Chapter 18 #2
Was there anyone in the world less likely to bat an eye at her situation than Lord Byron?
Compared to his own tribulations, hers was a tame affair.
And what harm could he do? It wasn’t as if he could reveal anything, lest he also reveal his clandestine return to Britain; in a perverse way, her secrets were safer with him than any other person.
While she considered all this, Byron began skipping stones. His first attempt was met with failure, the pebble sinking at the first touch of the water. “Rotten,” he muttered, and scrounged around for another stone.
Verbena cleared her throat. “Have you ever loved someone you shouldn’t?” she asked.
Byron gave her a look of frank disbelief. “Miss Montrose, you are familiar with my reputation, are you not? I am something of an expert on the subject.”
“How do you avoid it?” Verbena asked. She rearranged the hem of her dress, tucking her toes into its soft fabric.
“How do you—disengage yourself so that it does not ruin you?” Her carefully orchestrated life, her machinations and dealings: it was all on the verge of crumbling.
Shameful tears pricked at her eyes, though she would not let them fall.
Byron sighed heavily and placed his own hand on Verbena’s shoulder.
He was a sight better at it than she’d been, his touch firm but gentle.
“That,” he said, “I know nothing about. All my life, I’ve only ever run headlong into ruin.
I can tell you the exact dance steps, if you wish, but I have no experience in salvation.
” He scooted closer on the rock, whispering though there was no one else about.
“I am not insensible to the terrible unfairness that exists between us. I have been allowed my dalliances and sins—have been celebrated and scorned for them in equal measure, but allowed. I was given the exquisite chance to fall, with open arms and a red, bursting heart, and damn the rest to hell. A woman, on the other hand…”
Verbena’s jaw trembled as she withheld the pressing onslaught of tears. “I can only imagine my mother’s face if I told her to damn anything to hell,” she said, laughing wetly.
Byron smiled. “I do not have to imagine my own mother’s reply. I heard it. Repeatedly.”
A frisson of discomfort went through Verbena. It was a known fact that Byron’s mother had died while he was abroad. A sad affair. Even those who despised him thought so. “I am sorry,” she said.
“Well.” He skipped another stone. It went quite far, four skips in toto.
“We can climb all the mountains we like, or swim all the Hellesponts, but we can never be free of our mothers, can we? A mother’s love and ire will follow us down into the grave.
One may as well do as one pleases, as it will happen regardless. ”
“There is truth in what you say.” Verbena peered across the ocean. “About this, and the allowances not afforded to a woman. She must, I think, walk on the knife edge all her life, terrified of the consequences should she fall.”
“Yes, we cannot all take mysterious countesses as lovers to avoid paying our bills,” Byron mused. He glanced in her direction, his eyes lingering on her face. “Though I know one or two countesses who would clamber to be introduced to you, Miss Montrose.”
The comment was so shocking, Verbena could do nothing but laugh. “You are incorrigible!”
He schooled his face into mock offense. “I am only honest! These Italian women, their husbands are for show; it would be more shocking in that society if they didn’t seek out affairs.”
Verbena felt her face heat. “Is that so? How excessive.” As if she herself had not devised that exact sort of plan.
“There is still, however, a strange expectation of loyalty.” Byron seemed not to notice how flustered she’d become, too preoccupied with voicing his further thoughts on the subject.
“Personally, I cannot countenance this Italian obsession with keeping one’s lovers for one’s exclusive use.
Mark me, there will come a time when all societies will ask, ‘For whom are we locking up our mistresses? Why all this base greed?’ Love, in my opinion, can stand a little more freedom of movement. ”
“Careful, sir,” Verbena said. “Once lovers possess the wherewithal to do as they please, they may find that what is most pleasing is not you at all.”
She meant it as a jest, and Byron took it as intended.
He had the look of a schoolboy about him, shrugging good-naturedly.
“That is their right,” he said. “As long as they’ll have me, fleeting though it may be—well, I simply abhor being lonely.
” He quieted, staring out at the waves. Just as Verbena expected him to lapse into another round of sobs, he brightened.
“Do you know what a brooding like this calls for?” he asked.
“I confess I do not.”
“A ball,” Byron said.
“A ball,” Verbena repeated.
“A masquerade ball. It’s just the thing.
When I am banished back to London, I shall make the arrangements with speed.
” He tipped his head back and laughed. “I am telling you, Miss Montrose, you have not lived if you have not seen Venice at Carnevale. There is nothing so wonderful as being surrounded by masked figures, your own identity obscured, so that all may act without fear of their reputations. Put on a mask and the truth comes tumbling out!”
“And where do you propose to host this masquerade?” Verbena said. “You just told me you have worn out your welcome in nearly every corner of Britain.”
Byron waved away this concern. “The Calliope has a ballroom; I am sure I can manage to negotiate its use, given that this will be the event of the season. Champagne from France. Caviar from Persia. Wine from Rome. Potatoes done several ways.” (His Lordship worshipped potatoes, a fact that was well-known to Verbena and all others who followed such trends.) “I will invite a healthy mix of artists and the ton, and no one will be able to scoff at mixing when their identities are secret. You will be there, of course.”
“Of course,” Verbena said, though inwardly she prayed she might find some excuse not to attend once the invitations were sent.
She wasn’t sure how much more excitement she could take this season.
“And the expense? Forgive me, but how do you propose to procure all this champagne and caviar and wine?” The potatoes, she felt, were the only sensible part of his plan, and so were not mentioned.
Byron paused, worrying his lip. “You make an excellent point. I doubt anyone would extend a loan to me, especially when I’m not supposed to be in the country.”
For all his faults, it was depressing to see Byron stymied like this.
Some men had bigger dreams than they did bank accounts, a situation Verbena also found herself in currently.
That shared circumstance moved her to speak.
“Lady Croydon has often said to me how dearly she wishes for more excitement. Perhaps you could make inquiries. She might wish to invest in your vision.”
“The dowager countess? Yes.” Byron stroked his singular chin.
“That might just work. I will send some letters, see what can be done. Thank you, Miss Montrose.” He smiled at her, though his face fell as he looked over her shoulder at something in the distance.
“Damn. For a lonely spot, we’re getting an awful lot of visitors. ”
Verbena frowned, turning to see Penny coming toward them. The maid drew close enough that she could shout without the wind whipping away her words.
“Miss Montrose, I must speak to you.” Her eyes darted to Lord Byron. “And only you.”
Verbena shot to her feet, pulse thrumming. “What is it? What’s happened?” She worried for Flora, who might have returned to the manor in a state of terrible grief. If some awful fate had befallen her, and the last words between them had been said in anger…
Byron, still lounging on the rock, held up his palms defensively. “Penny, my dear, I’d like you to know that Miss Montrose and I have only been engaged in conversation and nothing else.”
Penny ignored him. “Best come with me, Miss Montrose.”
Verbena left Byron to his brooding without hesitation, following the maid down the beach. She waited until they were many yards distant before daring to speak. “What’s wrong? Is it Flora?”
“Miss Witcombe?” Penny frowned in confusion. “Why should anything be wrong with her?”
Verbena chose to leave that question unanswered. Her mind raced to find another candidate for disaster. “Is it Mr. McDonald, then? What does the doctor say?” As much as she disliked the idea of Flora having tender feelings for the man, Verbena didn’t wish him dead. She wasn’t that cutthroat.
“Mr. McDonald is in good health,” Penny said, keeping pace along the sand. “A note from the village doctor arrived whilst you were bathing; he’s been bandaged up and is on his way back to Plas Tan.”
“Then what’s the matter?”
Penny’s voice dropped to a whisper, even though Byron was but a speck in the distance and there wasn’t another soul in sight.
“I overheard some of the other guests outside the stable. I don’t know who spoke; I didn’t see.
They were talking about that man Charbonneau—about how he’d been doing lewd things in the cloakroom with another man last night. ”
Verbena stopped, her feet sinking into the wet sand. Penny obliged her by stopping as well.
“That is absurd,” Verbena said. étienne would not risk such a thing, not at this critical juncture! Would he?
Penny continued as Verbena’s thoughts raced. “I know you and he are courting, which is why I thought to tell you right away.” She shrugged. “Servants hear all sorts of things. And we know how fast a rumor can spread. The folks around here won’t care, of course, but if it gets back to London…”