Eliza Williams #2
“ ‘No place in England, in a full season, affords so brilliant a circle of polite company as Bath,’ ” Charlotte read aloud from her new copy of The New Bath Guide by Christopher Anstey, which she had ordered from London especially for the occasion.
“ ‘The young, the old, the grave, the gay, the infirm, and the healthy, all resort to this place of amusement. Ceremony beyond the essential rules of politeness is totally exploded; everyone mixes in the Rooms upon an equality; and the entertainments are so widely regulated, that although there is never a cessation of them, neither is there a lassitude from bad hours, or from an excess of dissipation.’ ” Then she squealed. “It’s perfect!”
It is, Eliza had thought, staring out the small window, awestruck. People paraded down the narrow sidewalk, in and out of shops occupying the tall limestone buildings lining the street. It was unlike anywhere she had ever been before.
The Carrington family had let 13 Queen Square, a substantial townhouse not far from the Royal Crescent.
Not only did it come with a housekeeper and a little black kitten that ran about the staircase, but each girl had her own room away from Mr. Carrington’s dwellings in the parlor on the second floor.
Eliza’s bed was larger than the one at Ivy House, and she had a nice chest of drawers and a closet full of shelves—so full that there was nothing else and it should really be called a cupboard.
Regardless, she loved the room, not just for the shelves or the bed, or the view from her window of three Lombardy poplars in the park across the street.
But because this room, this summer, meant freedom.
Every night at dinner, they ate rich meat stews and drank fine wines, and talked about a myriad of subjects from the academic to the absurd.
Mr. Carrington made it a point of making plans for them afterward each evening, assuming it was only a matter of time before he would be feeling better and could enjoy a ball or the theater.
Unfortunately, such a miraculous recovery never occurred, so Charlotte and Eliza found themselves very often on their own.
Suddenly, there were people—men and women her own age!—laughing and talking and discussing the world and opinions entirely their own. It was like a world had opened up to Eliza, bright and alive, and just waiting to show her all it had to offer. Theater and art, music and debate.
And then there was him.
Even now, she hated how her heart raced at the thought of their first meeting.
How his dark eyes locked with hers at the theater and stayed there so she missed the end of Twelfth Night.
How he found her the next day at the Pump Room, and offered to escort her around the room with a smile, as if they were old friends.
How they talked about books and poetry until they were called to dinner, only to meet again the following day. Then the day after.
His name was John Willoughby. He looked like the men she pictured in the novels she read: dashing, tall, with thick brown hair that he always had perfectly coiffed, and only a few years older than herself.
She’d never met a person who took such care of his appearance, and he appreciated her dark curls and bright eyes because he told her so, and she believed him.
His letters began to arrive at 13 Queen Square the following week.
Your laugh, your wit, your beauty, it lives in my very soul….
Your beauty is unparalleled and haunts me day and night….
I only wish I could see you again because I fear you have won over my heart; my affection for you is unwavering….
Eliza was careful in her responses. She knew enough not to give her heart away too easily. She guarded those details about her life that were so sacred—her mother’s history, her uncle’s name—but as the weeks wore on, she found her defenses falling.
It all seemed to culminate on the eve of their final night in Bath.
“You’re looking flushed,” he had murmured to her as they played cards around a crowded table in the Assembly Rooms. The sounds of loud chatter and a lively jig tune echoed throughout the space while Charlotte sat across from her, laughing with another young man they had met a few weeks before and oblivious to just how close Willoughby’s lips were to Eliza’s neck.
“Am I?” Eliza breathed, and she swore he brushed his hand over her knee under the table. Her entire body heated.
“You are,” he said with a slight smirk, his dark eyes unflinching.
“I distinctly remember your beautifully pale cheeks being a lighter shade of pink, and now they are most definitely a deeper tone. Almost scarlet red, I’d say.
You either have a very good hand, or you’re in dire need of some fresh air. ”
“The culprit is definitely not these cards,” she replied, folding them in front of her.
He smiled. “Well, then, may I be so presumptuous as to escort you about the garden, my dear Eliza?”
Her heart soared when he said her name, his voice so gravelly and low. Then his hand landed on her knee, and all the oxygen went out of the room.
“I could use some air,” she whispered, barely recognizing her own voice.
The next second, she was excusing herself and following him into the hallway that led outside to the small grove attached to the building.
Tall trees lined the lawn, offering seclusion against the towering walls that enclosed it.
After just a few steps, Willoughby turned and leaned her against the cool stone.
Her heart hammered in her chest as he slowly bent forward and brought his lips to hers.
Letting out a sharp gasp, her eyes fluttered closed as she gripped onto his coat.
She lifted up onto her toes when his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him.
Her lips parted, and he deepened the kiss.
The night air seemed to still, the world stopped, and all Eliza thought was: Oh, so this is what I’ve been missing.
“I love you, Eliza,” he murmured against her skin. “God, how I love you. Say you’ll be mine, or I might perish on this very spot.”
She had been so stupid. She had believed him when he said they would one day be married and she would become Mrs. Eliza Willoughby, a name she could proudly claim as part of her own legacy.
She hadn’t stopped to ask why the plans had been made so quickly, why they had to go to London first before setting off to Scotland to be married.
She hadn’t even been given the opportunity to write to the Colonel to let him know about their impending nuptials.
She had only said yes, and trusted that he knew what to do.
At the time, it had all felt so terribly romantic, like a scene from one of her books, where the dashing gentleman stole the heroine away in the dead of night and they lived happily ever after.
Except, in the harsh light of morning, ever after turned out to be a small apartment near Cheapside in London.
“I should write Charlotte,” she had said after their bags and trunks had been delivered and they were finally alone. The rowdy sounds from the pub across the street filled her ears even as she did her best to ignore them. “Let her know our plans.”
“Of course,” he said, walking forward and wrapping his arms around her waist.
“And that I’m safe,” she continued, trying to maintain her continence as his mouth traveled down her neck. “I’ve never been to London before, and I can only imagine my uncle will be concerned when he finds out where we are….”
“Don’t worry,” Willoughby said, leaning back enough so she could see that familiar smile on his lips. “I’ll protect you.”
And she had trusted him.
As the days rolled into weeks, she trusted he was doing what was best for both of them.
Even as she looked back now, she couldn’t fault herself for that.
How could she be blamed when she had spent her entire life being told to trust that the men around her knew what was best?
So she hadn’t questioned why they never left the apartment.
She simply used the time to write a letter to Charlotte, recounting events and including clear instructions: Her friend should deliver the enclosed letter to her uncle, which explained everything to him, all the happy news.
And Eliza hadn’t paused when she gave that letter to Willoughby to mail.
The weeks turned into months. She found it troubling that Charlotte hadn’t written back, and that her uncle hadn’t arrived, but her concern was soon overshadowed by a much larger problem. She was pregnant.
There had been joy, at first. Yes, they weren’t married yet, but they would be soon and then Willoughby would not only be her husband but a father.
Surely he would see the happiness that awaited them in that.
And to his credit, when he arrived home one night after spending hours at a gentlemen’s club nearby and she told him the news, he had smiled.
And as he stoked the small fire in their room, drinking whiskey straight from a bottle, he claimed to be celebrating.
Yet somewhere in her heart, she knew better.