23
It was not a passing fancy. Eliza might have been able to convince herself, had she been able to avoid Melville for anything more than a single day, but as if to make up for his recent string of absences, Melville appeared at Camden Place the very next morning with Caroline. They were both full of vim, declaring their intention of escorting Eliza and Margaret upon a visit to the coach houses of Bath, in order that Eliza might purchase her own phaeton. Had Eliza been able to prepare herself for the visit, perhaps it might have been easier to act normally in Melville’s presence, but as it was, she could not even look at him without blushing. Indeed, even in the space of their short visit, Eliza flushed so often and with such severity that Melville inquired as to whether she had perhaps caught a little sunstroke.
“It is March!” she responded, thrown.
“So it is,” Melville agreed. “But then, I am not the one who has it.”
Instead, Eliza authorized Margaret to act upon her behalf; she was a finer judge of horseflesh than Eliza, anyway, and it would save Eliza from expiring from an excess of blushing.
You are engaged to Somerset, Eliza reminded herself, you are engaged to Somerset.
She did not tell Melville that the portrait was finished—that it only had now to dry—but one look at Margaret’s guilty face, when she returned from the livery, told Eliza that she had let it slip. The next afternoon, therefore, she prepared herself for Melville’s call with grim determination. His presence would not undo her.
“Good morning!” she said, when he entered the parlor, trying to make her voice bright and sunny. “A lovely day we are having!”
He looked from her to the window, where rain was splattering against the panes.
“Oh splendid,” he agreed. “Where is it?”
He was bouncing a little on the balls of his feet with excitement. Eliza tried and failed to not find this endearing.
“Over there,” she said, gesturing toward the easel, which she had shrouded in a white cloth.
“Is it dead?” he asked, eyebrows flying comically up. “Or just sleeping?”
“It is just to hide it from view,” she explained.
“And here I thought the point was for it to be looked at.”
“It is,” Eliza said. “Of course. So I shall show it to you—show it to you . . . Now . . .”
She paused a moment longer, rallied, and then lifted the fabric off.
Eliza turned immediately to watch his face as he took it in—she wanted to see his reaction before he had time to modulate it—but she had not been fast enough, for even in that shortest of moments, he had wiped his face clean of expression, as he only did when he was trying to hide his thoughts. It was the subtlest of shifts, one Eliza would not have noticed had she not spent the better part of a month studying his face in minute detail. What was he trying to hide?
“Melville?” she said uncertainly. “Do you not like it?”
He started a little.
“It is perfect!” he said quickly. “More than . . . more than I could have hoped.”
He looked at her, then back to the painting, and then back to her again. Eliza felt her palms begin to sweat. Why was he behaving so unusually? Was it possible . . . ? Could it be that Melville had been able to divine from it what Eliza had?
“Of course, with such a handsome subject, how could it not be?” Melville said. All at once, the puzzling atmosphere in the room broke.
“Now we must hope it sets quickly,” she said, “for the sending-in day is fast approaching.”
Eliza could not prevent a faint note of anxiety from entering her voice. She had made no substantial additions for over a se’nnight, and done everything—from carefully selecting the mixes to diligently ensuring the parlor’s constant warmth—to assist the drying process, but even so, to transport a painting so far, so soon after completion, was a risk indeed.
“I shall have it collected next week,” Melville said. “And direct my man to treat it with the utmost delicacy.”
They had agreed Melville would see the portrait framed and submitted—on behalf of his anonymous portraitist—so as to protect Eliza’s identity. Any news, of acceptance or rejection, would go to him.
“I cannot quite believe it is finished,” Eliza said quietly, the profundity of the moment suddenly dawning upon her. In the horror of her realization, she had quite forgotten to take in the rest. “Thank you, for asking me.”
She looked up at Melville.
“I thought you quite mad, when you did,” she confessed. “But I am so glad I said yes.”
“I am very glad, too,” he said simply.
He held out his hand. Eliza hesitated, wondering wildly if he meant to dance with her again, and then placed hers in his. Melville brought her hand up to his face and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, holding Eliza’s eyes all the while and there was a moment, one shining, brief moment, where Eliza almost forgot why she could not love him.
And then she remembered. She pulled her hand back.
“I shall have to wish you good day, my lord,” she said, voice trembling a little.
It could not be. It simply could not.
Melville gave a quick—almost flustered—nod of his head, and left.
Grosvenor Square
March 30th ’19
Eliza,
The shortest of notes—I can only apologize for such brevity—I have arrived in London, where the Season is in full swing and preparations are underway for Annie’s ball. You can imagine, I am sure, the furor Augusta is creating—and it demands far more of my time than I had predicted.
Just a word on ditches—Mr. Penney wrote to me regarding the possibility of flooding in Chepstow, and I have authorized our trench to continue across the border onto your territory. As the lands are so soon to be rejoined, I am sure you will not mind such an overstep. Swift action on such occasions is, after all, essential.
I shall remain here seven days more and then I will return to you. I am counting down the hours!
Yours,
Somerset
Camden Place
April 2nd ’19
Mr. Penney,
From your recent correspondence directly with Somerset, I can only assume you must have mislain my correspondence address. Please find it above. I trust any questions regarding my lands will be applied to only myself in future.
Yours sincerely,
Lady Somerset