Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Look like the innocent flower
but be the serpent under’t.”
We left the house around six o’clock. Clara remained in the drawing room when we departed, hanging her head and sniffling like a child.
Her hands were clasped behind her back, and thin strands of wet, dark hair clung to her cheeks where the tears fell freely.
I flashed her a winning smile as I passed.
I walked to the carriage, shivering in the cold from the recent rain.
The temperature was dropping more by the day, turning the warm summer breezes into chilled autumn air.
I hadn’t bothered to bring a miniature looking glass, for I had my appearance memorized from head to toe.
I had insisted that Anna work nothing short of a miracle.
Most of my hair was arranged atop my head with pieces intertwining intricately like clockwork.
My cheeks were rosy, my eyes perfectly matched to my dress—the color of which I called the sky.
Any man would have to be blind not to notice me, or to want me as his wife.
I told myself such things when I had a goal to accomplish, yet my palms still perspired inside my gloves.
I took a deep breath, my heart hammering just a little faster as Mama stared at me from across the carriage on our way to Candleworth Manor.
When we arrived, I stepped down gracefully, lightly resting my hand in the footman’s.
Mama walked ahead of me, bowing her greetings toward the other guests making their arrivals.
The night sky was speckled with stars, making me feel even more powerful and beautiful.
You can do this, I told myself. You can win him.
By the time we stepped through the doors, I believed it.
In the drawing room, I surveyed my competition carefully. Married women, four. They were nothing to worry about. Widowed, two. Potentially dangerous, but less so.
Young and unattached…nine.
I felt the eyes of several gentlemen wander to me, but I ignored them.
Where was my target? I found Mr. Weatherby standing in the farthest corner of the drawing room, engaged in conversation with two other gentlemen.
It was a difficult circle to infiltrate, to be sure.
I bit my lower lip. The dining table was sure to be enormous, and my odds of receiving a seat near our host were slim.
I watched the guests interact from my vantage point beside my mother. We were greeted occasionally by the bold men and women in the room, but most kept their distance. Mama had a tendency to intimidate.
A young woman caught my eye near the pianoforte, studying a sheet of music.
I briefly recognized her from the previous London season.
Her name was Miss Lydia Camden, and I knew that she was reputable on the pianoforte.
Without a second thought, I stood from my chair and crossed the room to greet her.
“Miss Camden! What a pleasure to see you again.” I pulled my lips into a rehearsed smile.
Her eyes raised to mine in surprise. She didn’t seem quite as pleased to see me as I was pretending to be to see her. “Miss Lyons,” she stammered. “The pleasure is mine.”
“Why have you secluded yourself to this corner? I trust there are many fine gentlemen here who admire you.” I eyed the sheet in her hands. It was Haydn’s sonata in C major, one I had previously played at a musical.
“Don’t be absurd. It is you they are bound to admire.”
I swatted the air and let a laugh ring through it. “Surely I will not turn a single head.”
She smiled. “Nonsense. You have much beauty to recommend you. I rely solely upon my performance.”
“I am performing tonight as well.”
Her face seemed to fall.
“When are you standing?” I asked, leaning in as if sharing a secret.
“Second.”
A burst of triumph spread through my body.
I was to directly follow her. “And I am third! I look forward to your performance. Haydn is one of my favorite composers. Perhaps your talent will calm my anxious spirits. I do hate excessive attention…” I twirled a lock of hair around my finger as I caught the eye of Sir Edward Longleat.
He was certainly my second choice among the eligible gentlemen at the party.
“I wish you the best,” Miss Camden said, recalling my attention.
“And I, you.”
After a few more minutes of tedious conversation, the group moved to the dining room.
I was escorted by Mr. Hansen, a dreadful man who smiled far too often.
I acted polite for the sake of the other members of the party, and noticed Mr. Weatherby’s gaze travel my way on more than one occasion.
Mama caught my eye, one brow arched deviously.
When we arrived in the dining room, I was seated on the opposite length of the table as Mr. Weatherby, but nearly straight across.
In no opinion would he be considered handsome, with his large nose and dull eyes, but he was the wealthiest man in town, and his home was magnificent.
I had taken note of all the details. The ceilings domed high, covered in paintings and intricate plasterwork.
The floors were fine marble, and the furnishings were in the French style.
I wanted all of it. So on the many occasions Mr. Weatherby’s eyes were drawn to mine, I saw a husband I could be indifferent to.
I could allow him freedom and he could allow me the same.
One day I could be hosting a party just like this one.
Occasionally I saw Mama’s approving smile.
And the thought of her approval eased something inside me.
“Mr. Weatherby, I understand you race horses at your leisure,” I said in a coy voice, tipping my head at an angle I knew to be flattering.
He cleared his throat. “Indeed.”
I waited, hoping for further explanation. Nothing.
“I cannot claim to know much of the sport. What of the activity attracts you?” My voice was sugary and my smile demure.
He was chewing, and I waited patiently for him to swallow the chunk of meat he had just lifted from his plate.
“I see myself in the animals,” he said. “A sense of adventure, a daring spirit. Very intuitive creatures, horses. They know where to turn when lost. They have an acute sense of danger as well.” He sipped from his cup and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
His eyes roamed over me before he spoke again. “They know when they’re being hunted.”
I blinked twice. “How interesting!”
Before I could speak another word, he turned to the gentleman beside him and started a new conversation. The two men whispered, and Mr. Weatherby laughed under his breath.
I slumped in my chair, unsure of my progress.
I couldn’t tell if Mama approved, because her eyes were trained on an older gentleman, and I recognized my own flirtatious expression on her face.
I watched Miss Camden across the table, engaged in conversation with Sir Edward.
Jealousy boiled in my stomach as I established my next course of action.
Surely I could outshine her at the pianoforte. I had no doubt.
After the ladies removed to the drawing room and the men had finished with their port, the first performer took her seat beside the harp. She was inept, to put it kindly.
When Miss Camden took her place at the pianoforte, I held my breath.
Her hands plinked out the notes with accuracy, but she had simplified some of the complicated elements of the piece.
It was novice, and my spirits rose more and more as I listened.
When she finished, she stood shakily, beaming at the applause.
At last, it was my turn. I hadn’t brought my sheet music, but had my piece memorized.
My choice for that evening had been a piece by Mozart—impressive, but perhaps a little too common to make a lasting impression.
Haydn’s work, the one Miss Camden had just performed, jumped to my mind.
I had once committed each note and dynamic to memory.
If I was to win, I was to do it right.
Taking a seat on the bench, I positioned my hands over the keys and repeated the piece Miss Camden had just played.
But much better.
I played with all the passion and skill I could manage.
It was a lively and strong melody, and I lost myself within the powerful trills of the sonata.
Several gasps hit my ears from around the room, but they slowly faded into silent awe.
After the last note rang through the air, I stood and took my bow.
As I raised my gaze, I caught the eye of Miss Camden.
In her features I saw the same look I had seen on Clara’s face the night before, but only now did I place it.
Hatred.
I smiled to myself. I could accept being hated if it meant being admired by Mr. Weatherby. I glanced in his direction as I made my way back to my seat. But what I saw on his face wasn’t admiration. Not even close.
My smile faltered. Mr. Weatherby’s nose twitched, his eyebrows raising in dismay as he looked down at the floor.
The other ladies and gentlemen in the room shifted uncomfortably, leaning and whispering as I reclaimed my seat.
I dared a look at Mama. She sat with unbendable posture, chin held high, eyes flooded with pride.
Somewhat reassured, I kept my bearings and ignored the whispered remarks.
Perhaps I had mistaken Mr. Weatherby’s reaction to my performance.
Or perhaps his expression was aimed at Miss Camden and her horrific interpretation of the song.
Whatever it was, I found peace with the fact that I had accomplished what I came here to do.
I came to be remembered, and remembered I would be.
As I stole one more look at the guests, though, I wondered if being remembered for what I did tonight was for the better or the worse.