33
Eliza felt disjointed, on the journey back to Russell Square. The threads tying her to normalcy had been cut again, by herself this time, and though the world around looked the same as it had done minutes before, everything was different. Eliza was rich Lady Somerset no longer. It was done. There was no going back and she did not want to—but how was she to proceed from here? She still had five hundred pounds a year to her name—her jointure could not be taken away from her, and that was something. It was sufficient, at least, to rent a small house, and pay for her essential expenses, though the life she had so much enjoyed of late, of careless expenditure and new dresses and shining carriage horses, would be behind her.
Perhaps she could set herself up as a portraitist—earn a living, as some gentlemen did? Eliza bit her lip. She would not know where to begin. I should think you perfectly able to meet such challenges, Melville had said to her once, and though the mere thought of Melville had a rush of bitter anger rising up within her, Eliza still found herself sitting a little straighter. She could do it. She could—she would—do it all.
Whatever serenity Eliza had achieved by the time she walked into the breakfast room of Russell Square was shattered immediately by Lady Hurley.
“Oh, Lady Somerset, thank goodness you are home!” she moaned, jumping up from her seat to wring Eliza’s hands.
“Whatever is the matter?” Eliza asked.
“It is Miss Balfour,” Lady Hurley said, lowering her voice as a maid entered with a tray. “She did not arrive home last night.”
For a moment, Eliza was sure she had misheard.
“From the masquerade?” she said faintly. “No, no! She was to accompany you home in the carriage.”
But Lady Hurley was shaking her head, and Eliza felt her heart begin to pound, sickeningly.
“We left before her—she said she would be escorted by Lady Caroline once the dancing had finished,” Lady Hurley said miserably. “But her bed was not slept in.”
“You left her with Caroline?” Eliza demanded. “Does she know where . . . ?”
“I do not know where the Melville house is,” she said. “And I cannot very well find out without all sorts of questions.”
“Have the carriage brought around,” Eliza interrupted, not caring if it was rude, and dashed up the stairs before Lady Hurley could reply.
There was nothing to worry over. Margaret had been with Caroline, and Caroline would not let anything happen to her. This was all a simple misunderstanding. Something they would laugh about in years to come, she was certain.
Eliza pushed open the door to Margaret’s bedchamber, hastened over to the writing desk, and began riffling through it. She discarded a note from Margaret’s mother and a theater program and—there! Caroline’s handwriting—and, at the top of the billet, their address. Berkeley Square! She dashed back down the stairs and past Lady Hurley, who was wringing her hands in the entrance hall.
“I shan’t be long!” she called over her shoulder and leapt into the carriage, calling, “Berkeley Square!” to the driver, willing him to go as fast as possible.
I ought not have left her there. This was not Bath, where every person was an acquaintance, every locale only a stone’s throw away from their home, and every event as safe as houses. It was London, and even though Margaret was going to be all right—certainly, she would be all right—still, Eliza ought never to have left her.
Eliza veritably hammered upon the Melvilles’ door to be greeted with the second baffled butler of the morning.
“I am afraid,” the butler said, “that my lady is taking breakfast—and not yet accepting visitors.”
But by now Eliza was quite au fait with forcing herself into homes. She could hear Caroline laughing somewhere close.
“She will accept me,” she declared, ducking under the butler’s arm and pushing the door open.
“My lady!” the butler yelped, scrambling after her. “My lady!”
Eliza had already walked inside, taking two hasty steps into the room and—
“Oh, thank goodness,” she breathed.
For there was Margaret, sitting next to Lady Caroline at the breakfast table, sipping at a cup and leafing through a broadsheet. Neither lady was yet fully dressed for the day; they were instead both wearing very modish dressing gowns—had Eliza not been so dreadfully relieved, she might have blushed.
“Good morning, Eliza,” Margaret said. “I did not know we were expecting you this morning.”
“We were not,” Caroline said. “How awfully modern, to barge in unannounced.”
Her voice was just as languorously amused as usual, but today the effect was quite different for the curve of her lips was far softer, her eyes were brighter—and Margaret, next to her, was smiling so hard it looked as if it hurt.
“An early French lesson?” Eliza said, falling into a chair without asking, and laying a trembling hand to her brow.
It was all right. She was all right.
“Of a sort,” Margaret said, cheerily.
“Did you not think a note might have been considerate?” Eliza demanded. “I was halfway to thinking you murdered!”
“Such dramatics so early in the day,” Caroline murmured into her chocolate.
“I wasn’t thinking,” Margaret said—in explanation rather than apology. “A strategy that has served me rather well.”
Caroline brushed her fingers softly over Margaret’s wrist. Eliza sat up. She had intruded enough.
“I will let Lady Hurley know she may rest easy,” she said. “That the hour was too late to wake the household—or—or something.”
“Oh, send a note and stay to breakfast,” Margaret entreated her. “There is far too much for just us to eat.”
It was tempting, for Eliza had been awake for hours now, and the repast was a handsome one—soft bread rolls and several fragrant meat dishes Eliza did not recognize—but now the panic had faded, her heart had quietened, and her hands were no longer quite as clammy, she was cognizant that Melville might appear at any moment. When she was worried for Margaret’s safety, such an encounter of course did not weigh with her, but now Margaret was demonstrably more well than Eliza had ever seen her, Eliza would rather avoid it. The day had been full enough already.
“He is not here,” Caroline said, reading the direction of Eliza’s thoughts exactly.
“Oh?” Eliza said, much relieved. Much relieved and yet also, somehow, the tiniest bit disappointed—which was exactly why she needed to leave now, because even to be here was to feel confused.
“He left for Russell Square only a few moments before you arrived,” Caroline said.
“To speak to you,” Margaret added, as if this was not clear enough.
Eliza’s breath tried to catch—she would not let it.
“We have already spoken at length, last night,” she said stoutly. “There is nothing further to discuss.”
“If you say so,” Margaret said dubiously. “I shall see you at Russell Square anon.”
Eliza slipped past the butler a little sheepishly—he was standing guard at the bottom of stairs as if concerned she might chance a robbery—and out onto the street. Lady Hurley’s driver had disembarked from the carriage to confer with one of the footmen across the street, and, catching sight of Eliza, he hastened back toward her, just as a curricle came clattering around the corner, drawn by a pair of prancing greys, and driven by Melville.
“Let us leave now, quickly,” Eliza called to the driver, holding out an arm expectantly to him—the steps to the carriage were too high for her to reach alone.
Melville pulled to an abrupt stop ahead of her and leapt down. He was wearing no hat, and in his hand was clasped a sealed billet.
“My lady,” he said breathlessly. “I have just come from Russell Square.”
“Congratulations,” Eliza said. “I am just going there.”
“May I escort you?”
“I already have a carriage.”
Melville took a hurried step forward. He looked drawn, tired and—though his caped driving coat, Hessian boots and buckskins were all very fine—a little disheveled, for his neckcloth was loosened as if he had been tugging upon it. This, however, inspired irritation rather than sympathy in Eliza; when she had not slept well, she appeared drawn and jaundiced, and it was unjust that Melville in fatigue should remain so appealing
“Eliza—” he said quietly.
“Lady Somerset,” she corrected.
“Lady Somerset,” he agreed. “I only wish to apologize.”
“Your apology did not go well yesterday,” Eliza pointed out.
Melville winced.
“I behaved abominably,” Melville said. “I only wish to speak with you—with no expectation of forgiveness—and I come with hat in hand.”
Eliza’s eyes flicked up to Melville’s bare head.
“Metaphorical hat,” he added, with the tiniest of smiles—and Eliza scowled. She would not be appeased by humorous chatter and a becoming appearance. She was not so easily manipulated, anymore.
“I would have refused to see you, had I been home,” she said.
“I expected as much,” Melville replied. “It is why I wrote a letter, too.”
He held out the billet. Eliza did not take it. She knew well what a beautiful writer he was; no good could come of reading such a letter. Melville let his hand drop.
“Lady Somerset—please, could I just escort you back to Russell Square?”
Eliza sighed, fiddling with the buttons on her pelisse. She was so tired, but . . . After all the bravery of this morning, was this to be the moment she quailed? Eliza nodded without looking up. She spared a moment to inform Lady Hurley’s driver of her intention, bidding him tell his mistress that all was well, before accepting a hand up into the curricle without further words.
“Would you like to drive, or shall I?” Melville asked, very politely.
“They are your horses,” Eliza said.
“So they are,” Melville agreed.
He set them off at a brisk pace. Melville inhaled sharply as if he were about to begin speaking, paused—subsided for a moment—and then began again.
“I owe you . . . many apologies,” he said. “Last night, I was so afraid you might run off at any moment, that I became overcome with a sense of haste. Of course, of course, you may demand of me any question you wish.”
Eliza eyed Melville narrowly. His words were too fluent.
“I have breached your trust. I must earn it back,” he added when she still did not speak.
“Who has knocked such sense into you?” Eliza asked.
“Ah—Caro,” Melville said. “Then Margaret. Then Caro again.”
Eliza snorted.
“And are you merely repeating lines they have fed you?”
“No, no!” Melville said. “It is how I feel: I want you to ask me whatever you need.”
Eliza pressed her hands to her face. It was far more difficult to remain angry with a calm, humbled Melville, and if Eliza could not hold onto her anger, then she would instead have to be dreadfully afraid. She could not bear to feel any of her hurt renewed. It was already painful enough.
“It does not have to be now,” Melville said, as they drew onto Russell Square and he slowed his horses.
“Oh, but it might as well be,” Eliza said, face still half-hidden. It was pointless—truly pointless—for to repair even a friendship on so rotten a set of foundations was inconceivable, but Melville would plainly not cease until they had lain the whole to rest. It would at least, surely, spare them from having to revisit the conversation yet another time.
“Perhaps not quite the spirit I was after,” Melville murmured, unable to prevent himself from funning even now, but he turned the horses obediently and headed instead for Hyde Park.
“Everything you told me,” Eliza said, “about my talent—about your admiration for me . . . Did you mean it?”
“I did,” Melville said, jolted back into seriousness. “I do. What you have been able to achieve, even in the short time we have known each other? I think it glorious. And I don’t just mean the portrait.”
Eliza gave a little jerk of the head—not quite a nod, not quite a shake.
“And did you . . . did you tell the Selwyns about the portrait?” she asked.
She was not sure why this mattered so—the idea that while she had believed this a secret shared between her and Melville, Lady Selwyn might have been smirking and aware the whole time—only that it did. There was a beat of silence in the carriage. Eliza regarded the side of Melville’s face. If he tried to sell her on a pretty untruth, then she would know.
“I was going to,” Melville said, slowly. “I cannot pretend otherwise, I was going to. But I did not. It felt too much a betrayal.”
It would have been. Eliza let out a slow breath. The image playing in her mind’s eye, of the Selwyns and Melville cloistered, sniggering, together, faded a little—as oil paints did, under direct sunlight.
“You said you loved me,” she whispered, so softly she could barely hear herself over the rattling of wheels and hooves.
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you mean it?”
“Yes.”
“When did you . . . when did that begin?” she asked.
“I do not know that there was one single moment,” Melville said softly. “I was drawn to you from near the moment we met. That was never a lie. You were so guarded and I wanted to know you. To find out what you thought—what you wanted—under all that propriety and carefulness.”
Eliza could not have torn her eyes away from him if she had tried. She did not try.
“It took me a while to understand. It was far too easy to lay the cause at the Selwyn scheme’s doorstep, but I began to realize that—that it was your eye I wanted to catch, when something amusing occurs; your opinion I wanted to hear, always. It’s with you I want to share all my secrets, you I wanted to walk with, sit beside, dance with,” Melville continued. “It was always you—big and small—and the hours we spent together, in that tiny parlor, are amongst the happiest of my life.”
He looked at her sidelong.
“Does that answer it?”
And it did, but . . . Eliza was not sure it was enough.
“I want to believe you,” Eliza whispered, her eyes full. “I just . . . don’t know how.”
“What if I tell you again? However many times you need to hear it.”
“Difficult to do from Paris,” Eliza noted, swiping a hand across her face.
“I am not going to Paris,” Melville said.
“You are not?”
“How could I—when you are here?”
Eliza’s breath caught. He was saying everything she most wanted to hear—everything that she had not known she needed to hear, too.
“I have no fortune now,” she said, because part of her, even now, still wondered if this was why. “Somerset has taken it away.”
“He has?” Melville demanded. “Why?”
“The gossip, the rumors—someone saw us dancing,” Eliza said. “And I have not been well-behaved, this fortnight.”
“I shall go to him. I shall make him see it is all my fault,” Melville said at once.
“I already have,” Eliza said. “He said he would restore it, if I promised to relinquish all ties to you. I told him I would not.”
Melville pulled his horses to an abrupt stop, in the middle of Hyde Park.
“Eliza . . .” he said, rather wonderingly. He did not sound dismayed, or unsettled or alarmed. He was looking at her as if she had just offered him the most precious gift in the world.
“It was not for you,” she said. “It was for my freedom—my independence—myself.”
“And brava indeed,” he said. “But . . . was it for me, just a little?”
Eliza stared at him. He was very still, hardly looked to be breathing. She had that feeling again, of standing upon a precipice, of making a decision that would affect all that came after. It was hers to make, hers entirely.
“Yes,” she whispered, her heart beating so loudly it almost drowned out her voice.
“Oh, thank God!” he said. “I had thought, after last night, there was no hope at all.”
“So did I,” she admitted.
He dropped the reins to reach for her.
“Would you think me the worst brute alive if I said I was glad that your fortune is gone?” Melville said, squeezing her hands between his.
“No,” she whispered, throat constricted. “But it might make you the worst fortune hunter in history.”
She smiled, tremulously, to show she was joking.
“Impossible,” Melville said. “I am the very best in everything I do.”
The curl in Melville’s mouth was back. Eliza had missed it.
“Perhaps it is a very good thing I was not painting your ego,” Eliza said. “It would never have fitted upon the canvas.”
Melville laughed, louder than the joke warranted.
“Marry me, you darling thing,” he said.
“I have only five hundred pounds a year to my name, now,” Eliza warned him.
“I don’t give a flying fig,” Melville said, eyes searching hers. “Marry me.”
“We shall be dreadfully purse-pinched,” Eliza said.
“We are two of the most extraordinarily clever, talented and beautiful people I know,” Melville said. “I am confident we shall find a way through. Marry me.”
“Very well,” Eliza said.
“Very well?” Melville repeated, grinning. He let go of her hands to grasp at the reins again and set the horses off at a rollicking pace that had Eliza grasping for her bonnet.
“Where are we going?” she asked, laughing.
“I have somewhere in mind, don’t worry,” he said. “Somewhere out of view of any gawpers.”
“Are you taking me to your assignation spot?” she said indignantly.
“It is either that or I don’t kiss you, so I am not quite sure what you expect from me,” he said.
“How many women have you taken there?” she demanded.
“Ah—I should prefer not to say,” he said, drawing up between two trees, in a private little copse. “Though I assure you, you are the only one of them I have proposed marriage to.”
“Melville!” she said, half laughing, half berating.
“That is not my name,” he said, taking her hands in his, and tugging her very gently across the seat toward him.
“Max,” Eliza said, shyly.
He grasped her head gently in his hands.
“I am going to do my very best,” he said, “to make you the happiest woman alive.”
“That sounds a little unrealistic,” Eliza said.
“Have you not heard that I am widely considered brilliant?” he said, brushing his thumb across her bottom lip very gently.
“Ah, but that is scurrilous gossip, no more,” Eliza said. “You should not believe everything you hear, my lord.”
They were laughing when they kissed—she could feel the shape of his smile against hers and smiled wider still, too happy to care that she was hindering rather than helping the endeavor. But then Melville pressed a hand to her jaw and tilted her head to the left and parted his lips and—
Well, a great many things felt more important than talking, after that.