34
Eliza left Bath for the final time on a Tuesday. And although it was for the happiest of reasons, the bright pink of Eliza’s joy was still colored a little by bittersweet blue. For today, while she was removing to London with Perkins and the rest of their household, Margaret was not accompanying her.
But nor was she returning to Bedfordshire.
“I have told Mama and Lavinia I will not,” she had told Eliza, twisting her fingers anxiously together. “They are appalled—they say they intend to never speak to me again. But I cannot deny myself a life any longer. I am going to join Caroline in Paris.”
“How will you . . . ?” Eliza had asked, not knowing quite how to phrase the question.
“Those we trust, will know the truth,” Margaret said. “Those we do not, will suspect us only to be companions. I shall have to allow Caroline to support me—she has sold the rights to Holland House for a good enough sum and as for the rest . . . we shall find out.”
Margaret took a deep, steadying breath and smiled.
“I am excited,” she admitted. “Even with the secrecy, it is a far sweeter future than I ever dreamed of.”
Eliza had not been able to speak for a moment, pulling Margaret instead into a silent embrace. She was so happy for her—so absolutely, breathtakingly happy for her—but at the same time she could not imagine being able to survive a single day without her.
“How long do you mean to be away for?” she said into Margaret’s shoulder.
“Oh, the merest moment,” Margaret said. “It will be the most trifling of intervals in our story, you know—and when I return, we will begin our next and most exciting Act yet.”
“It is to be a very long play, then,” Eliza said, voice wobbling.
“Oh, the longest,” Margaret said. “We are far from done.”
Eliza pulled back, swiping her fingers under her eyelids to catch a stray tear.
“You will have the most wonderful adventure with Caroline, I am sure of it,” she said. “It will be marvelous.”
“As will London,” Margaret said, pressing her hand. “In fact, I very much predict that Lady Melville is to become all the rage.”
Eliza smiled. She was not Lady Melville yet, but soon, she hoped. Very soon. Since that magical hour in Hyde Park, not a day had gone by without Melville appearing at Russell Square. The very next morning, he had escorted Eliza to Somerset House to take in the view of the portrait a second time—once more early enough that they were not likely to be much observed and Melville mobbed by ladies requesting his signature.
“It looks very good,” Melville said, looking up at himself. “If that is not very vain to say.”
“You, vain?” Eliza said. “Surely not.”
“You never charged me for the commission, you know,” Melville said, grinning. “How much is it?”
Eliza pretended to consider.
“Would ten thousand pounds a year suit?” she asked.
“A little steeper than I was expecting,” Melville said. “And—may I ask—is it usual to charge in yearly instalments?”
“It is perhaps better considered a rental than a purchase,” she advised.
He laughed.
“I shall have to refer you to my wife,” he said, still grinning. “I am reliably informed she is to be a famous portraitist, and soon rich enough to keep my poor fortune-hunting soul in the manner I am not yet—though dearly wish to be—accustomed.”
“Your wife?” Eliza said, raising her eyebrows. “I did not realize you had one, my lord.”
“The matter is still pending,” Melville admitted.
“Pending?” Eliza said. “You ought really to resolve that.”
“I intend to,” he promised.
They swayed toward one another, before abruptly recollecting they were still very much in public, and still very much not married.
Melville cleared his throat and turned back to face himself.
“I do wish you would not keep attempting to lead me astray,” he said primly. “I shall have you know I am not that sort of earl.”
“A pity,” Eliza said. “For I was hoping you were exactly that sort of earl.”
Melville laughed. A few persons began to trickle into the room, and many did indeed make a beeline for Melville’s portrait specifically, at which point Melville retreated so that he might not be observed. Eliza listened, again, as the audience discussed all the latest theories on the identity of the artist. It was all women’s names in the ring now, and Eliza knew better than to think this marked progress for the respect of her gender’s artistry—the rumors were circling closer to her, and it would only be a matter of time, now, before Eliza’s name was attached. She did not care.
Perhaps she would even break the news to the ton, herself, to launch a new career. Whatever scandal it constituted, it would surely be lessened by her and Melville’s marriage—one could not castigate a lady for having an affair with her own husband, surely? And even if it was not, she had everything she needed, right here, to be able to weather such storms. That did not scare her, not anymore.
“I have already had several offers from engravers,” Melville said quietly, returning to Eliza’s side as the group moved off, “who wish to be able to copy and distribute the image—and the publishers of my already printed titles will likely pay to reproduce, even if Paulet disapproves. It should constitute a solid source of capital.”
Eliza nodded.
“I will pawn my diamonds,” she whispered back. “Sell the phaeton, to hire some painting rooms . . .”
“We can sell the Berkeley Square house—find smaller lodgings,” Melville added. “Let Alderley again for the summer . . .”
The ton would discuss them, gossip, snicker at their misfortune—but that did not scare her, either. Eliza felt as giddy and as eager as if they were discussing their honeymoon, not their forthcoming frugality.
“We will manage,” she said with a fervent nod.
“We will manage beautifully,” Melville corrected.
Economy and prudence had never been so romantic. And now, there was only for Eliza and Margaret to pack up Camden Place. In contrast to the easy manner in which they had left Harefield, this seemed a task that took a great deal more time and consideration, for in the three months they had lived in Bath, all members of the house seemed to have accumulated a vast number of possessions. In the end, they had to hire two whole post chaises in order to transport everything, for Eliza was to care for Margaret’s possessions while she was abroad—and it took the better part of a whole day for the footmen to load the trunks.
It was as she was directing the removal of the easel that Perkins told her, quietly, that they had a visitor—one he had taken the liberty of showing into the drawing room. Eliza had walked downstairs and pushed open the door to find Miss Winkworth standing within—a vision in pale cambric, trailing her fingers thoughtfully over the keys of the pianoforte.
“Miss Winkworth,” Eliza said, a great deal surprised. “I had thought you still in London!”
Miss Winkworth looked up.
“I asked Mama if we could break our journey in Bath,” she said. “Tomorrow, we are bound for Harefield, for the . . .”
“Wedding,” Eliza finished for her. The announcement had been made in the papers last week. “Yes. I am sorry to not be able to attend.”
Miss Winkworth smiled, gently, as if she knew this to be a lie.
“I know that you refused to help my mother,” she whispered. “I heard what you said to her, about Arden.”
She sent Eliza a dimpling smile.
“She was angrier than I have ever seen her,” she confessed, and the prospect did not seem to frighten her as it once had.
“I wish I could have done more,” Eliza said truthfully. She looked at Miss Winkworth. It would have been indelicate to enquire after her attachment to Somerset even if she herself had not already been romantically attached to the gentleman, but . . .
“I hope,” Eliza said, “that you have been able to form a genuine attachment, during your time in London?”
Miss Winkworth’s rosy blush told her she understood Eliza’s meaning.
“I have,” she said simply.
Eliza nodded. They were well-matched, she saw suddenly, Miss Winkworth and Somerset, Winnie and Oliver. He needed someone to protect, and she needed protection. He derived value from caring, and she from being cared for. They would be happy.
“I have told Somerset he is not to contest your fortune,” Miss Winkworth said softly.
“You did what?” Eliza said, unsure if she had heard correctly. “You told Somerset?”
“I do not like to disagree with him, ever. But you have been so kind to me, and I felt too guilty to stay silent,” Miss Winkworth said, pulling a little face as if she could still not believe her effrontery.
“Guilty?” Eliza repeated. “Why ought you . . .”
“Because it was I who told him, about you dancing with Melville,” she said, head dipping down. “I saw you, that night, and I did not say anything, for weeks . . . But after your falling out, when he and I began to court . . .”
She trailed off, her face growing ever pinker.
“I wanted him, you see,” she said. “I needed him to fall out of love with you, a little.”
Eliza stared at her, a little aghast. She did not know what to say. She would never have expected any of this from such a mouse.
“You certainly achieved that,” she said, mouth dry and mind reeling. It was not that this would change anything—not that she would wish anything, in the end, had unraveled differently, but . . .
“Somerset has agreed to leave your fortune as is,” Miss Winkworth said. “I had to make myself look very sad for a while—and my mother is not happy—but he agreed.”
“You are far slyer than I thought you,” Eliza said slowly, and Miss Winkworth gave an adorable, impish smile. “Thank you, I think—yes, thank you.”
For whatever Miss Winkworth’s motives, this was a gift indeed. She would be able to retain her staff, Melville could publish Medea, they could keep Berkeley Square, she would not have to sell her possessions and—and . . .
As Eliza began to think of all the many, many ways her life was to be so much less troubled than she had prepared for, her breath caught on a gasp. She would have been all right, without the fortune. She would have been. But to be offered such an unexpected reprieve . . .
“Thank you,” she said again.
“You know,” Miss Winkworth said, “the wording in the will seems to me rather specific in any event. I wonder, if you no longer belonged to the Somerset family, the clause might become . . . a little void?”
Eliza felt certain, for a moment, that she could see the shades of the woman Winifred Winkworth would become in her face. She would do well, as the new Countess of Somerset. Fare better than Eliza had done. Find strength that it had taken Eliza until now to cultivate.
“Is there anything else I might do for you?” Miss Winkworth asked.
“I could not ask for anything more,” Eliza said, half laughing. “I—” She paused. “Actually—the landscape in the first-floor parlor of Harefield . . . It was painted by my grandfather and I would like to buy it. You may name your price.”
She could certainly afford it, now—again. Miss Winkworth nodded, dimpling.
“Good day, Lady Somerset.”
She bobbed her a little curtsey and floated away.
• • •
Less of a lamb, and more of a lion,” Margaret said, when Eliza told her, Caroline and Melville later that day but Eliza’s eyes were on Melville. He smiled.
“I can take you to Alderley,” he said, pleased—as if the news was no more life-changing than that. Eliza supposed it was not. For they could have done it, without the fortune, together, and neither would money remove all the hardship ahead. Eliza’s choice in a husband would not be greeted with unequivocal approval: at the very least, a lifetime of stares and whispers awaited them, and Eliza suspected the Balfours’ displeasure at the paths she and Margaret had chosen—at the persons with who they were aligning—would be far more vocal.
“And at least we will be well-dressed,” Melville murmured, as if in direct response to Eliza’s thoughts. She smiled, twining her fingers through his and squeezing his hand in reply.
“We must go,” Caroline said gently.
Camden and Laura Place were both empty. Two carriages stood outside, loaded with bandboxes. One was bound for London, the other for Dover.
“I shall miss you, Caro,” Melville said, grasping her hand tightly.
“I should hope so,” Caroline said, but she touched her forehead very gently to his shoulder.
The moment felt unbearably private. Eliza and Margaret drew a little away.
“I shan’t say goodbye again,” Margaret said stoutly. “I do not wish my eyes to be puffy for the journey—but you will write?”
Eliza nodded, her chin wobbling. She held out her hand for Caroline to shake, as she approached, and Caroline knocked it away with a snort, pulling her instead into a tight embrace.
“Look after him for me, will you?” she whispered into Eliza’s ear.
“If you will do the same,” Eliza whispered back.
And they were gone. Leaving Eliza and Melville alone, at last. Melville turned to her, giving an extravagant bow and a superfluous flourish of his hand.
“Your carriage awaits,” he said. “I have prepared a great many things to say to you on the journey.”
“Why am I instantly concerned?” Eliza said, smiling. “I do hope they are not improper.”
“How can they be, when we are to be very properly chaperoned for the entire journey?” Melville said loudly to the street at large, throwing Eliza a very obvious wink.
They set off not ten minutes later, and Eliza leaned out of the carriage window to watch Camden Place as it faded from view. It had been the first place she had ever been truly, completely, incandescently happy. But like all the best things in life, one could not enjoy them in just the same way, forever.
I will come back, she promised Bath. Soon.
It would always be the most splendid city she had ever seen.
“Would you prefer St. Paul’s or St. Mary’s, for our wedding?” Melville asked her, as Bath too began to fade into the distance.
“I was wondering . . .” Eliza said, removing her eyes from the window and staring toward her fiancé. One might think, with all the many, many hours she had already spent gazing at him, that she would be tired of the view. She was not.
“You were wondering?”
“How difficult is it to source a special license?” Eliza asked. “You seem the sort of gentleman who would know such a thing.”
“The aspersions you are casting,” Melville said, “I care not for them.”
He regarded her, eyes twinkling and mouth smiling. If Eliza were to paint the scene, she would use only her warmest, brightest colors—but she would not. Some moments could only be lived.
“You do not want a grand occasion, with all the pomp and ceremony we can muster?” Melville asked.
“I have already had one wedding such as that,” Eliza said. “I would rather elope.”
“I shall have to consider the matter,” Melville said. “Perhaps, now I am to be the married Lord Melville, I might decide to become dreadfully proper and dull.”
“You dismay me,” Eliza said, biting her lip to hide her grin. “For now I am to be the married Lady Melville, I have made a very different decision.”
“Is my Lady Melville to be a very dashing creature?” Melville enquired politely.
“Oh, yes—dreadfully wild,” Eliza said. “You have my sympathies.”
Melville laughed, leaning forward to kiss the smile upon her face.
“I look forward to meeting her.”