Chapter Twenty-Two
Gwen
“I did not!” Gwen insists. Father fumbles with his key to unlock their front door, scraping it against the panel twice before managing to insert it into the keyhole.
“You most certainly did,” Father says, crowing when he gets the lock open and pushes into the foyer, dragging Gwen with him. “You count your cards. Where did you learn to do that?”
“You!” Gwen says before slapping her free hand over her mouth.
“I knew it!” he shouts. “You’re a cheat.”
“No more than you. You had cards up your sleeve,” she shoots back, letting the door slam shut behind them.
“How would you know?” he asks.
“Because I spent hours learning to do it before you told me women never wear coattails and they’ve done away with the long sleeves. It’s a travesty.”
Everything’s a bit fuzzy, even Father as she turns to regard him, rumpled but grinning in the middle of the foyer. The room is brighter than she would have expected. It’s very late, she thinks, or possibly very early. Mr. Mason had port, and it was good port. She cleaned up, even if she did count her cards a few times.
“A lack of sleeves wouldn’t stop a true cheater,” Father says, laughing when she tries to scowl at him.
Her face feels a bit numb, now that she thinks of it.
“You’re finally back.”
They both swing around, unsteady, and find Mrs. Gilpe standing in the archway to the dining room, glaring at them with bloodshot eyes.
“It’s only, what?” Father says, twirling around to squint at the clock above the mantel.
“It’s nearly gone five,” Mrs. Gilpe says, marching into the foyer, her slippers making a definite smack against the marble floor. “We thought you’d crashed or fallen down into the Thames.”
“We’re nowhere near the Thames,” Gwen says before an enormous belch surprises her. It rings around the room. Father snickers.
“You’ve gone and gotten her pissed again,” Mrs. Gilpe deduces, glaring at Father. “Did anyone see you?”
“We were just at Albie’s,” Gwen says, trying to look demure and contrite even as she sways on her feet. She’d quite like to go to sleep now.
“No one saw us,” Father says, rolling his eyes. “Go on back to sleep, Mrs. Gilpe. I’ll get Gwennie upstairs.”
“I haven’t been to sleep,” Mrs. Gilpe says loudly. Gwen and Father wince; the loudness hurts her brain. “No one has been to sleep. We’ve been worried sick.”
“Whatever for?” Father exclaims. “You cannot decide we’ve died every time we’re not home before one.”
“Home at two would have been fine. But three, four, five? What respectable lady is out until five in the morning?”
“I was just at Albie’s,” Gwen repeats, confused by her housekeeper’s ire.
Father’s face darkens. “With her father? A proper chaperone?”
“You’re in no state to be considered a proper chaperone,” Mrs. Gilpe says tightly. “Gwen, go to bed,” she snaps, turning her hard look on Gwen.
“But I—”
“Now. Mrs. Stelm has left water by your bedside. Drink a full glass, then go to sleep.”
“It really isn’t his fault, I wanted to play—”
“Bed,” Mrs. Gilpe insists, pointing toward the stairs.
Gwen looks to Father, but he just sighs and nods, waving her away, like she’s a child. It’s her reputation they’re fighting over.
But she can’t quite make her mouth form the words in her head, and her soft bed does sound inviting, and she’s actually quite parched. So she goes, leaving Mrs. Gilpe and Father bickering behind her as she slowly climbs the stairs with her leaden feet.
“It’s unconscionable that you would be this reckless with her already difficult position. We’ve had no morning calls all season.”
“What did you expect?” she hears Father ask. “She’s not a show pony. None of them are good enough for her.”
“Well they’re all you’ve got. The poor thing’s heartbroken enough without ending up thoroughly alone.”
“I’m here!” Father returns.
Gwen rounds the bend and continues up the stairs to the second floor. It’s not like she’s pathetic. She’s fun. She’s a hoot. The life of every party. And so what if Beth’s about to be married off? She’s not going to get married just to soothe her ego—or whatever she’s been telling herself isn’t an utterly broken heart.
“And was Samantha’s father enough to keep her out of trouble?”
Gwen pauses, heart in her throat.
“It’s not the same,” Father says gruffly.
“No? Your heart was broken,” Mrs. Gilpe counters.
Gwen slowly slides herself down to sit on the stairs, head pounding.
“It’s not the same,” Father repeats. “Gwen isn’t me.”
“No, she’s both of you. Samantha made choices as well. I’m telling you to be careful.”
“Gwen’s not going to get in trouble,” Father insists.
Gwen covers her mouth, her other hand clenched into her skirts. She’s always suspected, but never knew. No one talks much of her mother, only that she wasn’t what any of them would have expected for Dashiell Bertram. Now she knows why.
But Father’s right. It’s not the same. She can’t get in trouble, because the only person she’ll ever sleep with is Beth, and that’s no longer an option. The thought sends a stab of pain through her heart and she starts to cry.
Beth’s are the only arms she ever wants around her. She’s not about to drown her sorrows in a man, in a fumble, in something painful and stupid and dangerous. The very last thing she wants is to be saddled with a child in addition to a husband.
Her stomach roils as her tears turn to sobs. She heaves in air, her heartache rising in her chest like a rapid tide, with an enormous wave now waiting to come in behind it. Is that what happened to her father? He was saddled with a wife, and a child, all dreams of love and happiness gone, because of one moment of recklessness?
“You’re drinking like a fish and letting her do it with you. You turn your back in the wrong place and who knows what could happen,” Mrs. Gilpe says.
“Gwen isn’t interested—she would never,” Father spits.
“If she’s blind drunk she won’t know up from down, and you’d best hope there’s no young man trying to forget his own heartache with her.”
“How dare you—”
Gwen’s stomach tightens without warning and she vomits all over her dress and the stairs, snot and tears running down her face as she gags. She hears footsteps as she tries to right herself, tries to aim her heaves away from her dress, tries not to slip down the stairs, her narrow hoopskirt shifting this way and that as she squirms.
“Sweetheart,” Father says softly, kneeling on the step below her to brace a hand on her back.
“Serves you both right,” Mrs. Gilpe says tartly, stepping around Gwen to hurry up to the hall for towels to clean her up.
Gwen gasps in air as her stomach finally calms. Vomiting in a corset and hoopskirt is something else. She supposes at least there aren’t layers and layers of ruined petticoats now. Just her silk brocade skirt and lining. She wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand, feeling woozy and horrible.
Father gives her a soft smile and takes out his handkerchief to wipe off her face, like he did when she was small. When he was alone with a little girl to raise. No wife. No comfort. Just crying and begging and annoyance.
And here they are again, alone together.
“No more port for you,” he says and Gwen laughs, startled.
“You’re not sick,” she says, going for a whine that comes out more like a hoarse whisper.
“No, but I’m taller and I’ve much more experience. Maybe this will teach you not to try and keep up. You’re impressive enough at two glasses, you didn’t need five.”
“You let her have five glasses?” Mrs. Stelm asks, appearing at their side with a towel. She pats over Gwen to mop up most of the mess.
“I’m sorry,” Gwen tells her, even as she lets Father and the disgruntled Mrs. Gilpe get her up to standing.
“He should be sorry,” Mrs. Gilpe mutters.
“And you do know better,” Mrs. Stelm adds.
Gwen could hug her for at least admitting she has fault in this mess. She knew she was drinking too much. But it hurt less to drink than to listen to Albie’s uncle wax poetic about Meredith and the upcoming wedding and how they’re all heading for the country immediately afterward. She’s not a child. She’s a stupid, hurting adult, and she’s gotten what she deserved from this, heartache and painful family revelations and all.
Father wraps his arm around her waist to steady her. “I’ll help Gwennie to bed. Thank you for taking care of us. We promise not to worry you again, don’t we?” he asks, nudging Gwen gently.
“We promise,” Gwen parrots.
Mrs. Gilpe simply stares at them blankly before taking the soiled towels from Mrs. Stelm. She marches around them and down the stairs toward the laundry. Father sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck.
“A bottle of whatever has you both sloshed wouldn’t go amiss,” Mrs. Stelm says, winking at Father before following Mrs. Gilpe.
Gwen sags against Father’s arm and he blows out a breath. “All right. Let’s get you to bed,” he says.
Gwen nods and together they shuffle their way up the next staircase and down Gwen’s hall. She’s breathing heavily, ribs and stomach sore, throat raw, and he’s not particularly stable, but they’re both much more sober than before. She doesn’t know how he does it, but losing whatever was left in her stomach helped, disgusting as it was.
They make it into her room without killing themselves. Gwen looks around, noting the folded clothing on her dresser and vanity, the rearranged makeup and hairpins, the orderly bed—a maid came in and cleaned. It didn’t look this way when she left last night. It was a sty. It’s been a sty for weeks.
“All right, let me do the laces and such, and then I’ll turn around,” Father says.
Gwen turns to allow him to undo the eyelets at the back of her relatively simple frock. The silk may be fine, but it’s a boring navy that’s now dotted with—ugh, better not considered.
Father steps back and busies himself pouring her a glass of water as she slips out of her overdress and wrestles herself clumsily out of her hoopskirt. She hears Father snickering as she bumbles around and has half a mind to toss the soiled overdress at him. She lays the dress over her vanity chair and lets the hoop collapse by the armoire.
She makes clumsy work of her corset and then slips into her housecoat. She does up the sash before falling gratefully into her bed.
“Decent?” Father asks.
“Yep,” Gwen says, glancing over to find he’s chugged half her pitcher of water. “Hey, I want some of that.”
He laughs and passes her the glass before sitting down at her hip where she’s propped up in bed. “Are you feeling better?” he asks.
Gwen takes a few swallows and places the glass down with a wobble. “Yes,” she says, though it’s clear she’s not fully sober yet. Her limbs feel uncoordinated.
“We’ll do better,” Father says, laying his hand on her calf on top of the comforter. “Find some activities that involve less alcohol, hmm?”
“Agreed,” Gwen says softly. “Though, if you still want to go to the club, you can, you know. You’ve been home a lot,” she says, watching as he frowns. “Not that I mind.”
“I suppose I haven’t felt much like talking politics, but I should check in, round up the yea votes one last time. Perhaps if you’d like to attend a few teas with Lady Meredith?”
Gwen nods, even as the very idea gives her a headache. But they both have their roles to perform. “I’ll be better, I promise.”
He smiles and leans in to brush her cheek. “You’re perfect just as you are. Don’t let the society mothers tell you otherwise. And when you’re not so drunk you’re vomiting, you’re a delight. We’ll find you someone someday. I’m sorry it couldn’t be Miss Demeroven.”
“Me too,” Gwen admits, her chest hitching.
Father nods and leans back, patting her leg again. “All right, I say we sleep until noon, and then take a promenade, looking our best and brightest.”
Gwen blinks. “Won’t—only if it’s cloudy?”
Father grimaces. “Good thought. Better yet, we’ll sleep until one and then spend the rest of the day in the library. Bribe Mrs. Stelm with some of that port to get her to make your sick-day soup and play chess. And tomorrow we become respectable members of the ton again. Deal?”
“Deal,” Gwen says, shaking the hand he extends before he stands.
He smiles down at her and then turns and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind him. Gwen stares at the door, half wanting to follow after him—to ask, to know—did having her ruin his life? His mistake—was it worth it?
But her head is still swimming a little, and he loves her, that much is clear. However she happened, however he married her mother, he did it. And it’s them against the world. She’ll live up to her bargain, be a polite society lady for the rest of the season, only mildly tipsy and making sober mayhem.
So she’ll be a failure four times running. Maybe she’ll really get a medal, or a plaque.
* * *
Four nights later, as she stands with Albie and Meredith in the grand Yokely ballroom, she desperately wants to renege on her promise. Meredith and Eloise are going on about ribbon colors and taper heights, and Albie’s been talking to Prous for the past ten minutes about locomotives, with Bobby chiming in on his other side.
All Gwen’s had to do is stare around at the crowded ballroom. Of course it’s grand, with its massive chandelier and shiny marbled floor. The white-paneled, two-story walls make the space feel endless, and she supposes all the flowers are beautiful. She’s been itching to slip out into the gardens for about an hour, but Albie won’t leave Meredith, and Bobby’s already tipsy. She doesn’t think Father would approve of her getting drunk with him a second time.
At least not here, at the ball of the season. Everyone who’s absolutely anyone is here. The dancing never seems to stop, and the mothers all have a crazed, predatory look in their eyes. They’re approaching the last month of the season, and it’s eat or be eaten now.
She’s glad at least to be with friends. When she entered, she was forced to dance with two of Father’s compatriots from his smoking club before she could excuse herself and steal away.
She promised Father she wouldn’t drink. But when Beth Demeroven steps up to their circle with Lord Montson, greeting Eloise, Meredith, and Annabeth with smiles but giving Gwen only a brief flick of the eyes, Gwen decides to sod her promise. She’s about to take Albie’s drink when he nudges her and she realizes in her desperation to numb the pain, she’s missed Montson addressing her head on.
“Apologies, I couldn’t hear,” Gwen says, dipping into a short curtsy.
“I asked if you were quite recovered,” Montson says and Gwen swallows, tightening her jaw.
Apparently after the last public ball Albie began a rumor that he dragged Gwen and Father out because they were both ill with food poisoning. How he managed it, Gwen doesn’t know, given that they were both clearly drunk and not at all poisoned. But it seems to have stuck, and she’s been waving off concerns all evening.
“Quite,” she says, keeping her voice light.
She can feel Beth’s eyes on her but can’t meet them. Instead, she goes to step back, eager to excuse herself. Only Albie’s grip on her elbow stops her, preventing her from being rude to one of the highest-status young men in the room, even if he has stolen the love of her life. Blasted Albie.
“Was it the fish?” Beth asks.
Gwen feels Albie’s hand tighten around her elbow and she turns her gaze to meet Beth’s. “No. I think it was the chicken,” she says as politely as she can manage.
“Funny, I had the chicken and I was perfectly fine,” Beth continues.
Why is she pushing this? “Well I’m glad. No one should be put through food poisoning. Dreadful business. Lady Meredith, you mentioned your uncle once served a rancid trout but the dog got to it first, didn’t he?”
She turns to find Meredith staring back at her, a bit agog. “Um, yes. It was horrid. We had to put him down, actually.”
She’d forgotten that the end of the story was tragic. “Right.”
“Good thing we don’t do that to people, eh?” Montson puts in.
The group titters as they all shift uncomfortably. She’s sure no one knows exactly why the air now feels so heavy, but it’s clear they can all sense the tension.
“It is a good thing we don’t murder the ill, yes,” Albie agrees, elbowing Bobby when he lets out a startled laugh. “Though I suppose the practice is more to ease suffering than punish animals for falling sick.”
“Wouldn’t that be a world,” Montson says.
“Actually, they did used to murder people for being sick. It’s a large part of how the plague was eradicated,” Beth chimes in.
She shrinks a moment later when all of the eyes in the circle swing to hers. Gwen fights against laughing. Beth is just so stupidly funny and charming. It’s terribly unfair.
“Quite right,” Montson manages, looking a bit alarmed at his future bride. “We should all be grateful there’s no longer a plague.”
Beth opens her mouth, and Gwen oddly hopes she’s about to go on one of her rants about plague isolation islands. But this isn’t a month ago, and they’re not tipsy and pressed up against the wall. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Beth says instead, meeting Gwen’s eyes. “You’ve been ill a lot recently. I do hope you’re firmly on the mend.”
Gwen meets her look, that momentary hope seeping out of her. Is that a veiled reference to her drinking? “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll get over the last of it soon enough,” she says, feeling a swell of both pride and pain as Beth’s look hardens.
“As long as you stay away from the source, I suppose that’s the natural way of things,” Beth says.
“The source stays far from me now,” Gwen returns.
Albie’s hand slips higher up her arm, squeezing, but Gwen’s attention is firmly on Beth’s disapproval.
“Are you being stalked by a disgruntled, diseased chicken?” Montson wonders.
Gwen forces a laugh for his sake. “No, no, just . . . sometimes it seems while I’m avoiding further disease, it’s actively seeking me out, like it’s drawn to me, somehow.”
“Perhaps it can smell weakness,” Annabeth puts in.
“That must be it,” Meredith adds quickly.
“Or that I’m ready to fight it when it comes,” Gwen counters, not liking the insinuation that she’s at fault here.
Lord Montson and Beth approached her circle, after Beth made it so abundantly clear that any association with her would ruin her engagement. Is she supposed to take the high road, when Beth’s flaunting her new, happy life in her face?
“And how would you fight it?” Beth prompts.
“Oh, I can think of a number of ways to—”
“Montson?”
Montson turns and takes the hand of a tall, mustachioed man. “Rodgers, good to see you.”
“Your father sent me to fetch you, if your lovely fiancée can spare you for a bit,” the man says.
“Yes, of course,” Montson says immediately. “You’ll keep Beth entertained, won’t you?” he asks the group.
There are nods around the circle. Montson smiles before setting off with Baron Rodgers without even a glance at Beth. Beth watches him go and then looks back at them, putting on a brave, unbothered face. But Gwen can see the cracks. Her world has narrowed now to just Lord Montson, and without him, what does she have? Who does she have?
It makes Gwen feel just a little bit mean.
“I’m sure it’s very important, whatever they’re talking about,” Gwen says, and even she can hear how snide she sounds.
“Yes, it’s about the Matrimonial Causes Act, I’m sure,” Beth returns. “Lord Montson’s working hard with his father to see that it doesn’t pass. Your father is desperately trying to hold on to his votes, I expect?”
Gwen curls her fists into her skirts, even as Albie keeps hold of her arm. She knows Beth supports the act. Remembers her saying everything could have been different if Lady Demeroven could have escaped her father’s hold. How dare she throw it around so casually—like the act passing wouldn’t also protect her from the miserable life she’s bound to have with Lord Montson. The man just abandoned her to a group of people his father has forbidden her from speaking to. Hardly a great protector.
“He certainly hasn’t struggled to get them. The lives of unhappily married women and women to be unhappily married depend on it, don’t you think?” Gwen tosses back.
“All right, I can’t do this anymore. Let’s go to the gardens. It’s stifling in here,” Albie says, a little overloud.
“I need the lavatory, actually,” Meredith says, exchanging a very unsubtle look with Albie before grabbing Annabeth and Eloise and marching them off.
“You two, outside, now,” Albie says gruffly, nodding to Bobby to escort Beth while he all but manhandles Gwen around and toward the open patio doors.
“What are you doing?” she hisses as he marches her outside and into the cool night air.
“You and Miss Demeroven are going into the gardens and you’re going to have whatever this is out. We’ll distract Montson if he shows back up. It’s dark, no one will notice, and I’m frankly sick of you either being drunk or depressed.”
Gwen gapes up at him as he hauls her to the mouth of the hedge maze, more expansive and grander than the Harringtons’. The very sight of it sends shivers down her spine with memories of the last time she and Beth—she can’t do this.
“You can let go,” she hears.
She turns and finds Bobby looking awfully sheepish while Beth shakes out her arm. “Sorry,” Bobby mumbles.
“In, both of you,” Albie directs, waiting with his arm outstretched toward the high green walls. “Come back when you can be civil.”
“I can’t,” Beth says, looking a bit pale.
“We’ll tell anyone who asks that you’re in the lavatory, and then with Meredith. No one will know,” Albie insists.
“And if I won’t?” Beth challenges.
“Yeah,” Gwen adds. “Suppose we all just stand here until Lord Ashmond spots us, what then, Albie?”
She means it as a taunt to her cousin, to highlight the futility of his ruse, but Beth groans and strides straight into the hedge maze. Albie grins and gestures for Gwen to follow. That wasn’t the outcome she wanted.
Albie raises an eyebrow and Gwen gives her own frustrated sigh, stalking after Beth. Who is she kidding—of course this is what she wanted. She’s just not sure what to do with the opportunity now that everything’s so horribly broken.