Chapter 21
Twenty-One
“What a charming sitting room,” Lady Wilhampton said, sweeping through the door before the butler had quite finished announcing her. “I do hope I am not intruding, Your Grace. I was passing through the neighborhood and simply could not resist calling on you.”
Eliza set down her embroidery hoop which she had been pretending to work on for the past hour. “Lady Wilhampton, what a surprise.”
“I know, I know. I ought to have sent word ahead, but I am dreadfully impulsive.” She settled herself on the sofa without waiting for an invitation.
“I have been thinking of you constantly since the funeral. You looked so composed, so strong. I said to myself, that poor girl must be exhausted from holding everyone else together.”
The observation was so accurate it caught Eliza off guard.
She had spent the better part of a week managing the household, directing the servants, ensuring Dorothy did not collapse from grief, and making certain the parade of mourners did not overstay their welcome.
She had been composed. She had been strong. And she was, in fact, exhausted.
“You are very kind,” Eliza said, resuming her seat and folding her hands in her lap.
“Not kind at all. Merely observant.” Lady Wilhampton leaned forward, her expression softening into something that looked almost genuine.
“I lost my own husband two years ago, you know. Not to illness but to his own excess. Still, the aftermath is much the same. The visitors who come to gawk, the relatives who descend like vultures, the expectation that one must perform grief in just the right measure. Too little, and you are heartless. Too much, and you are histrionic.”
Eliza found herself nodding before she could stop herself. “It is rather like walking a tightrope.”
“Precisely! And all the while, your own feelings are entirely beside the point.” She reached across and patted Eliza’s hand. The gesture was brief, but it carried a warmth Eliza had not expected. “How are you truly faring? And do not tell me you are well. No one is well after such a trial.”
The question should have raised every defense Eliza possessed. This was Lady Wilhampton after all. The woman who had made her jealousy known at the Irondale ball. The woman who had clung to August’s arm at the funeral and tried to spirit him away.
And yet.
There was something in her manner now that seemed almost… sincere. As though she genuinely cared about the answer.
“I am quite well,” Eliza said which was not quite a lie but not quite the truth either.
“That is what we all say, is it not? ‘I am managing.’ As though we are estates to be administered rather than people with actual hearts.” Lady Wilhampton rose and moved to the window, gazing out at the gardens beyond.
“You know, I think a walk might do you good. The weather is quite fine, and you cannot have had much opportunity to leave the house these past days.”
Eliza glanced at the embroidery hoop then at the stack of condolence letters she had been avoiding. A walk did sound appealing. More than appealing if she was honest. The walls of Wildmoore Hall had begun to feel like a cage.
“I suppose a turn about the gardens would not go amiss,” she said.
“Wonderful!” Lady Wilhampton spun back to her with a smile that lit her whole face. “I promise to be very good company. Or at least, not actively terrible.”
They collected their bonnets and shawls, and within minutes, they were strolling down the gravel path that led to the rose garden. The afternoon sun was warm without being oppressive, and the air carried the scent of early blooms.
“I must confess,” Lady Wilhampton said as they walked, “I have been wanting to speak with you privately for some time now. There are so few women in our circle who possess any real intelligence. Most of them are concerned only with the cut of their dresses and the size of their pearls.”
“I imagine intelligence is not highly prized in a society that values ornament above all else.”
“Oh, how right you are!” She laughed, and it sounded genuine enough that Eliza felt some of her wariness begin to dissolve. “But you are different. I could see it the moment we met. You have a mind, and you are not afraid to use it. That is exceedingly rare.”
They turned down a smaller path, one that wound between hedges of lavender. Eliza found herself relaxing into the rhythm of their steps, the companionable silence punctuated by occasional observations about the garden or the weather.
“May I speak frankly?” Lady Wilhampton asked after a while.
“I would prefer it to anything else.”
“Good. Because I find that most conversations in society are nothing but elaborate performances. Everyone saying what they think they ought to say rather than what they actually mean.” She paused, bending to examine a cluster of primroses.
“I want you to know that if you ever need someone to talk to, someone who understands the peculiar burden of being married to a man of consequence, I am here.”
The offer hung in the air between them. Eliza turned it over in her mind, searching for the trap, but Lady Wilhampton’s expression remained open, her eyes clear and direct.
“That is generous of you,” Eliza said carefully.
“Not generous. Selfish, perhaps. I have so few friends, and I think we might suit each other quite well.” She straightened and resumed walking.
“You must promise me you will call on me if you ever feel overwhelmed. London can be dreadfully isolating, even when one is surrounded by people. Especially then in fact.”
They walked in silence for a few moments, and Eliza found her mind drifting back to breakfast. To August’s tired eyes and the way his hands had shaken ever so slightly when he picked up his coffee cup.
To the admission that he did not know if he was ready.
To the fact that she had lied about visiting the village because she could not bear the thought of waiting for him to return from his meetings.
“You seem troubled,” Lady Wilhampton said, breaking into her thoughts.
Eliza shook her head. “Only woolgathering. Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. But you know, it does help to speak of these things. Keeping everything bottled up inside is exhausting.” She slowed her pace as they neared the end of the garden path. “Marriage can be lonely, even when one is not alone. Perhaps especially then.”
The observation struck too close to home. Eliza looked away, fixing her gaze on a patch of daffodils that bobbed in the breeze.
“Have you found it so?” Eliza asked, more to deflect than anything else.
“Oh, constantly. My late husband was a devoted patron of the theater. He went three or four times a week, sometimes more. Always claimed it was for the culture, the refinement.” She paused, and something shifted in her expression.
“Of course, I learned eventually that the theater offered other attractions beyond the stage.”
Eliza’s stomach tightened. She kept her face neutral, her steps even. “I see.”
“Men are such predictable creatures in some ways. They think they are being terribly clever, but really, they might as well wear signs around their necks.” Lady Wilhampton sighed, and it carried the weight of long experience.
“My brother was much the same. Loved the theater. Could not stay away from it. He would come home smelling of perfume and tell me he had been discussing Shakespeare with some scholar or another.”
They had reached the edge of the garden now, where the path curved back toward the house. Lady Wilhampton stopped and turned to face Eliza, her expression all sympathy and concern.
“I only mention it because I would hate for you to be blindsided as I was. It is one thing to know one’s husband has interests outside the marriage.
It is quite another to be the last to learn of them.
” She reached out and squeezed Eliza’s hand.
“You strike me as a woman who would prefer to know the truth, even when it is unpleasant.”
Eliza’s mouth had gone dry. She managed a nod though her thoughts were racing ahead, tumbling over themselves in their haste to make sense of what was being said.
“Has the Duke returned to his usual habits?” Lady Wilhampton asked, and there was nothing but gentle concern in the question.
“I only ask because I happened to see him at the theater twice this past week—which surprised me, given the circumstances. Mourning is such a delicate time, and one would think he would remain close to home.”
The words landed like stones in still water, sending ripples outward in every direction. Eliza felt them spread through her chest, her stomach, her limbs.
August had been to the theater. Twice. And he had not mentioned it. Not at breakfast, not at dinner, not during any of their brief exchanges in the halls.
“I was not aware he had gone out,” Eliza said, and she was proud of how level her voice sounded.
“Oh.” Lady Wilhampton’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my dear, I have upset you. That was not my intention at all. I am certain there is a perfectly innocent explanation. Perhaps he needed the distraction. Grief affects us all differently.”
“Of course,” Eliza said.
“But if you should ever need to talk, if you should ever find that things are not quite as they seem, please do come to me. I would hate for you to suffer in silence as I did.” She took both of Eliza’s hands now, pressing them between her own. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Good.” She released Eliza’s hands and stepped back, her smile returning. “Now I really must be going. I have taken up far too much of your afternoon already. But I am so glad we had this chance to speak. I do think we shall be great friends.”
She swept back toward the house, leaving Eliza standing alone on the garden path.
The afternoon sun beat down on her shoulders, warm and bright and completely at odds with the cold that had settled in her chest. She stared at the daffodils, at the gravel beneath her feet, at the house looming in the distance.
August had been to the theater. Twice.
During mourning.
Without telling her.
And Lady Wilhampton’s brother had loved the theater too. Had used it as an excuse to see his mistress.
Eliza pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to calm the churning there. This was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. August had every right to go wherever he pleased. They were not a love match. They barely knew each other beyond the careful politeness of shared meals and passing conversations.
But then she thought of breakfast. Of the way he had asked if she would be home when he returned from his meetings. Of the small, tired smile he had given her when she said yes.
She thought of last night’s dinner. Of his admission that he did not know how to be the Duke. Of the raw honesty in his voice when he asked what if I fail.
She thought of all the small moments between them, the shift she had felt, the dangerous warmth that had begun to grow in her chest whenever he looked at her a certain way.
And she thought of Lady Wilhampton’s words. Always claimed it was for the culture, the refinement. Of course, I learned eventually that the theater offered other attractions beyond the stage.
Eliza turned and walked back toward the house, telling herself that she would not run. She would not panic, and she would not let herself feel anything at all until she knew the truth.
But as she climbed the steps to the entrance, one question circled in her mind, relentless and unyielding.
What had August been doing at the theater while he was grieving? What manner of amusement could he be seeking there?