Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
“Lady Paddlefoot has truly outdone herself,” a simpering voice purred beside Elspeth, whose patience had dwindled to an all-time low.
Old Lady Wickdale, a woman whose smile rarely reached her eyes, stood with two equally disdainful companions.
Elspeth cursed her bad luck for being snared in a conversation with them. She had been hoping for an appropriate lull in conversation to make her escape from the three vipers.
“Such exquisite taste in décor, refreshment, and entertainment. One can hardly imagine anyone else coming remotely close to this level of perfection,” Lady Wickdale continued, her gaze flicking pointedly to Elspeth.
“Indeed,” Lady Markham chimed in.
She was a middle-aged woman with a perpetually pinched expression and tired eyes, with a penchant for meddling and gossip.
“And look at her dress. The lavender hue looks so feminine against her coiffed blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She is such a vision! Surely, she will have her pick of the most eligible lords and dukes.”
“You are right, Lady Markham! She seems to do well in choosing everything, from planning a perfect occasion to her appearance to her charity,” Lady Corsley remarked as she sipped her champagne.
She was a wisp of a woman with a loud gown and even louder voice, the sound of which made Elspeth’s spine stiffen.
“Some charities lend themselves more readily to grand displays,” Lady Markham pressed. “A struggling orphanage, for instance, offers little in the way of fashionable appeal, does it not, Lady Inverhall? A most unnecessary challenge you have taken on, when you already have so much to overcome.”
So much to overcome. I would like to make ye overcome me foot in yer mouth!
The air in Lady Paddlefoot’s ballroom was thick with the scent of lilies and what Elspeth could only describe as the cloying sweetness of triumph. She had to fight the nausea that assaulted her each time she took a turn about the lavish ballroom, the confidence that shone from their haughty smiles.
While the scene seemed perfect to most, the summer heat was unkind. The room was absolutely sweltering.
Tonight was Lady Paddlefoot’s charity event, a fanciful affair for the Society for the Preservation of English History. Every surface gleamed, every guest was impeccably dressed, and the quiet hum of self-congratulation filled the gilded rooms.
Elspeth felt a growing sense of dread as they continued their exaltations, sweat beading on her brow.
The event was, by all accounts, a resounding success. The chatter around them suggested it was already the clear frontrunner for Benefactress of the Year.
How is all this frivolity meaningful? Aye, it is just another excuse for a party. Where is the heart of it all? In fact, I see no trace of anythin’ pertainin’ to the bloody Society for the Preservation of English History anywhere. It may as well be any other ball.
Elspeth felt a familiar wave of irritation rising in her chest as she drained her champagne flute, hoping the drink would cool her. Unfortunately, it only fueled her fire. She had endured weeks of these veiled insults when passing through a shop in town or down the cobblestone streets.
She forced a polite smile, willing herself to heed the Dowager Duchess of Tarwood’s advice, as she endured their conversation.
Ye catch more flies with honey than vinegar, she told herself again and again as she chose her words carefully.
“St. Jude’s, while perhaps nae as glamorous as other charities, serves a vital purpose for London’s most vulnerable children.
And I say, the children are quite remarkable.
I have spent these last few weeks gettin’ to ken them.
Really ken them. They are worthy of yer support.
There are truly needy children out there, starvin’ for a meal or someone to show interest in them. ”
“Oh, I am sure they are most unfortunate souls, Lady Inverhall,” Lady Markham said, her tone dripping with false sympathy. “But one does wonder, how another young lady possibly could compete with this? Why bother at all?”
“Indeed!” Lady Wickdale agreed, a slight slur in her voice, leaning too close to Elspeth for her liking. “Perhaps, Lady Inverhall, you might consider a different strategy altogether.”
“After all, if your charity event proves unsuccessful, there are other ways to secure your future, are there not?” Lady Corsley asked.
“I am nae sure I catch yer meanin’, Lady Corsley,” Elspeth muttered, realizing just how ridiculous the woman’s title was.
I must bite me tongue and nae hurl insults. I willnae stoop to their level.
“For example, one might contrive a scandal,” Lady Markham said, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a deliberately sharp whisper. “Or perhaps ensnare a duke, should he prove particularly attentive to one’s doings. I dare say most in town already presume it has begun.”
“How extraordinary!” Lady Wickdale exclaimed, clicking her tongue sharply in that familiar, haughty manner. “One can only imagine what sort of wild Highland spells you have cast to captivate the poor gentleman. Or perhaps ensnare him with a child of your own.”
The ladies clinked their champagne flutes, downing the last of the bubbly liquid before waving to a passing servant for a refill.
Elspeth’s eyes flashed with anger, her fists clenched at her sides. “Me affairs, ladies, are precisely that: mine. And I assure ye, I have no intention of ensnarin’ anyone. Me goal is to secure me independence, nae to trap a man.”
Lady Markham scoffed disdainfully. “Independence? How quaint. You are a widow, Lady Inverhall, without a family or influence. A woman alone. It is scarcely surprising that your late husband. Well, let us say that he found solace elsewhere, did he not? Even from the Highlands, whispers have pursued you, shadowing your steps all the way to London.”
“Ah, yes! I remember tales of wild bacchanals in the gardens of Inverhall,” Lady Corsley said, her voice rising in exaggerated dismay. “How unseemly!”
The words struck Elspeth like an avalanche of snow—cold, raw, and deeply painful.
She inhaled sharply, her nostrils flaring.
The old rumors, the accusations of witchcraft, the loneliness of her marriage to an old drunk.
They were all laid bare, twisted into a cruel weapon she could not evade.
She might as well have been naked, mocked in the center of the auspicious ball like a nightmare.
How do I always end up like this? What have I done to deserve their cruelty?
The room started to spin, and she sought to keep her balance. Damn the champagne, dulling her mind. The words that often came so quickly to her seemed to vanish.
She had no response. No retort. She felt like the champagne she had been sipping would come up, rising up her throat with haste.
“That is quite enough!” a fierce voice suddenly declared from behind her.
Elspeth turned to see Verity, whose face was flushed with indignation. She stepped forward to engage the women, with Marion close behind her.
“You have no right to speak to Lady Inverhall in such a manner—nor anyone, for that matter!”
“Oh, merely a trifle of ladies’ talk,” Lady Markham offered, raising her hands in exaggerated innocence. “No need to take offense, Lady Wrotham.”
“Ye are merciless,” Marion chastised, her usually cheerful face grim as a crypt keeper. “Such remarks are beneath even yer usual standards. Which is sayin’ a lot! Do ye ever get tired of such childish games?”
The women merely sniffed; the arrival of Elspeth’s friends seemed only to embolden them, as they puffed out their chests and smirked devilishly at each other.
“Ah, the Highland witch has gathered her little coven, has she not?” Lady Corsley sneered, plucking another flute of champagne off a passing tray. “I care not for your husbands, ladies. Though truth be told, I see no ladies present.”
“Nor do I,” Lady Markham sniffed, flicking her feathered fan with deliberate contempt. “Far too much ado over a Highland harlot.”
“How dare you—” Verity’s voice rang loud but quickly faded in Elspeth’s ears as she felt a massive rush of homesickness wash over her, so potent that it stole her breath like a tidal wave.
Despite her desire to maintain her composure, her knees began to tremble.
She closed her eyes and pictured the quiet hills of Inverhall, the familiar faces of the kind folk who lived there.
She could see the muddy faces of children, hear the laughter of neighbors sharing bread and wine.
She could almost feel the blissful solitude of running her own home, the absence of these venomous whispers.
She was so tired, bone-weary of the endless scrutiny, the judgment, the constant battle. She could not do this anymore, nor did she wish to drag her friends down with her.
“Please, Verity. Daenae waste yer breath,” she told her friend. “If ye will excuse me,” she mumbled.
She spun on her heel, leaving stunned friends and scornful ladies in her wake.
The ballroom closed in on her, bodies brushing, skirts tangling as she weaved through the crowd. The chandeliers blurred into streaks of gold, and the string quartet’s music became a distant thrum, matching the frantic pounding in her head.
I must leave. I must get away. I cannae stay here another second.
“Did you see her slippers?” Lady Grimsby hissed, loud enough for half the room to hear. “As though the cobbler himself left them unfinished. And that gown! Who is she trying to fool with that fine fabric? It is laughable on her, I assure you.”
Elspeth’s cheeks flamed, hot as coals. She had tried to ignore the jabs, to pretend that she had not heard, but when two more ladies joined in, their cackles rising like a chorus of knives, her carefully constructed composure shattered.
Without a word to Hugo, who was occupied elsewhere, or a backward glance at her friends, she slipped through the crowded ballroom like a shadow, desperate to vanish.
She wove frantically between dancers, her skirts tangling, her elbows brushing strangers, every step a frantic bid for escape.
The heavy velvet curtains framing the ballroom entrance promised the only sanctuary she could imagine. She lunged for them, pushing through, and stumbled into the quiet, lantern-lit hallway.
Her chest heaved, her breathing short and uneven. Just a few more hurried steps and she would be outside—away from all the eyes, the cruel laughter, the tears she would not let fall.
“Lady Inverhall?”
The voice stopped her cold. Her hand froze on the cold brass handle of the front door. Her heart sank.
Of course, it had to be Lord Middleby.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to tremble. She could not afford a scene.
Slow, deliberate footsteps drew closer across the marble floor.
“Leaving so soon?” he asked, his tone silken, edged with amusement. “One might think you were fleeing.”
“I I am feelin’ unwell, Me Lord,” she forced out, though her throat ached.
“Unwell.” His voice was a purr that made her stomach twist.
She could hear the faint rustle of his immaculate coat as he came to stand too near, smell the sharp tang of his cologne.
“Then allow me to see you out. London is full of eyes, Lady Inverhall. Best you do not stumble into gossip unescorted.”
She lifted her chin, though it wobbled. She dared a glance at him then; his dark blue coat flawless, his white cravat tied to perfection, his gaze sharp as a blade. He was elegant, but there was nothing kind in his eyes.
“Me apologies, Lord Middleby,” she said softly, dipping her head. “But I can handle meself just fine.”
He gestured toward the waiting carriages outside, his smile thin, lacking warmth. “Then do so. Quickly, My Lady.”
Her heart lurched. With a stiff nod, she bolted past him, unable to bear another heartbeat in his shadow.
Her heeled slippers struck hard against the cobblestones, loud in the night. At the corner, she hailed a hackney with a desperate wave.
The driver steadied her with a rough hand as she climbed inside. She clutched it gratefully, blinking hard against the sting in her eyes.
Movement. She only needed movement, away from the ballroom, away from Lord Middleby, away from London’s chaos.
Rain began to pelt the carriage roof, slicing through the stifling summer heat. Elspeth pressed a handkerchief to her brow, thankful for the sudden coolness.
“Where to, M’Lady?” the driver asked, his cockney as heavy as the rhythm of her racing heart, leaning in through the open window. “I’ll take you anywhere you like!”
Inverhall…
“Arrowfell House,” she whispered, settling back into the cool leather seats, the name tasting like sanctuary. “Arrowfell…”