Chapter 6
Six
“You are not meant to be here.”
Lady Hartwell had a way of making a declaration sound like a sentence, and Eliza had to smile as she stepped into the chilly morning room.
“Is there a law against it?” she asked. “Or have you simply decided to institute one for the occasion?”
“You are the Marchioness of Barrington. Surely, by now, the duties of the position have begun to crush the air from your lungs?” The Baroness set down her quill.
Eliza considered this, and the night she had spent sleeping like a fugitive in the unfamiliar hush of the ducal apartments. “Not yet,” she said, “but I am told the suffocation begins at luncheon.”
“A great deal earlier if you do it properly.” Lady Hartwell rose, her wrapper swishing as she crossed to the sideboard. “Sit. If you stand, I shall have to as well, and we will both expire from the effort.”
Eliza obeyed, sinking into the creaking settee. She studied the room as a battlefield—every chair, every shadow an obstacle to be negotiated. The windows were unshuttered, gray light washing over the battered furniture, the battered woman at its command post.
Lady Hartwell poured from a silver pot. “Shouldn’t you be off being serenaded by your new husband instead of suffering my tea?”
“August is already gone for the day.” Eliza accepted the cup. “He manages to avoid serenading.”
A snort. “If he ever attempts it, I beg you to intervene on behalf of the musical arts.”
Eliza smiled into her tea. “I will do what I must.”
Lady Hartwell settled beside her. “So. Is it everything you dreamed?”
“If by ‘everything’ you mean the relentless gaze of staff and the certainty that my every move will be catalogued in the gossip sheets, then yes.”
“Ha! That is the proper spirit.” Lady Hartwell sipped her own tea, eyes darting over Eliza’s face. “You do not look ruined. I suppose we must mark that as a victory.”
Eliza said, “I have survived worse than a marriage to a man I never intended to marry.”
The Baroness’ gaze narrowed. “If you ever decide to share the details, I promise to refrain from judgment for at least five minutes.”
Eliza shook her head, unwilling to cede the advantage. “Your self-restraint is legendary.”
A rare smile broke Lady Hartwell’s mask. “It is, in fact, the secret to a successful marriage. That and separate bedchambers which I hope you have already secured.”
“I had not considered it,” Eliza said, “but I am open to recommendations.”
“Selective hearing is another requirement. A lady who listens too closely to her husband’s opinions is soon driven to madness.”
Eliza set down her cup. “Do you speak from experience or as an interested observer?”
Lady Hartwell’s eyes drifted to the window.
“Both. And neither. I was fortunate in that Lord Hartwell preferred the company of his books to the sound of his own voice.” She returned her attention to Eliza, all sharpness restored.
“But do not mistake me. You may yet enjoy some measure of peace, even as a marchioness.”
“I doubt I shall ever find peace. Not in London and not at Wildmoore.”
The Baroness made a dismissive gesture. “Peace is overrated. Satisfaction is preferable, and far more attainable.”
Eliza considered this. “I do not even know what would satisfy me. I feel like a stranger in my own life.”
Lady Hartwell stilled. For a moment, the air in the room shifted, the defenses lowered. “Everyone feels that way, eventually,” she said quietly. “But most people pretend otherwise until they perish from the effort.”
A silence, filled only by the tap of rain against the windows.
“I do not wish to pretend,” Eliza said.
“Then don’t.” Lady Hartwell reached over, her hand a claw of comfort, and patted Eliza’s fingers. “You are stronger than the entire Vestiere line combined. It is why they married you. No one else would have survived the triplets.”
This time, Eliza’s smile was real. “Thank you.”
“If you require further guidance,” the Baroness continued, releasing her hand, “I recommend an afternoon of strategic inactivity. Let the world come to you. You are a marchioness now. There is nothing more subversive than refusing to run after anyone.”
Eliza drank this in, along with the last dregs of her tea. “I will try.”
“See that you do.” Lady Hartwell gathered her quill again, twirling it like a weapon. “Now go, before I am forced to give you advice about marital relations. You would not survive the embarrassment.”
Eliza rose, smoothing her skirt. “I will leave you to your correspondence.”
She was at the door when Lady Hartwell’s voice, softer now, caught her.
“Eliza?”
She turned.
“Do not let him persuade you that you are the fortunate one. No matter what the world says, it is always the man who marries up.”
Eliza held the baroness’s gaze. “I will remember.”
She let herself out, the echo of Lady Hartwell’s words following her down the hall, echoing even as she stepped out into the pale, chilly morning.
Let the world come to you.
She almost believed it might.
“You’re here!”
The declaration issued from somewhere behind the door before Eliza could so much as knock. It was wrenched open by the Duchess of Wildmoore, who, even at this hour, wore an expression of delight edged with the mild panic of a woman in perpetual search of her spectacles.
“Is it Thursday already?” Dorothy asked, clutching her wrapper at the throat. “Oh, but you’re early! Marvelous.” She turned and swept back into the apartments, leaving Eliza to close the door after herself.
Eliza followed, navigating the obstacle course of footstools, embroidery frames, and stacks of periodicals that had colonized the drawing room. Dorothy stood at the hearth, wrestling her hair into a bun with one hand and rearranging the silver tray with the other.
“My dear girl, you look positively radiant. Or exhausted. Hard to tell in this light,” Dorothy said. “Would you like tea, or is it too soon after breakfast? I myself have already had two cups, but I’m told that caffeine is a tonic, and if not, it is at least a means to an end.”
“Tea would be lovely,” Eliza agreed, perching on the settee with the only visible cushion.
Dorothy began to pour then turned and called, “Albert! Eliza is here. Did you hear me?” She ladled sugar with abandon then added three more spoons for good measure.
There came a muffled reply from the next room, and after a shuffle and a solid thunk, the Duke appeared, supporting himself with a handsome cane. Albert Vestiere smiled the instant he saw her.
He sank into his favorite armchair with a noise between a sigh and a groan. “You are even more welcome than the tea, my dear. I trust my son has not made a villain of himself yet?”
Eliza accepted the cup from Dorothy. “He has been the model of consideration.”
Albert’s brow went up. “That’s how you know he’s hiding something.” He flashed a quick smile—so brief it might have been accidental—and glanced at Dorothy, who seemed contentedly flustered by the presence of company.
Dorothy fussed with the tea tray. “I do wish you had called for a visit sooner. The hall is so empty without the girls, and these days, Albert rarely leaves his chair except to torment the gardener or the physicians.”
“It’s true,” Albert said. “Retirement is quite the misery for a man used to being feared by accountants.”
Dorothy patted his hand. “He’s bored; that’s all. A new marchioness in the house, and not a single crisis to orchestrate.” She leaned conspiratorially toward Eliza. “If you wish to see him truly animated, start a minor fire in the kitchens. Or a rumor in the village.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Eliza replied, unable to hide her amusement.
Dorothy straightened, patting at a lock of hair that had broken free.
“You must come to dinner every Thursday, you know. It’s tradition.
Not that we ever keep to them. Oh, and you must try the scones—Mrs. Hadley has finally perfected her recipe though it is quite clear she intends to destroy us all with butter. ”
Albert set his cane aside. “Before we all expire from over eating, perhaps a walk in the garden? I’m told the weather is passable today.”
Dorothy looked outside. “It does seem mild. And the rhododendrons are in bloom.” She sounded surprised, as if the seasons had switched places when she wasn’t looking.
Albert rose, offering his arm to Eliza. “Shall we?”
“Of course,” she said.
They made a slow procession through the hallway, Dorothy at a nimble shuffle and Albert walking as if willing his body to remember its former strength. The garden doors opened onto a riot of green and pink, the air cool but not biting.
“I’m sure you know every inch of these grounds by now,” Albert said, steering Eliza onto the gravel path. “But I enjoy pretending to be a tour guide. It is the only authority left me.”
Dorothy drifted ahead, inspecting buds and shouting their progress over her shoulder.
Albert leaned a little closer. “I wanted to see how you were bearing up.”
Eliza looked at the gravel, the press of her heel leaving clean tracks behind. “I am… adapting.”
“Good.” Albert’s voice was low. “You may find the adjustment easier if you do not attempt it alone. My son is many things, but a mind-reader he is not. If he ever acts as though he is, you may safely assume he is bluffing.”
“Noted,” Eliza said, her lips twitching.
Albert slowed as they approached a bench, set beneath the overhang of a laburnum tree just coming into bloom. “Will you sit with me?”
She did, smoothing her skirt. Dorothy hovered at a distance, pretending to be engrossed in the inspection of a buddleia.
Albert set his cane aside and regarded Eliza with kindness she had not expected.
“I always worried he would never find someone clever enough to keep pace. He was always so far ahead of the rest of us, even as a child.” Albert picked at the knob of his cane.
“He took the title from my failing hands at seventeen, so he could save us all. I sometimes fear I gave him a burden, not a legacy.”