Thirteen
The next week seemed to drag on so slowly it became a torture. Lyman awoke each morning conscious that he had one day less before Ellen’s suit reached Consistory Court. He informed Mr. Hirsch of his troubles (though he could ill afford to spend money on a solicitor these days, his landlord was good enough to offer occasional, friendly advice to the man paying him rent), and was advised that if he wanted the divorce to go through swiftly, the best thing he could do was to stay away from the hearing. The courts were suspicious of collusion, and he would only muddy the waters if he admitted any of the allegations against him. He needed to appear indifferent.
It would give credence to the claim that he’d abandoned his wife.
Lyman was on watch for any further news from Michael, but he, too, seemed to have decided that silence was best. When some mail finally did arrive over breakfast on Monday morning, it was nothing more foreboding than an invitation to the theater.
I was planning to attend Martin Chuzzlewit tonight at the Lyceum with some friends. My parents were supposed to join us, but they’ve just remembered another engagement. Would you like their tickets? You may safely consider this invitation to fall within the terms of your request that our meetings be strictly a business arrangement. I hear the theater is under new management, so this is essential research for my book!
—D.
P.S. We have more women than men in our number, so you may bring another gentleman along if he is not too dull.
Lyman smiled to himself. The tone was so much like Della that it was hard not to imagine her voice speaking the words as he read.
I should probably decline. Nothing had changed since they’d last spoken—his days of social acceptability were numbered. But wasn’t that all the more reason to seize the occasion while he still could? And she’d been considerate enough to spell out plainly that she expected nothing more from him than the pleasure of his company (and possibly that of a not-too-dull friend). It seemed churlish to refuse.
He lowered the note and spoke to Clarkson, who was eating his eggs across the breakfast table. “How would you like to come and see a play tonight? It’s a Dickens adaptation. Martin Chuzzlewit . There’s a group going and they have extra tickets.”
Clarkson took a moment to swallow his food before he replied. “I could probably ask Mr. Hirsch for the evening off. They won’t mind the intrusion?”
Clarkson watched him with a cautious eye. Certainly there were some members of the ton too snobbish to mingle with anyone a touch lower down the social ladder, but Lyman didn’t think Della fit that category.
“Not at all. They asked me to bring another gentleman to balance their numbers.”
Clarkson inclined his head in agreement, and Lyman began penning an inquiry for the errand boy to send back in reply. As he wrote, Mr. Wood asked archly, “Who’s the invitation from?”
“Just a friend,” Lyman replied absently. A moment later, he thought to add, “A gentleman who enjoyed my books and wanted to introduce me to his set.”
“Is he anyone I might have heard of?” Wood was trying very hard not to crane his neck, but his eyes kept darting down to the letter, no doubt wondering whether Lyman’s friend was important enough to warrant his interest. He was a hopeless social climber. At least there was no risk that he might identify Della from a simple “D.”
“I’d be happy to attend if there’s an extra ticket,” Wood continued hopefully, evidently having judged it likely that Lyman’s friends would be worthy of his acquaintance. “I do love the theater.”
Lyman raised his eyes to Wood while the ink on his message dried. “I’m terribly sorry, but there’s only the pair. Perhaps another time.”
Wood ground his teeth, but he and Clarkson left to attend their work shortly after, while Lyman dispatched his reply with an errand boy.
Later that evening, he and Clarkson found Della and her party waiting for them outside the theater. She introduced them to Mr. and Mrs. Williams, a dark-haired couple who seemed quite attentive to each other, and Miss Williams, who bore a strong resemblance to her older brother and said very little to Lyman beyond her initial “How do you do?” Once everyone had exchanged a few pleasantries, they went upstairs to find their box.
So this was the other co-owner of Bishop’s that Della had mentioned. Lyman had been expecting someone older. None of them could be beyond their mid-twenties. It seemed their club had been founded by people without much experience in life. Perhaps this explained why they weren’t yet doing well enough to hire more staff to lighten the burden on Della.
Mrs. Williams seemed to share his curiosity, for she fixed her attention on him immediately.
“Couldn’t your wife join you this evening, Lord Ashton?” she asked him as they moved to take their seats.
Lyman struggled not to flinch. He hadn’t been expecting that. “No,” he replied carefully. “She’s not in town at the moment. She prefers the country.”
Once the words had left his mouth, he realized they were probably false. Ellen would need to come to London once the court proceedings began, if she hadn’t already relocated before filing her suit. Was that why Mrs. Williams asked about her? Had they met somewhere?
There was no way to discover what she already knew without ruining the evening.
Mrs. Williams turned to read her playbill and said no more about it, though the question didn’t seem like an accident. Lyman shot a glance to Della, who had claimed the seat to his left. She looked as surprised as he felt, but helped him by turning the conversation elsewhere.
“I had a lovely idea I wanted to share with you,” she said, addressing her friend. “What if we had musicians play at Bishop’s in the evenings? They make everything so lively! Our members would love it.”
Mrs. Williams looked up from her playbill. “That sounds rather expensive for something that won’t bring in any extra profit.”
“It will if it makes our guests want to stay longer,” Della returned.
“I’d rather we didn’t change too much at once.” A small furrow had appeared between Mrs. Williams’s eyebrows. She looked worried, though the suggestion had seemed harmless enough to Lyman. “We’ve just collected the art you wanted and we’re about to add a new table and dealer. Let’s take a month or two to see the effect of all that before we throw anything else into the mix.”
Della looked downcast, her shoulders drooping slightly. Would it have killed Mrs. Williams to consider the proposal a little longer? Lyman had a hunch that the brief exchange he’d just witnessed was part of a larger pattern. Mrs. Williams looked to be an overly cautious sort of woman, while Della was practically allergic to caution. No doubt they balanced each other out when managing their business, but Lyman didn’t like to think how it must feel for Della to be always on the receiving end of a swift no. She had such boundless energy. She needed room to explore her ideas.
“What if you tried it for an evening or two, just to see how your guests liked it?” Lyman suggested. “Then you wouldn’t be under any obligation if it didn’t work out.”
“Oh, that’s perfect!” Della exclaimed. “I’ve already made a few inquiries, Jane. You won’t have to do a thing.”
Mrs. Williams looked startled by Lyman’s intervention. “I didn’t think you took an interest in our club, my lord. Didn’t you refuse to include it in your book because we cater to women?”
It was plain she’d dug up just enough information to form a damning portrait of his character.
I take no interest whatsoever in your club , he nearly retorted, put out by Mrs. Williams’s arch tone. But I take an interest in Della.
No. That was no good. She could never be for him, and everyone here knew why.
Della came between them a second time, with a nervous laugh. “Lord Ashton didn’t exactly refuse to include us because we cater to women. It was—” She broke off here, and Lyman could see the precise moment she realized that the repugnance of his past made any honest conversation impossible. If her friends weren’t already aware that he’d gambled away his country house nine years ago, she wouldn’t want to be the one to share the news. “It was a misunderstanding,” she finished awkwardly. “Anyway, I’m happier including us in my own guide, and Lord Ashton has been more than helpful in achieving that end.”
Clarkson, seated a little further down the row, shot Lyman a bemused look over the heads of the others. Lyman couldn’t find any humor in it. He didn’t like that Della should have to defend him to her friends, spinning half-truths to avoid embarrassing him.
By this time the footmen were extinguishing the gaslights that lined the walls and the audience took the signal to hush their chatter, putting an end to the conversation. Della cast a nervous glance between Lyman and her friends. He caught her eye and offered a faint smile to reassure her that she needn’t worry. It was nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.
The play began with the introduction of a great many characters—the Chuzzlewits and the Pecksniffs and the various people who had attached themselves to these families in the hopes of an income—and proceeded to lay out the quarrel of young Martin and his grandfather with an appropriate dose of humor. Della laughed easily at all the absurd characters. Lyman enjoyed the show well enough, but found that her exuberance did far more to draw his attention than the actors on stage. She had lost herself completely in that unselfconscious way of hers, fully immersed in the story before her.
Even as he liked to see her so happy, Lyman couldn’t help but recall the last time they’d been seated together like this before a stage. The tableau vivant at Laurent’s Casino. When Della had slid her palm over his thigh, beginning an affaire they’d never brought to its logical conclusion.
No. Not logical. There was nothing logical or reasoned about his desire for her.
Lyman stared shamelessly at Della from the safety of the darkened room. It was refreshing not to have to worry about schooling his face into a more impassive expression, as he usually did. No one was watching him now.
She was so lovely. In another life, one where he hadn’t bowed to the pressure to marry too early and then ruined his good name, he might have accompanied her here tonight as a suitor. Might have held on to the memory of every precious smile to grace her lips as a promise of more to come, instead of a possibility that was lost to him.
She’s for someone else, not you. Nothing so joyful could be for you now.
There was an intermission once Martin Chuzzlewit traveled to America (a horrid place, Dickens concluded), and Della accompanied Miss Williams downstairs to find the powder room, leaving Lyman and Clarkson alone with the rest of the party.
Mr. Williams was a gregarious fellow and soon drew Lyman into a conversation about the places they’d each traveled to. He was much warmer than his wife, who observed them without joining in.
“And what made you decide to write a guidebook?” Mr. Williams asked Lyman.
Conscious of Mrs. Williams’s scrutiny, he adopted a self-effacing tone. “I suppose most people would consider such a thing a vanity project, but I simply wanted to accomplish something useful with my time. I considered myself competent to advise newcomers on places of interest, so I did. It was nothing more profound than that.”
“And now Miss Danby has followed your example,” Mrs. Williams interjected. Her expression gave no hint of her thoughts on the matter.
“That was entirely her idea,” Lyman said.
“I know.” Mr. Williams laughed. “I was there when it came to her. She was very enthusiastic.”
“She often is.” Mrs. Williams said gently. She seemed to want to say more, hesitated, then added in a low tone, “I mean no offense, my lord, but I do hope you’re being careful with her. Miss Danby might give the impression of being very worldly, but she has a trusting heart.”
Too trusting , her eyes added. Whatever she’d learned about him, it was enough to make her anxious for her friend’s well-being.
Her husband seemed unprepared for this turn of conversation, watching Lyman cautiously.
“Don’t worry,” Lyman said with a nod. “I understand you perfectly.”
There was no point in argument or regret. Mrs. Williams had only echoed the fears in his own mind. This outing had given him a glimpse of what it would mean for Della if he tried to go out with her in public—pointed questions about his wife’s absence, flimsy excuses to paper over his past, fear and suspicion from anyone who truly cared about her. These were the troubles he would offer as a poor exchange for her company.
Della and Miss Williams returned at that moment, and everyone else looked away quickly, as if they’d been caught at some mischief.
“Oh good. We haven’t missed it,” Della said brightly, reclaiming her seat.
Lyman forced a smile that didn’t reach his heart.
“You didn’t miss a thing.”
***