Chapter 12 #3
“Book characters?” Emily raised her eyebrows. “I am not as well read as my sister-in-law. I cannot claim to know books with those names among them.”
“Because they are from Gothic novels,” Miss Theodora said without expression. “Both our parents are avid readers of the genre.”
“Ah. Yes. Then my sister-in-law would find them of interest.” Emily did not laugh, knowing well enough how unpleasant she found being the center of teasing.
Especially in public. “I often wish my name were more unique, but at least I am not one of one hundred Marys likely within our sight at this exact moment. Were we to shout ‘Charlotte’ above the crowd, fully half the women would turn around to see who called their name.”
Miss Nelson’s lips twitched upward. “That is a most excellent point. Though I should not mind having been given a name of median usage, or even one common upon the Continent now that we are no longer at war.”
The conversation drifted then to other things, especially focusing on other entertainments during the week.
The Panorama in the largest assembly room in York, the ball in two days’ time, the many plays and private parties, and all of it drifted around Emily like leaves in a puddle.
Softly, brightly, but not fully pulling her attention to them.
Mrs. Elgin had arrived, and it was she who touched Emily’s arm gently and asked, “Would you like to accompany a few of me to the Panorama tomorrow? I think you would like it. I have seen one before, in London, and it is truly an incredible experience. One feels as though one is partaking in actual history.”
“I cannot remember having heard of such a spectacle before,” Emily admitted, hoping it was not another mark against her in Society’s eyes. “That would be lovely.”
“Excellent! I will send a note with the particulars to your family.” Mrs. Elgin seemed inordinately pleased, and for a moment Emily wondered if the woman had thought her kind invitation would be turned down. Had she been nervous about asking Emily to attend? Surely not.
Her focus returned to making herself appear composed and sociable.
This was what an earl’s daughter did. They socialized in public and private.
Though she much preferred private, smaller settings to grand, noisy things like the races.
The warmth of the sun through her bonnet, the hum of conversation, the flutter of fans, and the faint scent of lemonade and horses surrounded her.
Each of her senses assaulted on all sides.
She pulled in a deep breath, hand on the rail again. The feeling from a moment before came back.
She turned to see if Mr. Eastwood was there, and her heart sank when he was not looking her way.
Twice now she had thought she felt his eyes on her, but it was a ridiculous thought with little reason behind it.
Mr. Eastwood was attentive to the races, like everyone else.
She was merely part of the greater spectacle.
Lord Hartwell appeared a moment later, his voice carrying easily above the hum of the crowd. “Ladies, I hope you will not mind if I reclaim Lady Emily. My mother wishes our party to reconvene with her and will expect our attendance before the next race begins.”
It was said so pleasantly that no one could respond with anything but polite enthusiasm. The baron offered his arm, and Emily set her hand lightly upon his sleeve, falling into step beside him.
Jack and Juniper waited for them, but Emily saw no sign of Mr. Eastwood.
Perhaps he had gone inside already, to be with his mother.
An admirable thing for a son, to look in on her.
Both brothers seemed devoted to her. Given that Emily’s own family was quite close, she understood that level of care.
Or her family had once been that close, until all the distractions of rank and title overturned their lives.
The shift from the open air to the shaded interior felt like stepping out of a grand celebration into ceremony—the bustle and noise of the crowd replaced by the hush of polished civility.
The change in atmosphere was almost startling.
The corridor opened into a large reception room, tall windows gathering the hazy afternoon light and scattering it across the highly polished floors.
Candles flickered from sconces though the hour hardly required them.
Servants wove through the room with trays of lemonade and wine, and the scent of lemon mingled with perfume and wax until it was difficult to tell one from the other.
Lady Hartwell sat near the center of the room, surrounded by a constellation of acquaintances—ladies in feathered bonnets and a few gentlemen of her age and set. Likely husbands to the women giving her their attention, Emily thought.
The baroness was in her element, blooming amid the hum of conversation. She made it look effortless. This was the woman Emily had been told was not sociable? Every time she saw the baroness, the lady was composed and the very picture of elegance.
And where was Mr. Eastwood?
The moment the baron approached his mother, she extended a hand, smiling with serene satisfaction.
“Roman, my dear. I feared the press of the crowd would make you late. Or cause you to forget me altogether. You know how it fatigues me, worrying about where you are.”
“I did not keep you waiting long, Mother,” he said with an indulgent smile, bowing over her hand. “And you appear to be in excellent company.”
Lady Hartwell laughed softly, then turned her attention to Emily and Juniper. “Lady Juniper Sterling, how lovely you look this afternoon. And Lady Emily, my dear, how charming to see you again.”
Emily curtsied, offering the expected compliments about the fine weather and the success of the day.
The words came easily, almost mechanically, while her mind struggled to find something more specific to say.
Something interesting. The light coming through the tall windows caused a slight throb at her temples.
Thankfully, Jack and Juniper spoke warmly to their hostess, while Lord Hartwell exchanged pleasantries with his mother’s friends.
Emily tried to listen, to smile at the right moments, and to appear composed.
But the room pressed close. The hum of voices and movement bled into one another, becoming a relentless buzz, like bees trapped in glass.
She told herself she must not falter. Not here. Not now.
Grace. Usefulness. Composure. If she could maintain those three things, no one would suspect how unsteady she felt.
Someone asked a question about the races. She smiled and answered, uncertain of her own words. Her neck felt warm beneath her collar, her gloves damp against her palms. The polished floor slowly tilted under her feet.
Lady Hartwell’s laughter drifted to her ears again—airy, confident, unbothered. Emily envied that ease. How long would it take her to learn to look so assured, to belong so wholly to this world?
A wave of dizziness passed through her, and she turned slightly, facing the nearest window. The light there seemed cooler. The glass panes rattled faintly as a breeze moved against them. She drew in a slow breath and tried to summon calm.
A shadow fell beside her. She tilted her head enough to look without moving her eyes.
Mr. Eastwood stood there, a glass of lemonade in one hand and a folded fan in the other. His expression was quiet but intent, his gaze steady.
“You looked as though you might wish for one,” he said softly, offering the glass.
Her fingers brushed his as she took it. The coolness startled her, and she had to resist pressing the cup to her temple.
“Thank you,” she managed to say, her voice soft. She sipped at it, grateful for the cool liquid, for the sweet and sour on her tongue to draw her mind away from everything else.
He inclined his head, nothing more. No comment, no intrusion. But there was something in his eyes…an unspoken understanding. And that made it easier to breathe.
The noise of the room dimmed slightly. The ache behind her eyes eased. And for a moment, amid the elegance and clamor of the world she was still learning to move within, she felt seen.