Chapter 13
Thirteen
“Lady Barrington, how delightful that you could join me,” Lady Wilhampton called, rising from her settee as Eliza stepped into the drawing room. The warmth in her voice was not warmth at all; it was the sort of heat one finds in a roasting pan, meant to soften and render rather than to comfort.
Eliza advanced with the minimum of display—a quick inclination of the head—and accepted the proffered hand. “Thank you for the invitation, Lady Wilhampton. You have a most beautiful house.”
“It is adequate,” Lady Wilhampton replied, eyes darting up and down Eliza’s person in a quick tally of everything worth appraising. “But one must make do, especially when circumstances are less than optimal. Please, sit.”
Eliza selected the least ornate of the chairs, refusing the settee, and arranged her skirts with care.
Lady Wilhampton followed, perching herself on the edge of a tufted cushion in a pose that would have left most women gasping in agony.
The room was a study in emerald and gold with mirrors reflecting the world back at itself in infinite regress.
Eliza took it in, wondering if the intention was to impress or to unsettle.
“Tea, Lady Barrington?” Lady Wilhampton poured without waiting for assent.
“I do hope you are not one of those who finds the city disagreeable. Some prefer the country, but I have always considered the ton my true family. The city is where I feel most myself.” She placed the cup before Eliza, and the faintest movement of her lips suggested amusement.
“London is more interesting than I anticipated,” Eliza said. “The company, especially, has been most enlightening.”
“Has it?” Lady Wilhampton’s gaze sharpened then softened so swiftly it was like watching a cat blink. “I find that the company in London is best taken in measured doses, like laudanum.”
Eliza smiled with her mouth, not her eyes. “I am yet to experience the deleterious effects.”
“That will come,” said Lady Wilhampton then she lifted her cup and regarded Eliza over the rim. “How do you find married life? The transition is so daunting, even for the most robust of characters.”
Eliza sipped her tea and found it sweet. “One adapts. I expect you understand that better than most.”
A momentary pause then Lady Wilhampton replied, “One must adapt, or perish.” Her smile was dazzling and entirely hollow.
She set her cup down with a click. “You must meet my son, Marcus. He is the only reason I endure any of this. A mother’s devotion is a terror, is it not?
He is five, and already the most willful creature I have ever encountered.
The schoolmasters say he will rule an empire or else destroy one. ”
Eliza nodded. “You are fortunate. Not everyone is so blessed.”
A shadow crossed Lady Wilhampton’s face, and for a moment, the performance faded.
“Yes. Fortunate.” She straightened, as if rearranging her bones.
“I was married at eighteen, you know. Or perhaps you do not know. My parents had me engaged to Wilhampton from the moment I was born. Forty years my senior but very wealthy and not without some charm in his way. He died of apoplexy two years ago, and I must say, I do not miss him as much as I ought.”
There was no invitation for pity in her tone, only the studied detachment of a woman who had rehearsed her lines until they meant nothing.
“I have heard the late Marquess was a great patron of the arts,” Eliza said, careful to keep her own feelings from her voice.
“He was a great patron of excess,” Lady Wilhampton replied, leaning in conspiratorially.
“He liked his amusements the way he liked his wine: abundant and slightly illicit. I do not mind telling you, Lady Barrington, that the men of our class are rarely what they appear in public. But you know that already, don’t you? ”
It was not a question.
Eliza considered the correct reply then offered, “Appearances are the currency of society. I am not surprised to find that value fluctuates.”
Lady Wilhampton laughed—a sound as brittle as glass. “Oh, you are clever. I see now why he chose you.”
Eliza did not take the bait. “I did not know that your son was so young,” she said. “You carry your years very well, Lady Wilhampton.”
The compliment—if it was a compliment—was accepted with a gracious tilt of the head. “I thank you, Lady Barrington. I pride myself on surviving. It is the only true accomplishment permitted our sex.” She turned her cup, as if reading the future in the swirl of liquid. “May I be candid with you?”
“I should hope for nothing less.”
“I was quite alarmed at the news of your marriage,” Lady Wilhampton said, her voice quieter now but more focused. “I had imagined, as I’m sure many did, that Barrington would never settle. He was a fixture of the season after all. One expects the legends to linger.”
Eliza allowed herself a thin smile. “He is not so wild as his reputation suggests.”
“Isn’t he?” Lady Wilhampton’s brows arched, and the mask of civility slipped. “He is a most unusual man. I confess, I have always found him… fascinating.” Her tongue caressed the word. “But you must know this already. You are his wife after all.”
“I am,” Eliza replied.
There was a silence, but it was not empty.
Lady Wilhampton set her cup aside and studied Eliza with a frankness that bordered on indecency. “May I speak plainly, Lady Barrington?”
“I wish you would.”
“There are some who believe that a marriage such as yours—so sudden, so… convenient—could only have occurred if there was an understanding between you and your husband. A private arrangement as it were.”
Eliza tilted her head, inviting more.
Lady Wilhampton’s eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. “You are a clever woman. You must know that men of a certain stripe prefer their amusements unencumbered by responsibility.”
“Do they?”
“Oh, yes. And the women who become their wives are expected to look the other way. I tell you this not as a threat but as a kindness.” Her voice was suddenly very gentle, and almost intimate.
“If you wish to survive, my dear Lady Barrington, you must not become too attached to your husband’s affections.
They are not, as a rule, a renewable resource. ”
Eliza met her gaze, letting the moment stretch. “Thank you for the counsel. I will be sure to keep my expectations appropriate.”
Lady Wilhampton smiled, slow and cold. “There is nothing so tiresome as a woman who expects to be loved.”
“I suppose I shall have to be content with admiration then,” Eliza replied.
There was a beat of absolute stillness then the Marchioness continued, “You know, Lady Barrington, I had always thought we might be friends.” The word was a razor wrapped in velvet. “You are not like the others. You have no illusions.”
“Friends are a wonderful thing,” Eliza said. “But one must always keep them within the right boundaries.”
Lady Wilhampton’s smile turned sharkish. “Of course, Lady Barrington.”
They sat in silence, a single candle guttering between them, the tea cooling on the tray.
When Eliza rose to take her leave, Lady Wilhampton followed her to the door.
“If you ever wish to talk, truly talk, you know where to find me,” she said, and the implication was as clear as sunlight.
“I do,” Eliza replied, and she allowed herself to be shown out.
The Marchioness wants a war, and she thinks I will not fight her. She is wrong.
It was not the thunder that woke August but the pressure of the storm, a weight against the windowpanes that made the whole house seem to contract and breathe in time with the sky.
He gave up on sleep just before two in the morning and left his room for the library, a habit born in boyhood, as if the right book could explain the violence of weather.
He padded the hallway in stocking feet, one hand on the banister, and paused outside the library door.
The storm raged overhead, and now and again, lightning flashed through the glass dome of the observatory, illuminating the shelves below in blue-white shocks.
The house was silent except for the rain.
He opened the door and stepped inside, expecting solitude.
Instead, there was Eliza, a shadow at the far end of the table, her profile outlined in the strobing night. She wore only a wrapper over her nightdress, hair pulled into a knot at her nape, and the lamp beside her had burned down to its last, guttering effort.
She did not see him enter.
He watched her for a full minute, the way her hand moved along the page, the stillness of her head. It was a strange pleasure to find her here in the dark, unguarded and alone, as if the library belonged to her and not to any Vestiere, living or dead.
He cleared his throat. “Do you often hide in libraries during storms?”
She startled, just slightly, and snapped the book shut. Then, collecting herself, she replied, “Only when the alternative is to be alone with my thoughts.”
August moved closer, the storm giving him cover. “You surprise me, Eliza. I had thought your thoughts the safest company you might find.”
She met his gaze, and her eyes were sharper in the dim light. “You would be amazed what company my thoughts keep.”
He grinned. “Am I among them?”
“Rarely,” she said. “You are not so mysterious as you hope to be.”
He pulled out the chair opposite and sat, stretching his legs beneath the table. “If I am not mysterious, why do you always look at me as if I am about to misbehave?”
She leaned forward, the lamp glow catching in her eyes. “Because you always do.”
For a moment, the only sound was the hammer of rain on the glass dome above them.
August said, “I always liked storms. They make the world feel newly made for a little while.”
She tilted her head, as if reconsidering him. “I dislike the waiting. You know it is coming, but you never know when it will hit. I would rather get it over with.”
He nodded. “I always tried to count the seconds between the flash and the thunder.”
Eliza smiled, but it was a closed smile. “And?”
“I lost count, every time.”
They sat in silence. August tried to remember why he had come or what he hoped to accomplish but found himself content watching the way the storm made patterns on the glass overhead.
He asked, “What were you reading?”
She hesitated. “Donne, No man is an island. A lie, I think. Most men are perfectly content to be islands.”
“Perhaps they prefer it,” August suggested, “rather than risk drowning in the mainland.”
Eliza regarded him, and for once, he could not read her at all.
He pressed, “Did you dislike the ball at Irondale? You seemed to enjoy yourself, at least until the end.”
She gave a small shrug. “Enjoyment is not the same as ease.”
“You did not seem uneasy.”
“Appearances,” she said. “You should know about those.”
He smiled then tried a new tactic. “My father used to say that if you want to know a person, you should watch what they do when they think no one is watching.”
She set her jaw. “Did you ever watch your parents?”
The question landed heavier than expected.
“My mother is not the sort one observes. She would notice and make you regret it.”
“And your father?” she asked.
He considered. “He never did anything he was not willing to have seen.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
August barked a laugh. “You have no idea.” Then asked in a softer tone, “Were your parents like that?”
She went very still. “I do not remember.” It was a lie, and she had a feeling he knew it too.
He let the silence expand. “You never speak of it.”
She looked down at the table, fingers drumming once, then stopping. “There is little to say. My father fell from a horse before I was born.” Her voice was flat. “I had my uncle. He was kind if distracted.”
August had the sense of walking on ice, thin and ready to shatter. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “Please don’t be. Pity is a kindness best reserved for others.”
They stared at the candle. August wanted to touch her hand, to close the space. He did not know why.
Instead, he said, “You do not allow anyone near you, do you?”
She looked up. “Does that trouble you?”
It should not. It never has before.
Instead, he replied, “Not trouble. It confounds.”
Eliza smiled, tired now. “You are used to everyone being an open book.”
“Not everyone,” he replied. “But I do enjoy it when people make sense.”
She laughed, quick and real. “Then you must find me insufferable.”
“Not insufferable.” He considered. “Unpredictable.”
She looked at him, and her eyes were not cold at all.
He wondered, for a moment, if the storm was in the room.
After a time, she said, “I had tea with Lady Wilhampton today.”
He felt the ground shift beneath his feet. “Did you?”
“She invited me. It would have been rude to refuse.”
“I hope she did not make herself unpleasant.”
Eliza shrugged, but the gesture was calculated. “On the contrary, she was most welcoming. She made me feel as if we were already old friends.”
August frowned. That was not Lady Wilhampton’s way, for she preferred to collect enemies, not friends.
He stared at Eliza, thrown off balance. “You did not seem to be fond of her when I introduced you.”
“Yes, but that was because I did not know her.” She set her hands in her lap. “But she made it clear that she knows you very well.”
August felt a muscle jump in his jaw. “We are acquainted.”
Eliza waited. He said nothing more. She stood, gathering her wrapper around her shoulders. The storm was already passing; the rain softened, and the thunder was more distant.
“I should go,” she said and started toward the door.
“Why did you really go to tea with her?” he called after her.
Eliza paused but kept her back to him. “I wanted to make new friends.”
August stood and closed the distance between them. He took her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Lady Wilhampton is not the sort of woman I would expect you to befriend.”
Eliza’s eyes bore into his own as if she was seeking something deep within his soul. A long moment passed before she replied, “I know.”
That simple response nearly shifted the ground beneath his feet. What manner of game was his wife playing? And why did it matter to him?