27
Eliza did not leave Camden Place for a week. To leave would require assuming a socially acceptable veneer and Eliza . . . Eliza had been cut wide open. It was not a wound she could hide for the sake of small talk. And so Camden Place became her harbor, as it had been since the very moment of their arrival, and within its walls, Eliza crumbled as she had never done before.
The loss of both Melville and Somerset in one night, in one fell swoop, felt unfathomable, and at first Eliza could not parse which pain belonged to which loss. She wept for the loss of both of them, for the life she had thought she would have with Somerset, for the months of joy she had thought was hers with Melville, for the love she had given up and for the love that had never truly been real in the first place.
“It was all a lie, Margaret,” Eliza whispered to her cousin, on that first night. “It was all a lie.”
They were lying in Eliza’s bed and Margaret was stroking her hair. She had not asked Eliza if she’d wanted company—indeed, since the moment she had found her, crumpled on the drawing-room floor, she had not left her side.
“I am so sorry,” Margaret said, wiping the tears gently from Eliza’s cheek with her thumb. “I am so sorry, my darling.”
Eliza hung onto Margaret’s hand as she fell asleep, in the vain hope it might anchor her, and when she woke the next morning—so early the sky outside was only just light—their fingers were still wound together. Eliza stared vacantly up at the ceiling as dawn broke, not moving a single muscle in her whole body.
Who was she now, Eliza wondered, if the person she had become was built upon falsities? What did it make her? Not wanting to make herself small, for Somerset, seemed faintly ridiculous, for she was smaller now than she had ever been. Smaller than the mousy Miss Balfour he had fallen in love with, smaller even than the feeble countess she had used to be before Melville had dusted her off and made her feel shiny again.
She was not an artist, really, for how could she know, now, if she had any talent at all? Perhaps she was as bumptious as Mr. Berwick, blundering about with no sense that she was being laughed at behind her back. If she had ever thought herself desirable, for having two gentlemen fighting over her, then what was she now that she had neither?
The ceiling had no answers for Eliza, but still she continued to regard it.
“Shall we go down to breakfast?” Margaret whispered when she woke—seconds, minutes or perhaps hours later, Eliza did not know.
“No thank you,” Eliza said politely. She would stay here in bed a little longer, she thought. Perhaps it might be her home forever.
The ceiling turned yellow, pink, purple and blue with the light as the day passed, Margaret returning at intervals with tea or lemon cakes or a magazine she might enjoy—and Eliza did her best to sip, nibble and leaf obediently, for it was not Margaret’s fault that things had turned out so dreadfully, and really, she ought not be forced to caretake in such a way on her remaining days of freedom. But neither was Eliza capable of looking after herself—or rather, she probably was capable, it was just that she did not care, anymore. She simply could not fathom feeling anything but hurt ever again and there was, as yet, no part of her that felt ready to try.
It took two more days for Margaret to begin to lose her softly-softly approach toward Eliza’s depression, and on the fourth day, Eliza found herself positively dragged from bed, stuffed into a loose gown and chivvied down to the drawing room.
“I might have an easier time with Lavinia’s baby!” Margaret remarked tartly, trying to make Eliza smile, but Eliza could only look balefully about her.
Both Melville and Somerset had been in this room, frequently and recently. There was not a direction Eliza could gaze in that did not remind her of one of them, and she felt a hot rush of rage that they had managed to taint the sanctuary she and Margaret had built for themselves here. Hurt, at long last, gave way—very briefly—to fury. Eliza lasted only an hour downstairs that day before she was overcome by fatigue and had to retreat, once more, to her bedchamber, where she ordered the shutters to be closed and the fire doused, so that she might be left in the dark to try to find the sleep that was eluding her.
By the fifth day, Eliza was able to remain downstairs for several hours—and the kernel of pride she felt at the achievement was morbidly absurd. Sorrow had made her the invalid she had once pretended to be—indeed, never had there been a time when Eliza had felt more like wearing black and taking the Cure, than now. Either one of these heartbreaks would have felled her. Two—both—seemed frankly excessive.
The door nudged open, and Perkins came in, bearing a tray.
“Perhaps we might have the fire lit, Perkins,” Margaret said.
“I shall send Polly up presently,” he nodded. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “There is a visitor downstairs.”
“If it is Lord Melville,” Eliza said, “tell him to go.”
Melville had called on Camden Place every day that week, and Eliza had refused to see him upon every single instance.
“It is not Lord Melville, my lady, but Lady Caroline,” Perkins said calmly.
Eliza’s refusal was on the tip of her tongue, but Margaret—seated across from her—was not able to hide the yearning in her eyes. Eliza took in a ragged breath.
“I will not stay,” she said. “But show her up, Perkins.”
“Are you sure?” Margaret began.
“Yes,” Eliza said, though she could not tell if it was true.
She did not even bother patting her hair into place and when Caroline appeared in the doorway, looking predictably stunning in a gown of primrose-colored sarsenet, trimmed entirely around the bosom with a quilling of blond lace, she felt a rush of petty irritation toward her.
“Good morning, Eliza, Margaret,” she said crisply. “What a fine mess my brother has made.”
There was to be no dancing around the subject, then.
“I imagine you have a lot of questions,” Caroline said, regarding Eliza directly.
“No,” Eliza said. “No, I don’t, actually.”
If she had wanted more of an explanation, she would have accepted Melville’s visit. She did not. For what could he say that would change the facts as they stood? And what could Caroline possibly tell her that might make Eliza feel better? Nothing. Eliza stood. She found she could not look at Caroline any longer. Blameless though she might be, she was still too much of a reminder of Melville to bear.
“I am afraid I cannot stay, Lady Caroline—do you mind if I leave you with Margaret?”
“Of course,” Caroline said. “But—wait.”
She pulled a letter from her reticule and offered it to Eliza. Eliza did not take it.
“What is it?” she asked guardedly.
“It is regarding the Summer Exhibition,” Caroline said. “Your portrait has been accepted. Congratulations.”
Eliza stared at the billet. It was so odd. Not a week ago such news would have thrilled her. She would have been delighted beyond belief. Melville would have been delighted, too—would have declared he had known, all along, that she could do it and here was the proof. Would he have been lying? Would his deception have extended even to sharing in Eliza’s celebration?
Eliza’s stare finally left the billet in Caroline’s hands. Twenty years of desiring such an accolade and now . . . Now it was just one more thing that had been sapped of joy. Eliza forced her legs to move and made for the door without saying anything further. She shut it firmly behind her, but as she did so, her vision darkened just slightly at the edges—it had been so many days since she had exerted herself, and she had stood up far too quickly. Reaching for the wall, she steadied herself against it for a moment, breathing deeply.
“Did you know?” Eliza heard Margaret say, through the door.
“Of course I did not!” Caroline said. “I would never have agreed to it, which is exactly why I should imagine Melville kept it a secret. If she would just let him explain . . .”
“What is there to explain?” Margaret said. “We know everything. Melville was having an affair with Lady Paulet, Paulet discovered it and Melville was in dire enough financial straits to require a new patron. It may explain Melville’s motive, but it does not excuse his actions.”
Her indignant voice was a little muffled by the closed door, but still audible to Eliza from where she was leaning. Vision returning, Eliza straightened, about to make her way upstairs until . . .
“It was not Melville who had the affair with Lady Paulet,” Caroline said quietly. “It was I.”
Oh. Oh.
“Why then does everyone think . . . ?” Margaret said.
“We could not exactly tell the truth, could we?” Caroline snapped, as if Margaret were particularly stupid. “It seemed better to let Paulet assume Melville had been her lover, but we had not predicted his rage. It would take a large investment for any publisher to stand up to him. Hence, the Selwyns’ arrange—”
“Do you still love her?” Margaret interrupted. “Lady Paulet?”
This was not for Eliza to hear. She moved quietly away from the door, toward the stairs, and was just about to climb them when she saw one of the housemaids, Polly, ascending from the other direction, heading toward the drawing room.
“Polly,” Eliza whispered. “What are you . . . ?”
“Perkins said I am to light the fire, milady,” Polly said, a little nonplussed to find her mistress lingering upon the stairs in such a way.
“There was a time,” came Caroline’s voice through the door, and though she had lowered her voice even further, her words were still faintly perceptible.
“We do not require it,” Eliza hissed. “Not now.”
Obediently, Polly turned back around. Eliza looked wildly up and down the stairs, with more energy than she had felt in days. How likely was it that another member of the household might be sent to the drawing room—to deliver refreshments or some other errand? Lady Caroline and Margaret’s voices were quiet enough to not be overheard unless one was hovering directly outside, and Eliza trusted her servants to be above eavesdropping, but was it enough to risk such a discovery?
No. Eliza planted herself before the door, standing guard.
“There was a time,” Lady Caroline was beginning again. Eliza tried not to listen, but . . . “When I thought I would love her for the rest of my life. But that was before I met you.”
Eliza heard Margaret give a little sob and her heart squeezed with bittersweetness.
“You as well?” Margaret whispered. Her voice was shaking.
“Of course me as well,” Caroline said, in an impatient way that was so quintessentially her that Eliza smiled, despite herself. “I have been waiting—”
But Eliza would never know for what Caroline had been waiting—for reasons Eliza could not hear, though she could well guess at, Caroline’s words broke off abruptly in the middle of her sentence. At the very bottom of the stairs, Staves the footman crossed the hallway and just as Eliza was about to wave him away, he redirected toward the kitchen.
The quiet from within the parlor lingered for one, two, three more beats then, “I leave for Paris next week,” Caroline said softly.
“Paris?” Margaret said.
“I have finished my novel,” Caroline said. “I am hopeful of publishing this year. Paris was always my plan.”
“Yes . . . of course,” Margaret said, though she sounded as if the breath had been knocked out of her. “Perhaps when you return . . .”
“Come with me,” Caroline said urgently. “You can practice your French, properly, and see Paris, and if we get bored we shall simply go to Brussels or Frankfurt or wherever.”
Eliza pressed her hand to her mouth, willing Margaret silently—but as powerfully as she could—to say yes. To seize such a future as Eliza had not been able to.
“I cannot,” Margaret said. “My family . . .”
“You would give up a chance at happiness, with me, for a family you cannot stand?” Caroline demanded incredulously.
Eliza privately agreed.
“They would never forgive me,” Margaret said. “And I would have nothing to fall back on if you and I—”
“You would have Eliza, would you not?”
Yes, Eliza thought fiercely, she would.
“It is not just that. How would it—how would we . . .”
She sounded very young, all of a sudden, as she stammered.
Caroline sighed, and her voice gentled. “To our friends—to those we trust—we might tell the truth. And to the rest, we would just be very, very good friends.”
“And we would be accepted, by society?”
“We would be discreet, of course, but Paris is more liberal than London.”
“Discreet enough to avoid rumors?” Margaret said. “To keep the secret from even the servants?”
“I trust my household wholeheartedly,” Caroline said, a faint note of reproof entering her voice. “There will always be those who will not receive us, if they suspect, but I did not think you cared so much for others’ opinions.”
“I do not,” Margaret protested quietly. “There is just so much to consider . . .”
“I have so much to show you,” Caroline said. “Margaret, come with me.”
Eliza imagined Caroline would be holding Margaret’s hands entreatingly—as she herself had done to Somerset, as Melville had tried to do to her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the memories.
Say yes, Margaret.
“I do not know,” Margaret said, her voice small. “I . . . I must think. Can you delay going, even a little?”
There was a pause so long that Eliza half wondered if it would ever be broken.
“I have spent a very long time, waiting,” Caroline said. She sounded very tired, all of a sudden. “I vowed never to do so again.”
“You must understand my concerns,” Margaret entreated. “Tell me you understand.”
“I do understand,” Caroline said. “But I cannot stay. I cannot wait.”
“Not even a little? For me?”
“I love you, Margaret,” and now there was a fullness to Caroline’s voice that spoke to tears. “But I just . . . For once, I should like to be chosen first.”
“But—”
A long pause—a kiss?
“I hope we meet again,” Caroline said.
“Don’t—don’t go!”
“I must.”
The sound of footsteps upon the floorboards. Eliza sprang from her guard up to the next landing and watched as Caroline exited, pausing outside the door a moment to breathe deeply. And then she left.
Eliza walked slowly down, feet as heavy as her heart. Inside the room Margaret was sitting alone upon the sofa, eyes dry but face very pale.
“Are you . . .” Eliza began, hardly knowing what she meant to ask, but Margaret shook her head.
“I am all right,” she said. Her voice was very high. “I am all right.”
“Very well,” Eliza said. She sat down next to her.
“I am all right.”
“It would be all right, if you were not all right,” Eliza said very softly.
“She would not wait for me,” Margaret said, voice very constricted.
“She cannot stay here, if she is to publish again,” Eliza said. “Her life would be made too difficult.”
“I know,” Margaret said, her chin wobbling. “I just . . . I just thought I was going to be braver.”
And Eliza might not have felt, these past days, any real sense of who she was anymore: whether she had been right to refuse Somerset, whether her love for Melville had been at all real—but before all of that, she had been a friend. That she had not lost. She leaned over to wrap Margaret tightly in her arms and Margaret—who Eliza had not known to weep since she was ten years old—burst into great, gulping tears and pressed her face into Eliza’s shoulder.
“I do not want to be in Bath anymore,” she said into the front of Eliza’s gown. “I just can’t be here anymore.”
“All right,” Eliza said, squeezing her tighter.
“I don’t,” Margaret said again.
“All right.”
“Can we just go? Anywhere else?”
“Of course,” Eliza said; she would have agreed to anything Margaret asked, in that moment. “Of course, I shall think of something . . .”
Her eyes fell upon the billet Lady Caroline had left on the table—the acceptance from the Royal Academy.
“Perhaps . . . London?”
Balfour House
Kent
10th April ’19
Eliza—
Lavinia has entered her seclusion, so we are expectant Margaret will be needed imminently. As your first year of mourning has now ended, will you have the goodness to inform your mother the date you mean to return to Balfour? You must indeed have had your fill of the Cure by now—I do hope you are not to become one of those sickly women forever struck by ailments. One must press on, Eliza!
Your mother