7
It took Eliza several long moments to truly comprehend what she was seeing.
“What on earth . . . ?” she whispered to Margaret.
“Stand up!” Margaret urged her, but Eliza did not hear. The unlikeliness of Somerset, here, in Bath, walking out of her house, was such that she could not believe what her eyes told her. Eliza remained bent where she was, staring.
By now, Somerset had turned at the gate and within two steps he had seen them.
“Lady Somerset,” he said, checking slightly—in surprise, presumably, at the sight of Eliza crouched so upon the ground. “Why are you . . . ?”
This, at last, galvanized Eliza into action.
She sprang up. “My lord! We were not expect—”
She moved so hurriedly that the blood rushed all at once to her head, and she tottered on her feet. Margaret made a hasty grab of Eliza’s left arm to steady her and Pardle dashed forward, hands outstretched.
“Lady Somerset!” Somerset said, stepping swiftly forward. “Are you faint?”
The chilly reserve he had exhibited at their first meeting had vanished. His brows furrowed as he looked her over, appearing almost . . . concerned?
“I am—quite well,” Eliza said, awash with embarrassment at her gracelessness. “It was just my shoe . . .”
“Perhaps we ought to take her inside,” Somerset said, speaking to Margaret over Eliza’s head as if she were approaching a hundred years old.
“Very well,” Margaret said, exchanging a baffled glance with Eliza.
“Can you walk, my lady?” Somerset asked.
“Of course I can!” Eliza said. Could a lady not have one moment of precariousness without being deemed utterly incapable? “There is no need—”
She was about to declare herself perfectly able to walk unassisted, but at that moment Somerset slipped an arm around her waist to steady her and, with a jolt, Eliza found that perhaps she did not mind the assistance, after all.
“My lady!” Perkins exclaimed in alarm as they entered the hallway, at the sight of Eliza being thusly supported.
“Perhaps some cordial could be fetched for her ladyship,” Somerset said calmly. “To be brought up to the drawing room immediately.”
Pardle disappeared obediently toward the kitchen. Eliza was torn between bafflement at the unexpected turn the day had taken, indignation at the way Somerset was ordering her servants about, and reluctant admiration for the efficient way he was organizing matters. Why he seemed so sure she was suffering with a fainting spell, she could not know, but one could not argue that he acted with decision.
He did not withdraw his hold until they had climbed the stairs, entered the drawing room—Perkins holding the door open for them—and Eliza was seated upon the sofa.
“Well, I—I thank you for the assistance, my lord,” Eliza said, a little breathless, deciding the best thing to do would be to brush past the whole encounter as if it had never happened. “I hope your family is—”
“Perhaps you had best not speak, until you have drunk some cordial,” Somerset said, firmly interrupting her pleasantries as Pardle re-entered with a tray.
Eliza accepted a glass, dismissing the maid with a smile.
“I am quite well,” she tried again to explain to Somerset. “It was only my shoe.”
“The poor honey is so confused,” Margaret said, a spark of mischief in her eye. Eliza glared at her.
“Miss Balfour, could you lay your hands on some smelling salts, in case Lady Somerset feels faint again?” Somerset asked.
“I can try,” Margaret said dubiously. “Perhaps Pardle will know where they are to be found.”
She strolled out of the room at a pace that did not inspire urgency. Eliza—giving up on making sense of proceedings—sipped obediently at the cordial, while watching Somerset from under her lashes. He took a seat on the chair opposite, but remained tense upon the edge as if he expected her to faint again at any moment.
“We did not expect you in Bath,” Eliza said, after a long pause.
“Nor I, you,” Somerset replied. “I have come directly from Mr. Walcot, who informed me of your presence in Bath—and of your health. I confess, I had no notion of your being so ill.”
Oh. Somerset’s behavior began to make sense. She knew Margaret had overdone her description of Eliza’s ill health to Mr. Walcot. Goodness knew how the man must have described her “fluralgia” in order to have Somerset come directly over, when at Harefield he could not remove himself from her company fast enough.
“It is not at all serious,” she said.
“Mr. Walcot seemed to think it very serious,” Somerset pressed.
“A misunderstanding, only,” Eliza said. “It was not serious and I am quite well now.”
She did not like to have to lie to him, but neither could she tell the whole truth.
“I am glad to hear it,” Somerset said. “The way he spoke I—”
He broke off.
“It was a little fatigue, only,” Eliza said.
But Somerset was frowning again.
“Then may I ask,” he said slowly, “why was I not informed of your departure to Bath? The seriousness of your condition would have explained the oversight—but if it is not serious . . .”
Oh dear.
“Did you not receive my letter?” Eliza asked, her voice the high squeak it always became when she had to lie on short notice. “I did write to—to inform you of the change in plan, but perhaps it was a little—ah—delayed.”
Somerset raised his eyebrows with polite incredulity.
“When, may I ask, was this letter sent?” he said.
Oh dear.
“I am not quite sure,” Eliza said. “There was simply so much to do . . .”
Somerset looked at her, his face chilly once more.
“My lady,” he said after a long pause, “I am well aware that my uncle was disappointed to have me as an heir. He made it quite clear that I was a poor replacement for a hoped-for son, which is perhaps why he never invested in my education in the running of the lands. And perhaps that is an opinion you share. However, I cannot perform my duty as head of this family if you do not respect me.”
“Oh goodness no!” Eliza said, quite horrified. “It had nothing to do with . . . I do respect you, indeed I do.”
“And yet I had to discover news of your whereabouts from Mr. Walcot, who was much surprised to learn I was not already aware,” Somerset said, voice hard. “My embarrassment was considerable, I assure you.”
Under the chastisement, Eliza began to feel like a child.
“I ought to have written sooner,” she said. “It was unconscionably rude.”
Somerset nodded, somewhat mollified.
“Do you still intend, when you are fully recovered, to remove to Balfour?” he asked.
“I . . . do not yet know,” Eliza admitted.
They were already halfway through February, and Eliza might have as little as eight more weeks of Margaret’s company before she would be needed elsewhere. As much as Eliza felt more at home in Bath with each day, the idea of remaining without Margaret, of finding a new companion, was still far too daunting to contemplate.
“I see.”
Somerset looked down to his hat, which he still held between his hands, and began to turn it slowly between them. The gesture was a familiar one. One he used to make whenever he was nervous but trying to contain it. Eliza could remember him, vividly, turning his hat the first time he had ever called upon her, at the Balfour’s residence in London.
“I know that . . .” Somerset began again, staring back at his turning hat, “that the nature of our past acquaintance causes a little awkwardness, in our present circumstances.”
“It is perhaps not an ideal situation,” Eliza said, her mouth very dry.
“It is certainly not that,” Somerset said, looking up. “And I should not like to think of that awkwardness preventing you from residing at Harefield, if you wish it. There will always be a place for you there, I promise.”
It was so like him to make such a promise. He always had been incurably honorable.
“Thank you,” Eliza said, and she meant it. “But we are happy here in Bath. It has provided a change of scenery that neither Balfour nor Harefield could have.”
Somerset nodded.
“I can understand that—I can see that it would be difficult to be so constantly reminded of him,” he said quietly.
Eliza remained quiet. She was conscious of a desire, improper in the extreme, to confess to Somerset exactly how little love there had existed between herself and her husband. To tell him that, in the years they had been wed, no warmth had grown between them, that the gulf separating them had only grown more glacial with every month that passed without a child. But it would be improper. And he would not want to hear it, anyway.
The sound of loud footsteps on the stairs heralded the return of Margaret, and as she entered, Somerset stood.
“No smelling salts?” he asked, a slight smile upon his face.
“Oh, my forgetful mind!” Margaret said airily. “You are not taking your leave already, Somerset?”
“I am afraid I am,” he said. “Pray do not stand, Lady Somerset.”
His duty seen to, his honorable mission achieved, he had no reason to prolong his visit. Eliza tried not to be disappointed.
“Do you return to Harefield tonight?” Eliza asked.
“Not tonight. I have more business to attend to with Mr. Walcot in the morning,” Somerset said, after a brief pause. He turned his hat once more in his hands, then added: “Perhaps—perhaps I may call upon you again, tomorrow, if it would be convenient?”
“It would,” Eliza said, tamping down excitement springing within her. “It would indeed.”
Somerset bowed his head. “Then I will see you tomorrow, Lady Somerset, Miss Balfour.”
The cousins waited until they heard the front door close. Then Margaret darted to the window embrasure to watch Somerset’s departure down the street.
“He is gone!” she declared. “What did you speak of, when I was absent? I tried to listen on the stairs, but your voices were too quiet.”
“Not a great deal,” Eliza said, feeling dazed. Had what just occurred, truly just occurred? “He reassured me I would be welcome at Harefield if I wished to return.”
“Which you don’t,” Margaret checked.
“Which I don’t,” Eliza agreed. “Though it was most kind of him to suggest it. Did he seem . . . concerned to you, when he thought I was ill?”
“I should say so; most worried,” Margaret said.
“And relieved, when he heard I was well?” Eliza said.
“Very relieved,” Margaret confirmed with a sharp nod.
“And he means to return, tomorrow,” Eliza said, half thinking she might have imagined it.
Perhaps, then, he did not nothing her after all. Eliza pressed a hand to her mouth, to try to prevent herself smiling. Do not, she tried to tell herself, make the mistake of becoming hopeful now. He spent half the visit chastising you, for goodness’ sake.
But he was kind, a smaller, dreamier voice protested. And he means to return.
“Do you think—” Eliza broke off.
“Do I think . . . ?”
“It’s just . . . his manner was so much the warmer, by the end,” Eliza said. “Perhaps it is a sign that he might, one day . . . forgive me?”
“He forgive you?” Margaret said with a sudden frown. “Whatever for?”
“Margaret, you know ‘whatever for.’ ”
“I do not at all understand why you still feel so guilty,” Margaret said stoutly. “It was an impossible situation for you both, but it was only you who had to bear the consequences—marrying that old goat while he remained free and unencumbered.”
“He joined the navy, Margaret,” Eliza pointed out. “I do not think you can call that free and unencumbered.”
“Oh pish, jauntering about the Atlantic with a boat of friends?” Margaret said. “Many persons would pay for such a diversion.”
Margaret’s understanding of the navy was demonstrably rather limited.
“I have always been fond of Somerset,” she carried on. “But if he still bears resentment over the matter years later, then he is certainly not worth a single thought more.”
“Perhaps we ought have a nuncheon,” Eliza said, rising from the sofa to ring the bell.
She did not want to argue. Margaret had always been Eliza’s fiercest defender and Eliza loved her for it—but she had not been there, when Somerset had heard of Eliza’s betrothal. If she had, she might better understand why Eliza still felt such remorse.
“My lady.” Perkins had appeared once more at the door. “A delivery from Mr. Fasana has arrived and it being—ah—a fair sight larger than previous, I was wondering where you might wish me to . . . ?”
“Oh!” Eliza said, recollecting the very large number and size of purchases she had made that morning. “Perhaps you ought to place them in here, for the time being.”
Perkins paused delicately. “And the easel, too?”
Eliza looked around. The drawing room already boasted a pianoforte, and the addition of an easel would make the space rather crowded—and doubtless encourage questions from any visitor that entered. Visitors such as Somerset, tomorrow.
He means to return.
“Perhaps it ought to all go in the parlor, instead,” she said, but abstractedly. “It is north-lit, after all.”
Perkins nodded briskly. With characteristic efficiency, it did not take him above an hour to rearrange the first-floor parlor: removing two chairs in order to accommodate the large easel which he had placed a little back from the window, so Eliza could enjoy the natural light whilst remaining unobserved from passersby; clearing the bookshelves to allow for all of Eliza’s portfolios, full and empty, to be arranged neatly within; and purloining a small bureau from the drawing room to house her paints. With Eliza’s mind full of agitation, it proved the perfect distraction, and while Margaret read her book, curled up upon the sofa, Eliza tested her new oils. At once, the room was filled with their sharp, acidic scent, a smell that transported Eliza so abruptly back to her childhood that she had to blink back sudden, joyful tears as she covered the canvas with a ground layer of yellow ochre. Soon she would capture Bath’s evening light with that creamy roseate and begin a portrait of Margaret with the carmine that perfectly matched her red locks; but for now, in the fading afternoon light, Eliza resealed the oils—which came in strips of bladder tied at the neck as a suet pudding—with a tack and moved back to pencil and watercolor, sketching from memory the scenes from the concert: Melville’s expression as he flirted with Lady Hurley, Mr. Fletcher’s annoyance, Mrs. Winkworth’s judging eyes.
By the time Eliza at last put aside her materials, the fire in the grate had almost burned itself out, her eyes were beginning to strain, and she felt calm enough, at last, to retire to bed.
Tomorrow, she vowed as she undressed, she would be prepared. She would not be found stooped on the ground as though she were some grubby urchin. She would be calm and collected and composed and all would go well.