Chapter 21
Calliope couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss.
She knew she should tell her friends during the intermission—she would want to be told if any of them had been passionately kissed in a darkened opera box—but as Mina lamented wearing such a flouncy dress all night, and Daphne bemoaned her hair (which had sprung completely from its pins when the soprano hit her highest note of the first act), and Rose wondered aloud why no gentleman present seemed too keen on holding a conversation with her, Calliope found that she could not speak aloud what had happened with Edward.
Not because she was ashamed, although she knew she should be, as it went against every sense of propriety, but because this feeling she had growing inside of her, like a green bud pushing up through thawing winter soil, was so new, so precious in its infancy, she wanted to keep it to herself awhile longer.
So instead, she told them she’d be spending the following week at Whitefawn and asked them to make her excuses to Madame Dupré.
“Next week?” Rose asked, her eyebrows rising toward her hairline. “That’s surprisingly soon. Surely the earl needs more time to prepare than that?”
Calliope had assumed the same thing, but Edward had dispelled that notion when the curtain fell on the first act and the lights came up.
He began by asking if she had any other upcoming obligations she needed to fulfill, to which she’d replied, “No, this was the last.”
“Any other London monuments you would like to see?”
Her lips tugged into a half-smile. “You have more than satisfied your end of the bargain, my lord. I’m afraid I would be taking advantage of your good nature if I forced you to escort me anywhere else.”
“I would, you know,” he said, quietly. “If you asked me.”
“I know,” she told him, touched by the sincerity in his voice. “But it is high time I fulfill my part of the deal. When would you like us at Whitefawn?”
“How about Monday?”
Her brows rose. “Your mother does not need more time to prepare for our arrival?”
He smirked. “You’re not backing out on me now, are you, Miss Hart?”
She stood and felt a bit mischievous herself as she leaned into him and said, “I think you can call me Calliope now.”
He pushed to his feet and looked down at her through his lashes, his eyes dark and filled with an intimate knowledge, as if he not only saw her as she truly was beneath her intricate knot of hair and expensive gown, but as the woman she would be ten, twenty, even thirty years from now—and liked what he saw.
A chill raced up her spine as he whispered, “Calliope.”
“And no,” she had said, spinning away from him so she could catch her breath. “I’m not backing out.”
“I would kill to get out of London for a bit,” Mina said now, waving herself with a pamphlet she’d folded into a fan, much to Rose’s dismay.
“I doubt you’d have to kill for it,” Rose retorted, snatching the pamphlet out of Mina’s hand and placing it on a passing empty tray, “although you may have to accept a proposal to achieve such a respite.”
“No, thank you,” Mina replied. “I’d rather London become my prison than allow a wedding ring to do the same.”
Rose shook her head, flabbergasted. “You, Mina March, are the strangest woman I have ever met. Has it ever occurred to you that marriage can be a real blessing to both parties involved?”
“Of course it can,” Mina obliged, “but you cannot refute the fact that it does require a person to alter themselves in service to the cause.”
“And you have no desire to alter yourself?” Rose asked.
“None in the slightest.”
“As fascinating as this ongoing conversation between the two of you continues to be,” Daphne interjected, “the earl is coming back, so I suggest we leave him and Calliope to it.”
As Daphne steered the girls away, Calliope glanced over her shoulder to find Edward making his way toward her, two glasses of punch in hand (she had politely declined his offer of champagne).
But his journey back was suddenly held up by a conversation with an older acquaintance who stopped Edward and patted him on the shoulder.
Calliope could not hear the words that were spoken, but the admiration in the older gentleman’s eyes was clear.
She smiled at the sight and felt her heart soften a little more toward the earl, who continued to prove himself a much better gentleman than she had given him credit for a few short weeks ago.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Lord Wellesby as, once again, she noticed him gesturing toward her and laughing with his friends. However, unlike Edward’s conversation, she was close enough to hear Wellesby’s comments.
“Grubby little title-hunter,” he remarked, something cold and almost feral in his gaze. “Do you think she’d do anything to secure a husband?”
“Perhaps you should conduct an experiment?” one of the gentlemen in his party suggested, raising a champagne flute to his lips. “See how far she’ll go to get what she wants?”
Wellesby grinned. “Perhaps I shall.”
Heat crept into her cheeks as she wondered how much longer she would be forced to endure such insulting remarks by the members of the ton.
Calliope was certain this was not the sort of reception her mother had envisioned when she’d marched her daughter onto the RMS Adriatic, full of wide-eyed optimism that their family would be inextricably linked to the British aristocracy before the end of the summer.
Was Mrs. Hart enduring the same resistance?
The same prejudiced hostility? If she was, no one would ever be able to tell.
The rejection of the Knickerbockers had taught her mother a thing or two about perseverance in the face of trials.
Calliope thought she’d learned it too, but it was proving a much harder task when forced to persevere toward a goal she did not desire.
What she wouldn’t give to be magically transported to her father’s study right now, surrounded by towers of books and crisp white paper and jet-black ink, penning the articles that ever populated her waking thoughts.
They were like needy, restless children, holding their arms out to her, begging her to bring them into the light of day, but she did not have the time nor the means to do so, not while she was so far away from her research, and not while her mother kept her ever spinning through the social carousel of the London Season.
How much longer could Charlie continue to fight for her before his father discontinued the series? Would he pull the book as well? Would she be forced to witness the dismantling of everything she’d been working toward just so she could become a public spectacle amongst the British aristocracy?
Don’t cry, Calliope told herself as the prickling sensation in her eyes intensified. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t—
“There you are,” Edward announced, beaming as he swerved through the crowd to join her. “I apologize for taking so long, I was speaking with—” He stopped, concern etching his brow. “Calliope?”
She looked away from him, knowing that if she met his gaze, she would crumble.
“Calliope.” Her name was a balm on his lips, soothing and gentle. “What’s wrong?”
She couldn’t speak—she was barely holding it together as it was—but her eyes betrayed her, flicking toward Wellesby and his friends before she could stop herself.
Edward glanced at them, saw their merriment at her expense, and before she knew what was happening, he had set their punch glasses down on a table and pushed his way through the crowd to stand in front of them.
Eyes wide, she followed.
“Apologize,” Edward growled at Wellesby, who arched a brow in surprise.
“Hayward,” Wellesby said on a sigh, as if he could not think of a more insufferable person to speak with. “Good to see you still looking so self-righteous. Exactly what am I supposed to be apologizing for?”
“You’ve offended Miss Hart,” Edward replied, his tone low and tightly controlled.
Wellesby exhaled through his nose, amused at the thought. “I did not think her kind could get offended, growing up in that backwater of a country they call home.”
Calliope gasped as, in one fluid movement, Edward gripped Wellesby’s lapels and shoved him into the shadowy alcove at his back, pressing him against the wall. The arrogant lord’s friends shuffled away, not wanting to get tangled up in whatever would happen next.
“I am giving you one more chance, Wellesby,” Edward told him. “Apologize.”
With an arrogant tilt to his head, Wellesby replied, “Or what? Are you going to strike me right here in the Royal Opera House for everyone to see?”
“No.” Edward shook his head. “I will not do anything to you in public. That would only cause Miss Hart more scandal and pain. But I wouldn’t venture into any empty hallways this night, Wellesby, if you know what’s good for you.”
And with that, Edward shoved off him, grasped Calliope’s hand, and began pulling her back into the glittering crowd which, aside from a few curious glances, seemed completely unaware of the confrontation that had just occurred.
“So you’ve set your sights on Miss Hart, then?” Wellesby spat at them, making Edward stop. “I didn’t realize Whitefawn was in such dire straits, although I am not surprised, given what a bumbling idiot your father was. Tell me, how many loans did he have to take out to hide his incompetence?”
Edward turned and, in a flash, stood nose-to-nose with Wellesby.
“Edward, don’t,” Calliope pleaded, glancing around at the crowd.
“Edward?” Wellesby mocked. “I did not realize you and Miss Hart were so acquainted as that. Do tell me when the wedding is to take place. I have a special present I’d love to give the bride before then.”
The insinuation was clear in Wellesby’s tone.
Edward’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
“I promise you, Wellesby,” Edward ground out through clenched teeth. “The moment I find you alone, you’ll be wishing you never spoke such heinous thoughts aloud.”
Wellesby’s sinuous grin nearly split his face in two. “Why wait?”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “The delay is not for your sake.”
With that, he offered his arm to Calliope and escorted her away from Wellesby. She watched over her shoulder as his friends returned to his side to placate his wounded ego.
Edward spent the remainder of the intermission speaking to Calliope’s mother, formally inviting her to Whitefawn and giving all the necessary details of their stay.
Nothing about his countenance betrayed the anger that had emanated from him only moments before, and nothing about Calliope revealed how deeply she appreciated the earl in that moment.
Nor how much it had made her want to kiss him again.
It turned out Edward could have waited until they were back in their opera box to speak to Calliope’s mother about their upcoming visit, however, as with the sounding of the trumpets, they learned that Mrs. Hart had been kicked out of the Dowager Duchess of Tanley’s box for the remainder of the performance.
“I was not kicked out, Calliope,” her mother insisted. “I do not know why you enjoy vexing me so. Her Grace simply had another guest arriving for the second act and she needed use of my seat.”
Calliope stopped herself from pointing out that there were just as many guests in the dowager’s box as before, and that the seat her mother had been occupying sat empty, but she and Edward shared a knowing look as the lights dimmed and the curtain rose once more
Making their excuses quickly upon the performance’s conclusion, Mrs. Hart ushered Calliope from the opera house with a jaunty farewell thrown Edward’s way so that they could once again comb over Calliope’s wardrobe, ensuring every gown selected would hold up to the highest of standards for their trip to Whitefawn.
An hour later, Calliope sat on her four-poster bed, watching her mother and Sara as they clucked and fretted over their selections.
She tried to tell them what she wanted to take to Whitefawn, but no one was listening, and it was just as well.
Her mind was still muddled from that kiss and from the way it had made her feel to see Edward defend her so valiantly, as if she were a princess in a fairy tale being rescued from a dastardly ogre by a gallant knight.
She stared out the open window at the golden orbs of Mayfair’s lampposts dotting the street, the scent of the rose trellis sweeping through on the midnight breeze, and wondered how it was possible that she could go from loathing a man to kissing him in a matter of weeks?
Of course, this changed nothing. She still had no intention of marrying the earl.
She would see Whitefawn, upholding her end of the bargain, and then they would both go about their business—him searching for an American heiress to save his beloved estate, and her searching for a way back home.
She would remember their kiss, his defense of her, and the lovely picture he’d painted of her as the mother of their six or more children fondly, but that was all these two weeks together could ever be: a wonderful memory she could take out and examine from time to time, whenever she felt like remembering what it was like to be momentarily enchanted by someone as handsome and intriguing as the Earl of Hayward.
Dearest Tommy,
Thank you for your letter. My correspondences with you, Charlie, and Lenore have kept me sane whilst abroad.
I would take you up on your offer if it weren’t for the fact that you don’t actually want to marry me.
I am not at all your type, and don’t try to deny it.
I’ve seen the buxom brunettes you’ve stalked across countless Manhattan ballrooms—not to mention we would get on each other’s nerves and invariably wound ourselves through various pranks gone awry.
No, we are both much safer as friends, but I appreciate your caring for me so deeply as to risk your own happiness just to bring me home to my beloved city.
Yours Always,
Calliope
(Postmarked May 8th, 1908)