Chapter 5
The carriage rolled steadily through the crowded London streets, its wheels muffled by the lingering damp left behind by yesterday's rain.
Opposite William, his mother adjusted one of her gloves before fixing him with the familiar expression that invariably preceded an unwelcome conversation.
“I have been patient.”
William looked up from the passing view beyond the carriage window. “That is seldom an encouraging beginning.”
“It should encourage you to answer before I lose that patience entirely.”
A reluctant smile threatened at the corner of his mouth. “I suspect this conversation is unlikely to end in my favor.”
“A wise observation.”
She settled back against the squabs.
“I have spoken to Lady Ashcombe. Lady Harcourt. Lady Ellington.” She counted each upon her gloved fingers. “All have daughters of excellent character, agreeable disposition, and entirely respectable fortunes.”
William had the distinct impression he was being presented with a catalogue. “I recall the list.”
“And yet,” his mother continued, “you have expressed an interest in precisely none of them.”
“I have been occupied.”
“With what?”
William's answer came too slowly.
His mother's brows rose. “I see.”
“There is nothing to see.”
“My dear William,” she said gently, “I have known you since the moment you first drew breath. There is always something to see.”
He looked away as the carriage turned onto Piccadilly.
“I had intended,” she continued, “to allow you to make your own introductions in your own time.”
A pause.
“I begin to think that was excessively optimistic.”
William closed his eyes briefly. “Mother.”
“No. You have left me little choice. Since you seem determined to neglect every suitable young lady placed before you, I shall simply have to introduce them myself.”
He laughed under his breath. “You would not.”
“I most certainly would.” She smiled. “And I shall begin this evening.”
William's shoulders sank in theatrical defeat. “I pity the ladies.”
“I pity the gentleman refusing to meet them.”
Silence settled between them once more, companionable rather than awkward, as the carriage continued through the busy streets.
His mother seemed content to watch the passing houses for a time, though William had long since learned that such silences usually meant she was considering her next observation with care.
“Lady Eastmere sent me a note this afternoon,” she said at last.
William turned his head. “She was grateful.”
“She was.” A faint smile touched her lips. “More than grateful, I think. You spared her a very public humiliation.”
William remembered the relief that had crossed Lady Rosalind’s face when the invitation had been restored. It had lasted only a moment before worry reclaimed it, but he had seen it nonetheless.
“The Institution behaved poorly,” he said.
“It did.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “And I was pleased to hear you say so. There are far too many gentlemen willing to stand quietly by simply because a matter is... inconvenient.”
William offered no reply.
“I confess I worry for Lady Rosalind.”
“So do I.”
The admission escaped him before he thought better of it.
His mother noticed. Of course she noticed.
“She has been placed in an impossible position,” she said gently. “Society has always been quicker to judge a daughter than the gentleman responsible for her circumstances. None of this is Lady Rosalind's doing, any more than it is her mother's.”
William nodded. “I know.”
His mother folded her hands neatly in her lap, her expression thoughtful rather than reproving. “Compassion is one of your better qualities, William. I would never wish you to lose it.”
He glanced toward her.
“But compassion has a curious habit of becoming something rather more personal if one is not paying attention.”
Their eyes met.
“You believe that is what this is?”
“I believe you have thought about Lady Rosalind a great deal in the last twenty-four hours.”
William let out a quiet breath and looked back through the carriage window. Ladies in bright summer gowns crossed the street ahead of them while gentlemen escorted them toward the exhibition, utterly unaware that somewhere among them walked a family whose entire world had been overturned.
“She accused me of helping conceal her father's disappearance,” he said after a long moment. “I cannot seem to forget the look on her face when she said it.”
His mother's expression softened. “Because she wounded you?”
William considered the question. “No.” He shook his head. “Because she truly believed it.”
He remembered the anger in Rosalind's voice, but it was not the accusation itself that lingered. It was the hurt beneath it. The desperation of someone grasping at the nearest explanation because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate.
“She was frightened,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“Yet you are still troubled.”
William frowned slightly.
That, perhaps, was the question he had been avoiding himself.
Rosalind's accusation should not have lingered as it had. She had spoken in grief and fear, grasping for someone to blame when the world had suddenly ceased to make sense. He understood that.
What unsettled him was not that she had accused him. It was that she had believed him capable of doing so.
Somewhere between childhood and now, he had become a gentleman she thought capable of turning his back on her family when they most needed kindness.
The thought sat uneasily with him.
He found himself wanting to prove her wrong. He simply could not understand why it mattered so much.
The carriage slowed as the exhibition had come into view.
The broad stone steps of the British Institution were already crowded by the time William's carriage arrived.
Ladies in silks and gentlemen in dark evening coats ascended beneath the great portico while servants hurried to collect cloaks and announce arrivals.
Candlelight spilled through the tall windows overlooking Pall Mall, illuminating galleries that housed works borrowed from some of the finest private collections in Britain.
William stepped down first before offering his mother his hand.
“Try not to look quite so apprehensive,” his mother murmured as they mounted the steps. “People will assume I have been lecturing you.”
“You have.”
“I have barely begun.”
He smiled despite himself.
The entrance hall hummed with conversation as guests drifted between marble columns toward the exhibition galleries beyond. William recognized several paintings from Aldermere immediately.
Their late father had insisted that art was meant to be admired rather than hidden away in country houses, and each year a generous portion of the family's collection was lent to the Institution. Algernon had faithfully continued the tradition.
William had scarcely begun greeting familiar faces before Algernon approached, Augusta beside him.
“Mother. William.”
He inclined his head first to the Dowager Duchess before acknowledging his younger brother with the same measured courtesy.
“I trust your journey was uneventful.”
“Entirely.”
“Good.”
The exchange ended there.
Algernon's attention shifted as Lady Eastmere entered the gallery with Rosalind and Isabella at her side.
Lady Eastmere carried herself with the quiet grace expected of a countess, though William detected a new resolve in her bearing. Rosalind matched her step without hesitation.
She looked lovely this evening, the soft blue of her gown lending warmth to her fair complexion and brown hair.
Yet it was not the dress that caught his attention. It was the composure.
She had carefully concealed every trace of the uncertainty he had glimpsed that morning. To anyone else, she would appear every inch an earl's daughter receiving guests with practiced confidence.
William knew better.
Algernon inclined his head. “Lady Eastmere.”
“Your Grace.”
“Lady Rosalind.”
“Your Grace.”
Nothing more passed between them.
William stepped smoothly into the silence before it had time to become uncomfortable.
“Lady Eastmere, Lady Rosalind, may I present Her Grace, the Duchess of Aldermere.”
Augusta greeted them with impeccable grace, her smile gentle enough to put any stranger at ease.
“Lady Eastmere. Lady Rosalind.”
Rosalind returned the greeting without hesitation, yet William noticed her studying Augusta with quiet curiosity.
It was difficult to explain. Augusta never said the wrong thing. Never breached etiquette. Never displayed the slightest impropriety.
Yet there were moments when William found himself wishing she would.
Perfection, he had noticed, could be every bit as unsettling as rudeness. It possessed not the smallest trace of warmth.
William's attention shifted instinctively to Rosalind. For the briefest instant, something unreadable crossed her face before she recovered herself, the polished smile returning so quickly he almost convinced himself he had imagined it.
Before he could dwell upon it, a steward announced that His Grace would address the assembled guests. Conversation gradually subsided as visitors gathered before the central gallery. Algernon stepped onto the small platform prepared for him. He looked entirely at ease beneath so many eyes.
“My friends,” he began, “allow me first to thank you all for joining us this evening in support of the British Institution.”
His voice carried easily through the hall.
He spoke not only of the artists whose work surrounded them, but of the value of preserving beauty for future generations. He spoke of young painters whose talents deserved encouragement, and of established masters whose works reminded Britain of her history.
Then, after a brief pause, his expression softened.
“My late father believed that a nation reveals itself not merely through its victories or its commerce, but through the works it chooses to preserve. He taught my brother and me that paintings are more than decoration. They are memory. They remind us who we were, who we are, and who we might yet become.”
For the first time that evening, the room fell completely still.