Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Lord Weavington!” Ophelia exclaimed. “What are you doing here!”
Abraham’s smile was wide, but not as contagious as the first time she’d seen it. Still, she mustered up one in return.
“My apologies, Lord Weavington,” she said quickly, “That came out wrong. I was just surprised when our butler informed me that it was you in our parlor.”
“No need for apologies, Miss Wexley,” he assured her with a kind look, “And please, call me Abraham. Your reaction is extremely warranted as I gave no warning that I would be visiting today.”
Ophelia’s small smile stayed in place as she waited for him to continue.
“You had mentioned at the Duke of Caldermere’s birthday celebration that due to your poor father’s poor health it was hard to schedule a call, so I thought I would take my chances with an impromptu visit,” Abraham explained.
Ophelia’s brows rose in surprise, and she bit her bottom lip to stop the words she wanted to say.
Your chances are poor. Please leave.
While she had been dazzled by the handsome older gentleman at the ball a week and a half ago, he had lost his luster by their second conversation at Alistair’s party.
He had made her laugh quite a bit first, yes, but soon, his interest moved more toward her father and her appearance.
Though worded politely, his questions and compliments had put her on edge, which was why she had been more than comfortable with his sudden departure from the party.
“Well that was…bold of you,” Ophelia managed to say in a polite tone.
“How is your father faring today?” Abraham asked with a quickness and sincerity that threw her off. “I do hope better than he was last Saturday. You did seem so very worried for him.”
“Um, well,” Ophelia asked, glancing toward her maid.
The poor woman shrugged, as if not knowing how to help. And why would she? Ophelia had never received a suitor before.
“Her father is faring quite well,” John Wexley stated, announcing his presence.
Ophelia’s shoulders lowered with relief as she heard her father’s voice, and turned in time to see him and Mr. Potter walking into the parlor.
It still bothered her to see him using a cane now, what with his balance still not quite right- but Ophelia was greatly relieved that he was no longer bed bound.
“Yes, quite well,” she agreed, standing aside so that John could meet Abraham. “Lord Weavington, may I introduce my father, Johnathan Wexley, Viscount Whitebridge? Papa, this is Abraham Blackwood, Viscount of Weavington.”
“An honor to meet you, Lord Whitebridge,” Abraham offered politely, “I have heard splendid things about you.”
“You have?” Ophelia and John asked in surprised unison.
“Oh, yes, your name still circulates in regards to your excellent business acumen,” Abraham replied.
Ophelia and John shared a tense look before John let out a chuckle.
“Well, it is good to hear that I am still being held in such high regard even though I am retired,” John replied.
Ophelia pressed her lips together at the lie.
That was what they had been telling society for years now as John attempted to recover his lost fortune with overseas investments.
That, and John’s decision to no longer attend social events where he could be questioned, had helped cover their dark secret- that they were cash poor.
“Again, I apologize for the late call,” Abraham offered, “But my plans for the evening were canceled and I thought I would pop in to introduce myself and pay my respects to your lovely daughter. Her presence in society has saved me from many a droll conversations and has earned her a gift.”
A gift?
Ophelia looked around the parlor. Flowers, she assumed were a standard gift, but there were no bouquets in either Abraham’s hands or atop the various table tops.
“Well, that is kind of you, Lord Weaving-”
“Abraham, please,” he interjected.
Ophelia drew on a stiff smile.
“-Abraham, but I assure you a gift is not necessary,” she finished.
“Oh, but I believe it is,” Abraham replied, smirking as he reached into his inner jacket pocket.
Ophelia felt her father grab her wrist as Abraham pulled out a dark blue velvet box the size of his hand from his jacket, and her own heart began to thud wildly in her chest. Surely it would not be a ring?!
She opened her mouth, trying to form her words of protest into a proper sentence, when Abraham opened the box for her.
The sight of the thick golden chain with a large gold rose pendant inside made her weak with relief.
Not a ring. A necklace. Still overly extravagant- and a bit gaudy compared to Ophelia’s usual taste in jewelry- but not so worrisome as a ring.
“Oh,” she breathed, “How lovely.”
As she said so, flashes of the dress Alistair had bought for her flickered through her mind.
She had adored that dress. It was different and daring, but it was still her.
Annoyance sizzled through as she thought of its tattered pieces tucked away in her room.
She wasn’t just annoyed that he had ripped her dress.
She was annoyed at how little she’d cared when Tristan had done so, and how strangely confused her heart had been after she’d left that evening.
How her heart had remained in that state ever since.
She had tried, at Alistair’s party, to be her usual self with Tristan, and she believed that had been fairly successful in showing others that nothing had changed between them.
The problem was, though, was that something had changed.
Even if no one else could see so. Even if Tristan did not see such things. She felt it.
“Lovely indeed,” John agreed, pulling Ophelia from her distracting thoughts.
“Again, it is but a small token of my appreciation,” Abraham said, offering the opened box to her.
Though still feeling hesitant, Ophelia eventually reached for the gift being offered, and drew it from the box.
Wariness passed through her body as she picked up the heavy piece of jewelry and inspected it.
It felt cold in her fingers. Foreboding somehow.
She felt a chill pass through her and immediately reprimanded for being so silly.
It was a necklace. Not an omen or a cursed object.
“It is beautiful. Thank you,” Ophelia finally said, placing it back into the box.
She did not miss the look of disappointment that passed through Abraham’s eyes as she chose not to put it on, but for some reason, she could not bring herself to put it around her neck. She forced her smile a little wider, hoping that it would ease the man’s bruised feelings.
“And thoughtful,” John added, “It has been too long since my daughter has been gifted such a bauble. I believe it has earned you a seat at our table for the evening, if you wish it.”
Ophelia barely managed to disguise her surprise at her father’s offer to Abraham as the man quickly and amicably agreed to join them.
Ophelia picked at the slice of pear tart on her plate as the conversation at the dining room table drew into an awkward silence.
The meal had started off well at first, with Abraham and John talking animatedly about business.
However once Abraham shifted the subject toward Ophelia and started showering her with compliments, she began to grow uncomfortable.
Her father, as well, did not seem too keen on what he was hearing, and after the first half-dozen or so praises on Ophelia’s appearance, he had stopped agreeing with Abraham and only gave polite nods.
She had felt differently when Abraham had first discussed enjoying her art.
Flattered, even. However as he spoke prose about the shade of her hair and the slope of her nose, she now only felt a growing awkwardness.
It was now clear that Abraham was in serious pursuit of her.
It was also clear to her now that she wanted no such chase to occur.
“What a pleasant evening this has been,” John stated as the latest bout of silence stretched toward discomfort, “However I am an ailing man, and I am afraid that I must be so impolite and draw it to a close. Ophelia? I am not feeling well, darling, and I would most appreciate your help up the stairs.”
Ophelia wanted to rain kisses down on her father for his words and eagerly rose from her seat.
“Of course, Papa,” she replied with haste, then gave Abraham an apologetic smile as she put her hands on John’s shoulders.
“Yes indeed, I apologize for extending my stay so late in the evening,” Abraham offered, rising from his chair.
“No apologies necessary. Thank you so much for your visit, Lord Weavington,” she said politely as she helped her father stand. “Would you mind so terribly much if our butler escorted you out? As my father said, he needs my help getting up the stairs.”
“I would not mind at all,” Abraham replied with a slight bow, “But please, do remember to call me Abraham.”
“Of course,” she quickly agreed, though made a point of not stating his name.
Farewell pleasantries were exchanged between the three of them then Mr. Potter arrived to escort Abraham to the front door. Ophelia and John waited, standing still side by side for several seconds after he had departed, then John turned to her with a stern look.
“No,” John stated, his tone rather emphatic. “I know I stated that I wanted you married before I go but he is far too old and strange for you.”
Ophelia let out a burst of laughter as she hugged her father’s shoulders, relieved to know for certain that they felt the same way about Lord Weavington.
“Do not worry, Papa,” she comforted, “I most certainly agree with you.”
“I am going to return that necklace,” John insisted as she began to help him toward the stairs, “He seems like a man that could cling too tightly to an idea, and I do not wish him to cling to this particular one.”
“You are right, of course,” Ophelia agreed. “I should not have accepted it in the first place. I will return it to him at the earliest convenience.”
“Trust me, darling, he was not going to allow you to refuse it tonight,” John replied, “Nor would he accept it if it were you attempting to return it. No, I must handle this. Gentleman to gentleman.”
Ophelia bit into her bottom lip, hating that such a thing was true. She did not like or want the necklace, so why could she not just say so? Why did such a message have to come from her father?
“Yes, Papa,” she said with a sigh.
“Tell me,” John urged as they reached the second floor landing, “Have you taken on any other suitors besides this gentleman?”
Tristan’s face flashed in her mind, making her pulse flutter. Still, she shook her head.
“No,” she replied. Tristan was not a suitor. Nor would he ever be.
A heavy disappointment struck her suddenly as she came to such a conclusion, plunging her mood right back toward discomfort. Suddenly feeling as if she needed to be alone, Ophelia was relieved when Mr. Potter caught up with them and offered to help John get ready for bed.
She silently blessed the man who had taken on the role of butler and valet since their financial troubles had started without complaint.
“Do not give up hope, my darling,” John said as they reached his bedroom door, “A gentleman more suited for you will make himself known. I am certain of it.”
Ophelia gave her father a wan smile, then kissed his cheek.
“You are right of course, Papa,” she agreed, not wanting to dampen his spirits with the truth.
After they said their goodnights and parted ways, Ophelia went to her own quarters and rung for a bath.
She felt strangely dirty after the evening’s events and wanted nothing more than wash the sensation away.
It was while she was waiting for her tub to be filled by their two remaining maids that Ophelia discovered another red envelope waiting for her on her writing desk, sitting neatly atop a black box wrapped with a black ribbon.
Her heart began to race as she saw it. Without even opening the envelope she knew who it was from.
Tristan. Calling her back to the Masquerade to finish the final painting…
and perhaps finish something else. Despite the night’s awkwardness, Ophelia found herself smiling at the package and envelope, as if its presence relaxed her somehow.
“Oma?” Ophelia called into the bathing room.
The maid popped her head out of the room, then hurried toward Ophelia.
“Yes, Miss Wexley?” Oma asked, holding the empty bucket.
“When did this arrive?” Ophelia asked, rubbing the black ribbon tied around the box.
Oma’s brown brows drew down as she frowned at the package.
“In truth I do not know,” Oma said. “How strange. Perhaps I should ask one of the one of the footmen? Though I do not know why they would bring it to your rooms. They know they are not allowed in your quarters. I shall speak with Mr. Potter straightaway.”
Ophelia kept her smirk inside, knowing that it was no fault of her staff that the package mysteriously appeared in her rooms. Tristan’s guards were blindly obedient and one of them had no doubt found a way in.
Such knowledge should have disturbed her.
Made her angry. Yet all she felt over such an invasion was a tingling thrill.
“No need to go to such measures,” Ophelia assured Oma, “Now that I think of it I believe I brought this up myself. Please, take no notice to my absentmindedness. I apologize from taking you away from your work.”
“No apologies necessary, my lady,” Oma offered, looking relieved at Ophelia’s explanation. “We are nearly finished filling your bath. I shall get back to it straight away.”
Ophelia murmured her thanks and took the package and a lamp into her closet.
She opened it with growing anticipation, and gasped as she pulled the new dress out of the box.
The cobalt blue silk gown had an overlay of fine black lace, and followed the same over-the-shoulder design as the gown she had worn to the ball where she had danced with Tristan.
She pressed the gown to her bosom as her eyes caught something sparkling at the bottom of the box, and she reverently reached down a hand to pick it up.
It was a glittering, delicate silver choker; just long enough to wrap tightly around her throat.
Her heart throbbed as the thin, cool metal warmed instantly in her palm. It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was…her. Ophelia drew it around her throat without a second thought, then tore open the red envelope.
One last night.
Tomorrow at 10.
Be ready.