Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Aurora waited until the mood in the drawing room had returned to something approximating normal and Marjorie had uncurled from burying her head nearly under her father’s arm to drink some stronger-than-usual cambric tea and eat a healthy slice of cake.
Aurora had kept an eye on her parents as well and was relieved when the whiteness in both of their faces began to return to pinker tones.
If she was being honest with herself, she also needed to steady her own nerves and steel them, because she knew what she must do.
Perhaps, technically, she did not owe Missie anything.
How does one gauge such a thing? For herself, she could not duck and hide from this.
If she was building her future, here and now, this was one of the unexpected hurdles she needed to face.
Setting down her second cup of tea, she looked at Alec and he nodded at her.
She stood and quietly stated, “Please excuse me for a few moments,” and left the room.
Aurora neither scratched nor even knocked on Missie’s door before entering.
She found the room in a complete flurry.
Gowns and slippers and other accoutrements were flung all over the bed and the floor.
For the first time since she had met her, Aurora felt a pang of sympathy for Hyacinth.
That individual’s perpetual look of hauteur, particularly when Hyacinth’s glance strayed to Aurora, had been part of her daily existence since the woman had first been hired.
Instead, it was clear Hyacinth was completely discomposed, frantically scrambling around the room to pick up the garments and items Missie was pulling out of her closet and flinging without aim or plan.
Missie whirled around at the sound of the door opening, stopped, and simply croaked out, “You!”
“Hyacinth,” said Aurora. “Would you please leave us? You can return to the packing momentarily.”
Aurora almost swore she heard a grateful sob as Hyacinth deposited everything in her arms onto the bed and literally ran out the door, actually slamming it behind her. Aurora simply stood there until the vibrations from the slam had ceased and looked at Missie. And waited.
Instead of some type of screaming fit—Aurora had literally braced herself, expecting Missie to hurl herself at her, so fierce was the emotional energy coming off her in waves—Missie collapsed into a heap on the floor, burying her head in her hands and sobbing as if her life were ending.
Bewildered, Aurora could only stand there for a moment, thrown once again by this atypical and untoward behavior from a woman who had always appeared in immaculate control of herself.
Finally, she spoke. “Missie, I do not understand. She is only a child. How could you be so cruel? Hate me all you want. Not Marjorie.”
At that, Missie only sobbed louder. Finally, Aurora walked over to the dressing table, found a silk handkerchief, and knelt down next to Missie with it.
“Blow,” was all she said. Without raising her head, Missie took the handkerchief from her and blew heartily.
And then she lifted a swollen, blotchy face to Aurora, any trace of the porcelain doll completely vanished.
“Oh, Rorie! I am a horror. A complete horror! I cannot help myself. I hate this, I hate this. I hate me!”
Aurora shook her head in confusion and this abrupt change of tone and behavior.
“Missie, I do not understand. You have all you have worked so hard for all these years: you are this Season’s Incomparable.
You have several interested suitors dancing attendance on you and the most eligible duke of them all here, right now, in this house.
Why are you throwing it all away? And with such needless cruelty? ”
Missie’s eyes darted across Aurora’s face, and then the fragments of the porcelain doll mask began to reassemble themselves, though Aurora almost imagined she could see the cracks, fissures even, and the jagged, sharp edges. She pulled back, both dismayed and repulsed.
With a sudden spurt of furious energy, Missie regained her feet.
Her eyes never leaving her friend’s face, Aurora scrambled up as well.
Missie’s head jutted forward, and she jabbed her finger at Aurora, once again on the attack.
“Oh, you, you, you have not the faintest inkling, do you? Quiet Aurora, beloved by her parents, always with her nose in a book, a wealthy heiress, bursting out with, oh, God, Homer! In the presence of eligible suitors.” She punctuated this statement with a brittle laugh, which turned bitter.
“And yet still, still, you are able to get him. Him!”
Aurora had begun backing up at the onslaught, then felt a block of ice form and settle in the pit of her stomach.
She stopped and stood her ground. Because it wasn’t only about her anymore.
It was about Alec. Her Alec. And Marjorie.
“Missie! You knew almost from the first: he has little money. He is a widower with a small daughter. He is absolutely not what you are looking for.”
“Of course he’s not! But what does that have to do with it?
He needs to be dancing attendance upon me!
I am this Season’s Incomparable! I am this Season’s Beauty!
Every head would turn should they see me on his arm!
Every. Single. One. They will all see me.
No one will ever belittle me. I shall be free from them! ”
She stopped, a brief look of horror at what she had let slip, but she did not elaborate further on who she meant.
But she could not stay silent for long. “He is everything I want! I. Want. Him. And everything I’ve always wanted, I have managed to get.
Except for money. You have the money. I do not.
” She stopped and shot a look of pure venom at Aurora.
“At least I can comfort myself that he is simply marrying you for your money. Poor man. Having to put up with you when he could have had this—me! How does it feel, Aurora, to be so obviously an afterthought, well, a choice made by necessity only? A bluestocking without breeding, who will never, ever, ever fit in with the Ton. I would advise you to hide yourself away in the country. And let him take a mistress, as I know he will need to.” At that, Missie’s eyes narrowed.
“And whatever arrangement I eventually enter into, I believe I will be able to find a way to make him mine. All that beauty in a man should not be thrown away, wasted, on the likes of you!”
Aurora sucked in a breath. “Missie, you cannot mean that. If you take the Duke of Galloway as your husband, he is cousin to—and also best friends—with Alec. You cannot do that to them. It is hateful!”
“Oh, Alec, is it? Are you now so very cozy, the two of you? What were you doing yesterday morning? Or this morning? I did not see you at the breakfast table on either day. Has he made sure you are his, now? Or is it that you have attempted to secure him that way? Are you well and properly soiled, Aurora?”
Aurora reached out and slapped Missie across the face. “How dare you!” she spat out between clenched teeth. “How. Dare. You. You have an ugly, ugly mind, Millicent Wentworth. If I have been able to do one thing for him, at least I have saved Alec Raeburn from you.”
Missie sat there, stunned, as if a kitten had abruptly transformed into a full-grown lion before her eyes. She blinked, and her mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. An imprint of Aurora’s hand stood out starkly against the flush of Missie’s cheek.
Aurora said nothing further, but straightened herself, feeling as if her spine had been replaced with some form of unbreakable metal, and headed to the door.
She turned back at the last minute, with her hand curled around the handle.
“Consider this our farewell, Missie. I hope to never see you again.”
And with that, Aurora left the room, shutting the door with a firm click behind her.
Her knees abruptly sagged, and she leaned back against the wall to keep from sliding down to the floor.
Breathe, Aurora, just breathe. She suddenly remembered back to the time at school—they had been thirteen?
Fourteen?—when she had asked Missie, “Why are you friends with me?” They had been huddled around the fire, working on their embroidery.
Missie had set down her hoop and scrunched her mouth in concentration. “Because you really look at people, Rorie. You see me. Too many people don’t. They see—” She gestured at her face and hair and dress. “—This, and they think it’s me. It isn’t.”
Aurora had gone to bed that night, turning over the words in her head: I see things, I see things.
Now, those same words came back to mock her.
Because she clearly had not seen this depth of cruelty in Missie, the anger which spilled over into rage.
It made her question whether they had ever really been friends.
The taste in her mouth was suddenly bitter, as if she had swallowed something vile.
A tiny voice spoke of pity, but she was not ready to listen to it yet.
To try and allay the shaking of her body in reaction to what had taken place with Missie, she brought strangely freezing cold hands to her hot and flustered face.
Gradually, Aurora stopped her trembling and let her hands fall once again to her sides, smoothing down her skirts until she noticed she was doing so and stopped.
Squaring her shoulders, she looked in the direction of the staircase and took a step toward it.
A slight sound caused her to turn her head. Her eyes met those of the Duke of Galloway, stepping outside of his room directly across the hall at this exact moment.
He took one look at her, and Aurora watched his carefully cultivated air of nonchalance slide away.
She watched realization and compassion cross his face; he momentarily appeared as if he would cross to her.
She quietly shook her head, and he ducked his own in acknowledgement.
Without saying anything, he turned and went back into his room, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Holding onto the banister, Aurora made herself walk downstairs and back into the drawing room.
It seemed an age since she had left it, though, in truth, it had only been ten or fifteen minutes.
Marjorie leapt out of her father’s lap when she entered and ran to Aurora, grabbing her around the waist. Aurora bent to kiss the top of her head.
“It is all right, Marjorie. I am fine. It will be all right, I promise.”
Marjorie lifted her head and looked into her face. “Is the Beautiful Lady leaving?”
“Yes, Marjorie, she is leaving. And you never have to see her again.” At those words, Aurora turned and looked at Alec, who nodded and slowly rose to his feet.
“If you would excuse me,” he said, “I think it is my turn.”