Chapter 8
Calliope couldn’t sleep.
She’d tossed and turned as she waited for the sun to rise, wondering if she should wear her ivory muslin or the peach lace, or perhaps the black-and-white striped gown with the matching jacket.
But no, the jacket would be entirely too cumbersome in this wretched heat.
Perhaps just the navy skirt then, with a simple linen blouse.
Did she want to look her very best so that the Earl of Hayward would hate himself and regret his alliance with Lord Wellesby all the more, knowing he would never have her now, or did she want to look as if she hadn’t tried at all, as if walking with him were a chore and not something to which she was actually, oddly, looking forward?
Stop thinking about it so much, she’d told herself.
She tried occupying herself with memories of home.
She thought of the time Lenore, Tommy, and Charlie had taken her to catch bullfrogs by the lake in Tuxedo Park and they had all come home positively drenched in mud.
This then led her to think of the camp-out they’d devised the following summer, when all four of them were to sneak out of their homes and meet in Central Park.
Tommy was to bring the tent, Charlie the lantern, Lenore the pillows, and Calliope the blankets.
Calliope had gotten the farthest before being apprehended by a constable one block from home who wondered what a thirteen-year-old girl wearing silk pajamas was doing out-of-doors at eleven o’clock at night.
For their part, her friends had all been discovered by their parents before leaving their front stoops, and the four of them were all properly lectured on the dangers of sneaking off in the pitch-dark.
None of these thoughts entertained her for long, however, before they inevitably circled back to the Earl of Hayward.
Even the memory of her and Tommy escaping to the gardens during one of her mother’s dinner parties last summer, when Tommy grew oddly pensive and asked if he could kiss her, did nothing to help, for as she remembered how underwhelming the kiss with Tommy had been (all fumbled lips and awkward feelings, like kissing a beloved brother), it only made her wonder what it would be like to kiss the Earl of Hayward.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so strange with him, but rather . . . nice.
Edward Chase.
Mrs. Edward Chase.
She actually slapped herself across the face at that one.
By the time the sun rose, Calliope was lying on the chaise next to her bedroom windows, reading the history book Madame Dupré had assigned on the Eighty Years’ War.
Although she was already familiar with British history thanks to the extensive collection housed within her father’s library, Madame Dupré was always lecturing them on how an American girl seeking an English husband needed to become more English than his very own mother.
Of course, the only one who really cared about finding a husband here was Rose.
If Calliope’s family were nouveau riche, Rose’s family were très nouveau riche, her father a rising star in the budding advertising industry.
She grew up on a farm in Connecticut and fantasized about becoming a proper English wife to a proper English husband.
Mina didn’t study at all, and Daphne only studied because she actually enjoyed learning.
Upon this score, Daphne had confided in the girls one afternoon before Madame Dupré had made her grand entrance that she had applied to Radcliffe College behind her parents’ backs, with the intention of becoming a teacher.
Unfortunately, when her acceptance letter arrived in the mail, her parents decided she should be sent away to get those silly dreams out of her head, for who had ever heard of a North stooping so low as to become a teacher?
It was decided that the only thing to do would be to send her to London to live with her aunt and uncle so she could receive a proper lady’s education and, God willing, a proper English husband.
Meanwhile, Calliope studied British history for her natural inclination to the exercise, and because doing so distracted her from the fear that she would never be able to return to her beloved New York, never see her friends again, never finish her research, and never see her work transcribed into an actual book that people could add to their own beloved libraries.
She’d brought her manuscript with her to London, along with the newspaper clippings bearing her previous articles.
But she’d already edited and sent off the two chapters she’d been in the middle of writing when her mother had booked their passage across the Atlantic, and now the second half of her book languished because she could not visit the places she was writing about nor comb through the necessary records housed within the historical society’s headquarters.
She’d sent inquiries to her fellow society members, hoping they might be able to conduct some of her research for her, but it wasn’t the same.
They couldn’t scour the records with the same practiced eye and therefore only sent scraps of details that could hardly make up a decent paragraph of an article, let alone an entire chapter of a book.
As for writing descriptions of the landmarks themselves, there was only so much she could remember about each location, and she refused to allow future articles to lack the vivid and textural details that, in Charlie’s words, had made the first half of her serial so easy and engaging to read.
And so she had to resign herself to studying British history for the time being.
Her maid, Sara, brought in a tray of café au lait and a tin of biscuits at half past seven, prompting Calliope to lay the frayed silk ribbon that spoke of centuries of use against the thick, dusty pages, marking her spot.
By eight o’clock Calliope’s hair was in a simple bun atop her head, with a few curling tendrils framing her face.
Sara added a jade comb that matched the ribbon tied around the waist of her ivory dress, a simple lawn gown without any frippery aside from the lace sleeves and collar.
She debated whether she should wear a hat or take a parasol, but she rather liked the way the comb glinted against her hair, so she chose the parasol.
Perhaps it was a bit vain, but she had decided that she wanted Edward to think she looked positively remarkable; it would make it all the more satisfying when she cut him down to size.
By half past eight, after pacing across her room one too many times, she decided she was quite famished and that she must eat something lest her stomach growl for all of Hyde Park to hear.
But when she entered the breakfast room, picked up a plate, and surveyed the poached eggs, sausage, and kedgeree steaming in silver chafing dishes atop the sideboard, she realized she wasn’t hungry after all.
At fifteen minutes to nine, Calliope stood at the window in the drawing room, her heart pounding and her hands sweating.
She wondered what this sort of anticipation would feel like if she were waiting for a gentleman she actually wanted to see.
Certainly, it would be ten times worse than what she felt now, and what she felt now was nigh unbearable.
Why was she getting so worked up, anyway?
It wasn’t as if she cared for the Earl of Hayward.
Really, she should have been dreading this encounter, counting the minutes until it would finally be over.
Instead, she felt as though the clock were moving entirely too fast, and she wondered if maybe the jade comb was a touch too flashy for a simple morning walk.
Did she really want him to think she cared about this little outing of theirs?
Because she didn’t. Not one bit. Not even the tiniest crumb of a bit. Not even—
“No more of this,” she muttered, turning away from the window. She grabbed a thick book from the side table in the hopes of keeping herself entertained until His Lordship arrived.
Ah, Great Expectations. Ironic, considering her expectations for her meeting with the earl were infinitesimally small.
At four minutes to nine—not that she was still staring at the clock—a loud knock in the entryway made her jump to her feet, accidentally creasing one of the pages. She ran her hand over the page, whispered, “Forgive me,” and closed the book before placing it back on the table.
Clasping her hands in front of her, she stared at the door.
But then the thought occurred that she didn’t want to look as if she’d been waiting for him this entire time. Perhaps she should sit back down with the book? Was it too late to run upstairs and act as though she were still getting ready, as if she hadn’t a care in the world if he showed up or not?
She started for the door.
Stopped.
Started for the chair.
Stopped.
Oh, this was silly. How could she affect a proper air of disinterest if she couldn’t even decide what to do with herself while she waited?
It was only then that she realized she hadn’t heard any voices in the entryway.
“Archer?” she called out.
The butler popped his head in. “Yes, Miss?”
“I thought I heard a knock at the door?”
“I apologize. One of the maids stubbed her toe against the baseboard. It won’t happen again.”
Calliope frowned. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant. Is she all right?”
“Yes, miss. No harm done.”
“Good. That’s . . . good.”
His brows rose. “Will that be all, Miss?”
“Yes, Archer. Thank you.”
He gave her a quizzical look as he bowed and exited, closing the door behind him.
She sighed and returned to the window.
By the time the Earl of Hayward actually did stroll into the drawing room—twelve minutes late—she had been staring at the book once more without actually seeing the pages, daydreaming about the multiple ways in which she would maim the earl for his tardiness.
So it really shouldn’t have surprised her at all when he remarked, with a tilt of his head and an amused gleam in his eyes, “That’s an interesting way to read Dickens. ”
“Huh?” She focused her gaze on the page and nearly swore.
The book was upside down.
“Yes, well, I was just . . .” What could she say? What possible excuse could she come up with for reading Great Expectations in such a fashion?
“Struck illiterate at the thought of seeing me again?”
She sucked in a breath and began counting to ten as her mother had instructed her many years ago, lest she lose her temper and say something entirely inappropriate for a lady of her upbringing.
She only made it to four.
“I thought the walk would be more enjoyable,” she replied in that same honey-venom tone she’d used on Wellesby, “if I could manage to stoop to your level of intelligence. It was quite a task to undertake in the span of one morning, but I think I’ve succeeded.”
“You wound me,” he replied, but his gaze brightened, and his cheeks dimpled as his smile grew. “Are you ready?”
“I don’t make it a habit of going on walks with men who are incapable of punctuality. I do have other appointments to keep.”
“Yes, well, when you ordered me to arrive at nine and not a second earlier, I took it as a personal challenge.”
“Of course you did.”
He stepped forward. “You see, Miss Hart, I do not like to be ordered about; I much prefer to be asked kindly. But you’ll learn that in time.”
“Do you expect us to be spending much time together, my lord?” she asked.
He offered her his arm. “The rest of our lives, I should think.”