3
In her seven and twenty years, Eliza had done very little to offend, displease or even surprise polite society. There was something exceptionally thrilling, therefore, about their escape from Harefield Hall; although it took two weeks to plan, though each member of the Balfour family had been warned by letter of their decision, and though they were to travel in a sedate Somerset carriage, it still felt to Eliza quite as illicit as if they were hightailing to Gretna Green on a mission of elopement.
“Did your mother write again today?” Margaret asked, as they climbed into the carriage, Eliza’s lady’s maid, Pardle, following behind. As the journey was not long—under twenty miles—and the February morning so bright, Eliza had opted to have the barouche deliver them to Bath, so they might enjoy the warmth of the sunshine upon their faces. Their luggage had gone ahead of them in the company of Perkins and two housemaids, who were the only other members of the household Eliza had taken with her. Having deprived Harefield of its butler—which she should not have done had Perkins not specifically requested it—she had felt too guilty to claim any more of the hall’s servants than this.
“There will certainly be a letter waiting for us when we arrive,” Eliza said.
Predictably, none of the Balfour clan had been pleased with their decision, but bolstered by Margaret’s rallying and the fictional excuse of a doctor’s recommendation, Eliza had remained steadfast. And when none of Mrs. Balfour’s letters—ranging from the scolding to the pleading—had proven effectual, permission for Margaret to accompany her had been given, however reluctantly, until Lavinia’s child emerged and Margaret would be fetched away.
“And have you had anything yet from Somerset?” Margaret asked.
Eliza did not reply, pretending to arrange her skirts around her. With hot bricks at their feet and blankets upon their laps, they would be comfortable until they paused for refreshment, but Eliza had still worn her warmest—and dowdiest—dress for the journey: another black robe, long in the sleeve and high in the neck, with a thick woolen cloak and an unwieldy traveling bonnet that made it rather difficult to turn her head.
“You still have not written to him?” Margaret guessed. “Eliza!”
“I will!” Eliza promised defensively. Somerset’s approval of the scheme was, of course, of equal importance as Mrs. Balfour’s, for only he had the power to remove her fortune; and yet, though Eliza had sat down to pen the letter a dozen times, on each instance she could not write a single word. How was one supposed to write a formal note to a gentleman with whom one had once exchanged love letters?
“I will write as soon as we arrive,” Eliza vowed.
She took one final look back at Harefield’s intimidating sprawl. She could remember, vividly, how alarming it had appeared to her, on the first time she had arrived—seventeen years old and trembling with nerves, worrying that she might be murdered within it. But she had survived and today she was emerging not as the timorous Miss Balfour, nor a diffident wife, but as the independent Lady Somerset.
“Let us go, Tomley,” she instructed with as much command as she could muster and they set off at a brisk, slightly lurching pace. Eliza’s usual driver had been taken ill, and the more youthful Tomley had a more cavalier way with the reins—Eliza winced a little as they jolted over a divot in the road; it was a good thing neither she nor Margaret were prone to travel sickness.
“What are you desirous of doing first?” Eliza asked Margaret a little way into the journey, as she opened her portfolio. It was expected that any lady of quality should cultivate accomplishments, but under the influence of her grandfather, a respected member of the Royal Academy, Eliza had received an unusually advanced artistic education—though it had not equipped her to draw in a barouche that was bumping over every irregularity of the road.
“Of course we will be severely limited by your mourning—not that I blame you, of course . . .”
“Your understanding is appreciated,” Eliza said absently. Ought she to advise Tomley to slow down? This would be the first significant journey she had undertaken without either her father or her husband to manage proceedings, and she was not sure how involved she ought make herself. The road had truly become very narrow—surely such speed was inadvisable?
“. . . but that still leaves a great deal open to us. The Sydney Gardens, of course, and the Pump Room—I say, Tomley, look out!”
There was a large pothole in the road ahead, just ahead of a sharp turn. Tomley pulled the horses wildly to the right in order to avoid the pit at precisely the same moment a post chaise came thundering around the corner. The collision was at once fast and slow: Tomley wrenched the horses around and the other driver tried desperately to pull his to a stop, but it was too late, contact was inevitable. Their wheels scraped sickeningly together, splinters of wood flying into the air above, and Eliza and Margaret grasped desperately onto each other as the barouche ricocheted in the opposite direction, and their seat cushions, blankets and reticules went flying over the sides.
The barouche teetered once, twice, and seemed on the point of turning completely . . . before it at last righted itself with a resounding crash. Both carriages came, at last, to a standstill, and there was silence—save for the comically peaceful noise of birds twittering in the trees above.
“Are you all right?” Eliza gasped.
“I—I think so,” Margaret said, reaching up to adjust her crooked bonnet.
“Pardle? Tomley?”
“Yes, milady,” Pardle whispered, clutching the sides of the barouche with white knuckles.
“My apologies, milady, my apologies,” Tomley babbled, as he leapt from the carriage to see to the horses, who were dreadfully spooked, their eyes rolling and their mouths frothing. Across the road, the other driver was doing the same.
Eliza ran her hands down her arms, as if—nonsensically—to check all her limbs were intact. Miraculously, both she and Margaret appeared uninjured, though Margaret was pale under her freckles and Eliza felt herself begin to shiver violently.
Into the silence came the slow creak of a door being opened, and a man stepped out of the other carriage. He was tall, with dark curling hair and a brown complexion and—unlike Eliza and Margaret’s dishevelment—the only evidence of the crash upon his person was the angle of his hat, which had slipped from rakish to precarious. He looked about the scene with an expression of mild astonishment, taking in first his driver, then the barouche and then, finally, Margaret and Eliza.
“Do you mean to rob me?” he asked, more curious than alarmed. “Is this a stand-and-deliver moment?”
Eliza stared at him. Had she hit her head in all the commotion?
“N-no, of course not!” she stammered out.
“Do you mean to murder me?” he asked.
“Certainly not!” Eliza said. What on earth . . . ?
“Then what the devil do you mean by it?” the gentleman said, brows furrowing. “I was in the middle of a very peaceful nap, you know.”
Eliza gaped at him, speechless. Who on earth was this man? His skin suggested Indian descent—unusual in so rural a setting—and the private chaise spoke to affluence, so perhaps he was a wealthy merchant, en route to a nearby city? But a merchant would not speak to her in such a way.
“We did not intend to!” Margaret said indignantly.
“He was driving at a shocking pace, milord!” The man’s driver, having calmed his horses, was now jabbing an accusatory finger at Tomley.
“So were you!” Tomley retorted.
“Shall we agree the fault was shared?” Eliza suggested hastily, before tempers could rise any further.
“That verdict feels a trifle premature,” the gentleman said, a smile beginning to curl his mouth, as if he were tempted to find the whole incident rather amusing. “Ought the jury not properly hear the evidence before we deliberate?”
“I am glad you are finding this so entertaining, sir!” Margaret said tartly.
“As am I,” the man agreed. “A sense of humor truly is man’s greatest treasure.”
Eliza reached up to adjust her bonnet, dazed. This was not at all the serene journey she had planned, and if she had thought tears would help matters, she might have begun crying already. By now they ought almost to have reached Peasedown and be looking forward to a restorative repast—not stranded in the middle of nowhere, having conversations with a strange gentleman so unusual as to border upon the lunatic.
“Tomley?” she said. “Are we able to continue?”
The coachman shook his head.
“The spokes on the left wheel are quite snapped,” he said, examining them with a critical eye. “But not to worry, my lady, Peasedown is only three miles away. I shall take one of the horses and return directly with a wheelwright!”
“And leave us here?” Margaret said. Even if Eliza were not in widow’s weeds, it would not be ideal to be left stranded and unprotected on an open road—as it was, it felt distinctly improper. But what choice did they have? Eliza raised her eyes to the heavens.
She would not weep. She would not weep. But why was it today that such a disaster had to occur, just when she had resolved to make a new start?
“Far be it for me to insert myself,” the gentleman’s voice interrupted her reverie. He still, infuriatingly, sounded a little amused. “But as my carriage seems to be wholly intact—indeed, mortifyingly so—may I offer you ladies transport to, ah, Peasebury or Peaseton, where you might rest out of the cold?”
It was tempting, and even as Eliza considered it another shiver ran through her—as if her body was in agreement with him—but she shook her head in refusal.
“You are kind to offer, sir, but I cannot accept,” she said.
“I am kind to offer,” the gentleman agreed. “And I am afraid—and I beg you will not think me boorish—I must insist. I cannot leave you here upon the road.”
“But you must,” Eliza said.
“I cannot,” he said. “It is against the gentlemanly code of honor they made us all memorize at Eton. ‘One shalt not leave damsels on the road, to be eaten by bears.’ ”
Eliza wondered vaguely if she was concussed.
“There are no wild bears in England,” Margaret pointed out.
“You will have to take that up with Eton,” the gentleman said gravely.
“You are a stranger to us,” Eliza said. “It would not be proper.”
“Why, that is easily resolved with an introduction,” the gentleman said, sweeping a magnificent bow. “I am Melville.”
Margaret gave a start. Tomley made an audible choking noise.
Oh. Of course.
The Melville family was one of the oldest lines in British aristocracy, and each new generation seemed to eclipse the last in infamy: the seventh earl, “Mad Jack,” was famed for frittering a fortune away at cards; the eighth earl for first running away upon his eighteenth birthday and then for returning a decade later with an Indian noblewoman for a wife. In keeping with family tradition, the ninth and most recent Lord Melville’s romantic entanglements appeared almost weekly in the gossip rags, yet he and his sister, Lady Caroline, had become just as renowned for their literary exploits: Lady Caroline for a loosely fictional political novel and Melville for the romantic verses that had held women throughout the ton spellbound.
Eliza looked Melville over, deciding that he was certainly as handsome and as well-formed as so often described, though not—as she had always imagined—carrying a cutlass. She could see now, too, that while he was dressed casually rather than elegantly, the exquisite cut of his riding coat, the shine of his top boots and the high crown of his beaver hat all proclaimed the beau monde. Her eyes traveled back up to his face, at which point she realized, from the raise of his eyebrows, that in her shock she had made no attempt to mask her obvious perusal of his person.
“Well?” Melville said, spreading his arms as if to encourage inspection. Eliza flushed. “Do you accept my benevolent and generous offer?”
“My lady, if I may—I do not think it proper,” Tomley said in hissing undertones. Pardle gave a fervent nod of agreement.
Eliza hesitated, at an utter loss. On the one hand, association with such a notorious flirt—one might even say rake—was certainly undesirable. On the other, they could not very well linger here on a public road, in the cold, for the hours it might take Tomley to return. She looked over to Margaret, who gave a tiny, helpless shrug. It was up to Eliza to decide, then.
“His late lordship would not want—” Tomley pressed, which clarified matters.
“His late lordship is not here, however,” Eliza said. “It is my decision, and . . . and I would not like to tarry any longer. Tomley, if you would help us alight from the carriage you may follow with the horses and procure the wheelwright’s services.”
“Allow me . . .” The earl offered Eliza his hand and, in a trice, both the ladies and Pardle were handed into the chaise which was blissfully comfortable, and after a brief pause Melville followed, handing Eliza her mud-splattered portfolio before settling himself in the seat opposite.
The carriage drew off. There was silence, as Eliza and Margaret stared at Melville. Eliza cudgeled her mind for something of interest to say but drew an utter blank.
Fortunately, Melville seemed more than able to carry the conversation.
“Where are you ladies traveling today?” he asked politely.
“Bath,” Margaret supplied. “We are removing there for the remainder of my cousin’s mourning.”
“Oh, of course—I ought to express my sympathies,” Melville said.
Eliza was not yet sure how to respond to such condolences. To make a parade of loss, when her grief so differed from society’s expectation, felt crass—and yet to make no display at all would be considered unseemly.
“Thank you,” Eliza said after a pause. “And where are you bound, my lord?”
“Oh, hither and thither,” he said. “Today, of course, it has been more thither than I should like—you are an artist, then, my lady?”
Eliza did not immediately comprehend the change in subject, until she followed the direction of his gaze to her portfolio.
“I should not describe myself in such lofty terms,” she said.
“Whyever not?” he said. “You clearly have talent.”
“However do you suppose that?” Eliza asked, surprised.
“The book was open,” Melville said. “I could not help but see. You capture the likeness of . . . ?”
He paused, a questioning lilt in his voice, and Eliza realized with a jolt of mortification that they had not introduced themselves.
“My apologies!” she said, her cheeks reddening. “I am Lady Somerset, and this is my cousin, Miss Balfour.”
Melville inclined his head.
“You capture Miss Balfour’s likeness very well,” he said.
Eliza did not know what to say to this, so opted instead to change the subject.
“We admire your poetry very much, my lord,” she said.
It must be the thousandth time he had been told such a thing, but Eliza was not literary enough to think up a more insightful compliment.
“How marvelous of you to say so,” Melville said courteously.
“We are most impatient to read your new work,” Margaret added, a cajoling note in her voice. “Do you know when . . . ?”
Melville had published Persephone in ’17 and Psyche in ’18—both romantic retellings of ancient texts—and all were on tenterhooks for his next publication.
“It appears your flattery was simply a ploy to incite me into a revelation,” Melville said. “I am afraid my answer will not please you: I have not written anything new.”
“Why not?” Eliza asked before she could prevent herself—an impertinence she immediately regretted, for Melville’s brow was now raised.
“Inspiration eludes me,” he said briefly.
“Perhaps you might be inspired by today’s adventure,” Margaret suggested slyly. “And we will find that your next volume begins with a carriage crash—or a chariot crash, I suppose.”
Eliza shot Margaret a remonstrative look. Could she not see that Melville wished the conversation at an end? But Melville appeared more comfortable with Margaret’s line of questioning than Eliza’s.
“Oh, even a chariot crash should be too pedestrian for my heroines,” he said, amused. “Perhaps after the chariot crash they might be rescued from a murderous mob by an erstwhile warrior? If my fair lady will forgive the artistic license?”
He looked toward Eliza, lips curled and eyebrows raised in playful inquiry. Eliza stared. Was he flirting with her? Surely not. Regardless, he seemed to expect a reply, waiting expectantly as if he thought Eliza about to pull a suitably amusing, or coy—or even interesting—remark out of thin air, but alas . . .
“I am not fair,” she said.
“So you are not,” Melville agreed. “Though you will forgive me for not being able to tell, under such—ah—magnificent headwear.”
He gestured toward Eliza’s hat. Beneath it, she flushed, feeling dowdier than ever.
A thump on the roof of the carriage had them all looking up.
“It appears we are drawing into Peaseton,” Melville said.
“You have our thanks for the aid,” Eliza said, in a concluding sort of way.
“Oh, you shan’t be rid of me so easily, my lady,” Melville said. “I shall escort you inside to see you settled, while your man sees about this wheelwright.”
They drew to a final stop and Melville made as if to leap out.
“No, no,” Eliza said hastily, for as much as she truly had appreciated the rescue, she still did not think it wise that they be glimpsed by the whole village in the company of an unmarried man—and certainly not one with such a storied reputation.
“No, we shall not delay you any longer. We are perfectly capable of arranging matters ourselves,” she said.
Melville looked consideringly at Eliza for a moment.
“Very well,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “If that is what you would prefer.”
Margaret opened the door, and a postboy sprang forward to assist them down.
“I hope,” Eliza added, as Margaret and Pardle climbed down from the carriage, “I hope we may count upon your . . . discretion regarding today’s events.”
Melville’s eyebrows flew upward again.
“Do you think me likely to gossip?” he asked gently and Eliza felt abruptly sure she had offended him, now.
“N-no—it is just that,” Eliza stammered.
“I assure you, my lady,” he said. “If I am to appear in the gossip rags this week, it shall not be for so dull a reason as this.”
Eliza’s face flushed at the edge in his tone and she hurriedly accepted the postboy’s arm. Melville pulled the door shut behind her.
“Good day,” he said out of the window. “And safe travels.”
His driver set the horses off, before Eliza could respond.
“Goodness,” she said, feeling stunned.
“I shall write to my sister as soon as we arrive in Bath,” Margaret said, gleeful. “And you ought to write to Lady Selwyn—doesn’t she fancy herself a patron of the arts? She will be positively green with jealously.”
“I will certainly not be writing to Lady Selwyn!” Eliza exclaimed, coming back to herself and turning toward the inn. “We ought not tell anyone. Recollect the conditions of my fortune, Margaret, and his shocking character: my reputation is not a currency we can afford to spend.”
“What is the point of exciting events occurring to one, if one cannot boast about it?” Margaret grumbled.
• • •
A warming fire, an excellent repast and the news that the carriage would be repaired in only a matter of hours did much to alleviate Eliza’s unsettled nerves, and they arrived in Bath only a few hours delayed. As it was by this point dusk, they could not see much of the city as they drew through its streets, but as Eliza walked into the terraced house on Camden Place, their new home, she was overcome by relief. Perkins had selected lodgings that were so exactly suited to Eliza’s tastes that she could almost believe they had been built and furnished exactly for her use: with a dining room, drawing room, parlor, three bedchambers and servants quarters set across four floors, the house was comfortably elegant, light and airy, and as far from the austere grandeur of Harefield as was possible.
“Everything is quite perfect, Perkins,” she said, inhaling the delicate fumes of a perfectly brewed cup of tea. Perkins, never one for grandiose displays of emotion, inclined his head.
“Will there be anything else?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” Eliza said. Then, impulsively, she added, “Except—could the fires be lit? All of them?”
Eliza had had enough of the cold.