauseous. She turned to gaze back toward Miss Winkworth, who was now laughing as she spun in a circle with Mr. Berwick. Her youthful cheer would not have been out of place in the schoolroom.
“Mrs. Winkworth . . .” Eliza said, knowing she would not have drunk quite so much champagne had she known she was to enter into quite such a delicate subject, but unable to hold her tongue a moment longer. “I understand the desire to see your daughter marry well, very much so, but if you will not allow Miss Winkworth the dignity of her own choice, I implore you to think of a gentleman better suited to her than Arden.”
Mrs. Winkworth’s face, as Eliza spoke, grew pinker and pinker with indignation.
“Lady Somerset!” she gasped. “I only have my daughter’s best interests at heart—that you should think to imply otherwise . . .”
“I am not trying to offend,” Eliza said hastily. “Just to speak truthfully, as one who knows what it is to be so bartered . . .”
“Bartered?” Mrs. Winkworth repeated. “Bartered?”
Perhaps “bartered” had been a poor choice of word.
“All I mean to say is,” Eliza said, “surely Miss Winkworth’s happiness is worth more than a title?”
Mrs. Winkworth dragged in a deep breath through her nostrils.
“Lady Somerset,” she said with a decided sharpness, “I had hoped, in coming to you with such a request, to be treated with discretion and understanding. Much like that with which I have been treating you these past weeks.”
“I do not understand your meaning . . .” Eliza said slowly.
“I am aware that your wealth came with certain requirements, my lady,” Mrs. Winkworth said, vindictive triumph now in her eyes. “Requirements that should not, I believe, look kindly upon Melville haunting Camden Place with you still in your blacks—and yet I have given you the benefit of the doubt thus far.”
Eliza’s heart quickened.
“Lady Selwyn has looser lips than I had thought,” she said, with more calm than she would have believed herself capable. “Do you mean to threaten me, Mrs. Winkworth?”
Mrs. Winkworth’s cheeks were ruddy, but she surveyed her with a gimlet eye.
“Will you offer the letter of introduction, my lady?” she said meaningfully.
It might have worked on Eliza, not too long ago. It would not now.
“To the Ardens, I will not,” Eliza said, gently. She stood. “Enjoy your time in London, madam. I wish you the very best.”
She wished she could have done more for Miss Winkworth. But at least she had tried.
Eliza walked around the edges of the room—speaking idly to Mr. Berwick for a moment, who she noticed was wearing a waistcoat strikingly similar to Melville’s—before heading toward the grand French windows that led onto the terrace. They had been opened to allow a breeze to waft into the room, for despite the coolness of the spring evening, with such vigorous dancing the room had become hot and close.
As Eliza drew near, she came across the Melvilles tucked into the window embrasure, in the midst of a rather heated discussion.
“I simply do not understand what can have so suddenly changed,” Caroline was hissing to her brother. “All this talk of prudence, and economy, again—you change your mind faster than a whirligig.”
Eliza checked herself, not wanting to eavesdrop, and wondered briefly if she ought to walk in the opposite direction until Caroline stormed past Eliza in the direction of the card room.
Eliza approached Melville slowly. He looked up, face drawn, and Eliza was overcome with an urge to put a smile back on his face.
“Have you spoken with Mr. Berwick, this evening?” she asked, as lightly as if she had not overheard a moment of their conversation.
“I have not,” Melville took a sip from his glass with hands that were a little unsteady.
“I admire his waistcoat very much,” Eliza said. She tilted her head toward the gentleman in question and as Melville’s eyes followed, she had the satisfaction of seeing his eyebrows fly upward, his strained expression replaced with incredulity.
“Are he and my valet in cahoots?” he demanded.
Eliza laughed, but the reprieve was short-lived: Melville’s face had already relapsed into unease.
“Did you overhear us?” he asked, regarding his glass again.
Ah.
“ ‘Prudence and economy’ does not sound like you,” Eliza said, rather than lie. She meant the words as a tease, but Melville did not seem in the mood for teasing.
“Perhaps I have changed,” he said shortly. “People can change, you know.”
“They can,” Eliza said. “But why should you need to?”
If Melville—brilliant, audacious Melville—were suddenly to doubt himself, what hope was there for the rest of them?
“I am without a patron,” Melville explained abruptly.
He looked at Eliza, and then back down to his glass, and then up to her again.
“Lord Paulet is a prideful man,” he said. “And I thought I had found another . . . but I was mistaken.”
“Oh,” Eliza said.
So it was true. Eliza had known it was, of course, but she could not help but feel discomforted to have such confirmation. Which was foolish. For what did it matter to her that Melville had been having an affair with Lady Paulet?
“Is that so disastrous?” Eliza asked.
“Without a patron,” Melville said, “I cannot publish this year. And if I cannot publish this year, I cannot raise the funds that Alderley needs this winter—nor afford such luxuries as phaetons and Paris.”
“Caroline said she would need to retreat abroad if she finishes her novel this summer,” Eliza recollected. “To shield her from whatever unpleasantness will follow its release.”
“Abroad, yes,” Melville said, rubbing his jaw. “But we would do better somewhere less expensive.”
We?
“You would go with her?” Eliza asked. It ought not be a surprise, for the siblings came as an obvious pair, but Eliza found herself dismayed nonetheless.
Melville scrubbed a hand through his hair.
“The gossip about me is rising, not falling,” he said. “I do not think England will be very pleasant if I am to be blacklisted as well as cleaned out.”
“It is not fair,” Eliza muttered. Why, when one thought of all the disgraces Byron had perpetuated before having to leave the country—the numerous love affairs, sideslips and public excesses all before the last straw of his divorce—what did Melville’s one lapse signify in comparison?
“Best not to pull at that thread,” Melville said. “For it is not like to change.”
“Perhaps I could be your patron,” Eliza offered impulsively. “I am rich, you know.”
“So I hear,” Melville said, with a rather rueful smile. “And while it is very kind, I shall have to decline.”
“Why?” Eliza said. “I may not know a great deal about it, but I could certainly find out.”
“I have no doubt you could perform the role excellently,” Melville agreed. “But I cannot accept your money. My pride—such as it is—prevents it.”
“How bothersome,” Eliza said, as lightly as she was able.
“Isn’t it just?”
“Well,” Eliza said, thinking, “if my portrait is accepted into the exhibition, it should be beneficial for publicity, should it not? And perhaps then you may find it easier to secure a new patron!”
“Perhaps . . .” Melville did not seem cheered by this prospect. “But have you fully considered what such publicity might mean for you, my lady? We can, of course, submit it anonymously, but there shall be a great deal of interest in the identity of the portraitist.”
“I have,” Eliza said quietly. “It was my idea. I have wanted this since I knew what it was.”
Melville nodded. They stood in silence for a moment, until the dancers ceased spinning, and everyone began to applaud the musicians.
“I really am so tired of looking on . . .” Eliza said, watching them.
Melville took in a breath then, in a trice, drained his glass and set it down upon the mantelpiece with a decisive clink.
“Well, then,” he said, holding his hand out expectantly. “Let us change that.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Eliza said, batting his hand away with her fan and glancing around to check no one had seen.
“Why not?”
“I am in mourning.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever been in mourning.”
“In mourning clothes, then.”
He proffered his hand again. Behind him, other couples were taking the floor, readying themselves for the next set. It was to be a waltz.
“My lord, do not. It is so against convention, it might as well be against the law,” she said, turning slightly away so as to affect that she hadn’t seen it.
“And what is the purpose of convention, if not to be flouted?” he declared. “Laws, if not to be broken?”
Eliza laughed. Melville raised his hand higher. There was a challenge in his dark eyes, provocative and tempting, and yet a confidence too—suggesting that he did not doubt for a moment that she would be brave enough to meet it. And as if in a dream, Eliza placed her hand in his. Unlike the last time they had touched in such a way, their hands were both gloved, but Eliza could still feel the warmth—and strength—of his grip through the satin. With a quick glance about the room to make sure they were unobserved, Melville tugged her a step backward, through the doors and out onto the terrace.
“What are you . . .” Eliza started.
The terrace was not lit—in such changeable spring weather, Lady Hurley had not thought anybody would be brave enough to head outdoors—but here was light enough streaming from the windows that they could see one another, while they would remain hidden in shadow to the persons inside.
The musicians inside began to play their first, opening notes. They could hear it out here quite as clearly as if they were still in the room. Melville touched a finger to his lips, then bowed. And Eliza, understanding at last his intention, swept her skirts out in a curtsey as a smile spread across her face. As the gentlemen inside began to move, so too did he, closing the space in one gliding step until there was barely a hair’s breadth between them. This close, Eliza could see he had tiny flecks of gold within the dark brown of his irises. She had never noticed that before.
The violins began to play in earnest and then he was sliding one arm around her waist, pulling her in, reaching for her right hand with his left, and though they had not even begun moving yet, Eliza was breathless. Together they began to spin. Melville was a good dancer. Of course he was—she ought to have known he would be. The kind of dancer, in fact, who seemed not even to mind his steps at all, who seemed to do it so naturally it was as if this was how he moved always and it just happened that tonight there was music. Eliza could hardly see her feet in the darkness; all she could do was follow the pressure of his hand upon her back, certain that he would not lead her astray, and she laughed, breathless and exultant, felt his answering laugh upon her neck. They rotated quicker and quicker, dizzying themselves from the constant rotation, and Eliza had never felt so wonderfully irresponsible, so impetuous and light.
She could not have said exactly when they both stopped laughing. Could not have said at what moment her breathlessness ceased to be caused by quick steps and started to be caused by . . . something else. But it must have been about the same moment Melville began to hold her tighter, pull her even closer—the same moment that he rearranged their hands so that, instead of the traditional clasp, palm to palm, their fingers were intertwined—and without quite knowing why, their giddy and reckless dance felt abruptly edged with a kind of desperation.
They did not stop moving until the very last violin strings had faded from the air, and even then they did not draw back from one another, remaining where they stood, entangled in one another, gazes locked, utterly still. Eliza was not sure of the expression on Melville’s face. Having spent so long studying his countenance, she thought she had seen every shade of emotion upon it—but she had never seen him look as he did now.
Slowly, silently, by increments, they drew back from one another. Melville offered Eliza one final, very deep bow. In the silence the music had left, their breathing was the only sound upon the air, heavy with more than simple exertion.
“My lady—”
And she did not know what he was going to say but . . .
“We ought,” Eliza said, clearing her throat when her words came out a little hoarsely, “we ought to go inside.”
Melville nodded without speaking. They crept back into the drawing room, Eliza first, then Melville after a few moments, just in case anyone was looking in that direction. But they were not. No one had seen. No one suspected. The wildest moment of Eliza’s life, and only she and he knew it had happened.