Chapter 18 #3
“That’s good. I wonder . . .” She wondered where else he might turn up, but didn’t want to say it. Heaven knows but she had no pride left over this with her family. They all knew her desperate need. Still, she didn’t want to say it.
“I believe he might be attending Lord Coalport’s picnic at his Chelsea villa.”
“A picnic? White’s I can believe, but an alfresco meal probably largely attended by ladies? Can a pistol ball in the leg change a man that much?”
“Perhaps he is just craving fresh air.” With that, Rothgar left, and Elf sat chewing her lower lip.
Since her brother had come specifically to tell her about the picnic, he doubtless had made inquiries and thought Fort would be there. That didn’t necessarily mean that Rothgar thought she should attend.
So should she?
She looked down at the neat columns of figures that told the story of income and expense in a certain warehouse for upholstery fabrics. Life could be seen as neat columns, too. If she didn’t attempt to see Fort, she might as well just admit that she lacked the courage to pursue her aim.
She’d have to leave him be.
It was tempting, for that’s what a lady was supposed to do, what she had been trained to do. She should sit at home demurely and make him woo her. A lady’s rights lay solely in the acceptance or rejection of an offer.
She didn’t think Fort would woo her, though. Even if he wanted her.
He must want her. Surely he must be drawn to her as she was to him. And the problems were her fault for so mishandling that intimacy. So she must put it right.
Immediately she knew she’d reached the correct, the only decision. As they were all discovering, she was a complete Malloren. She could not help but try to steer the ship of fate.
She pushed back from the desk and stood, then frowned at an inkstain on her finger. Lud. Perhaps lemon juice would help.
As it turned out, Chastity knew of her brother’s intention to attend the picnic.
“It’s not so strange,” Chastity said. “He attended such affairs at home before—”
“Before he killed his father.”
Elf had been astonished to find that the whole family knew Fort had shot his father, and everyone had assumed that she knew, too. She had been involved with Princess Augusta, however, and had missed some important meetings.
After the death, Chastity and her sister, Verity, had spent a great deal of time with Fort. They had done everything they could to persuade him that it had been a necessary act to protect the innocent, not a heinous sin.
They hadn’t succeeded, but Chastity had always believed he’d see it that way in time.
Elf knew—or hoped at least—that their disastrous talk in the dark cellar had helped to crack the shell of guilt and anger around him, and started the healing. If so, it had been worth it, even if it had cost her any chance of love.
More than possession, she wanted him free to be himself.
“So?” prompted Chastity, pulling Elf out of her thoughts. “You want to attend this picnic?”
“Quite desperately. But is it wise?”
“I honestly don’t know. He doesn’t speak of you. But he still has some poems, a fan, a toy, and a horribly gaudy handkerchief. And it was only a few days ago that he let a maid throw out the remains of some roses.”
Elf couldn’t suppress a smile. That did sound hopeful. “Then by all means, let us go. At the very least, I will see him.”
She hurried to her room, glad she’d taken the trouble to order some gowns to her new taste. She was still rather unsure of herself in this regard, but at least neither the mantua maker nor Chantal had blanched at her ideas.
Two gowns had arrived so far, and the amber one might be ideal. The striped taffeta had caught her eye and she had felt sure it would harmonize with her difficult hair rather than fighting it. With rust-brown trimming and rich cream lace, she thought the effect strong but pleasing.
And Chantal did not protest when ordered to produce it.
However, remembering the way Fort had looked at her scarlet and gold and called it “appalling,” Elf could easily have been persuaded back into the safety of paler shades.
Waiting for Chantal to bring the gown, she paced the room restlessly. Half of her wanted to cancel her plans, to put off this meeting till another day. But her need to be with him again, even among a crowd, overwhelmed even her terror of having him look coldly at her or even turn his back.
He had kept her gifts.
She hugged that thought to her as Chantal returned with the outfit and began to help Elf into it.
She remembered, so long ago, telling Chastity that men often needed a bridge to cross the gulfs they themselves created.
She’d been talking then of Cyn and Rothgar, who had created a chasm over the issue of whether Cyn should be allowed to join the army.
It might apply to Fort too, though, mightn’t it?
Elf didn’t look in the mirror until the gown was fastened, then she turned to the glass. She released her held breath and smiled. “It does look well, Chantal, doesn’t it?”
The amber-and-brown silk created a rich effect that might have been a little strong for her pale skin except for the cream lace at neck and sleeves.
“In fact,” said Elf, turning this way and that to check the line of the gown over her wide hoops, “my hair is pale amber! That sounds so much better than sandy.”
“Yes, milady. The whole is good. It is . . . interesting.”
“Interesting?” Elf echoed with a wry smile. “Is not that what they say of ladies of a certain age?” But with sudden confidence, she knew she looked well.
Looking back at the mirror she could see that the gown did as she’d intended.
It expressed Elf Malloren. It reflected the way she felt about herself these days—a woman, confident and moving beyond the tighter expectations of society.
A person excited by the prospect of interesting things to do with her life.
“What hat do you wish to wear, milady?”
“Oh, the large leghorn to shade my face, I think.”
As Elf waited for Chantal to find the straw hat, she continued to look at herself in the mirror. It was not vanity, just a satisfaction with a job well done.
One among many.
The burned-out piece of land down near the port had been purchased by the family and she had already met with the architect who was to build almshouses there.
Dibby Cutlow and others like her would have a good place to live out their lives, but would not have to leave the area in which they felt comfortable.
In the future, other similar places would be constructed around London. Too often, the old were forgotten.
She was still considering ways to spread information about means to delay childbearing until the right time.
She placed her hands on her flat abdomen.
At least the prospect of inconvenient motherhood no longer troubled her.
She’d had her courses. She didn’t carry a child.
Her sensible part had rejoiced, but a tiny rebellious corner of her mind had wept.
She could not be sure of winning Fort, and a child of his would have been something of him to cherish.
It would have tied him to you, said stern honesty.
“Yes, that too,” Elf whispered to the woman in the mirror.
Then Chantal returned with the straw hat, deftly tying amber grosgrain ribbon around the crown. She brushed Elf’s curls, added a delicious lacy cap, then set the hat on top, tying a big bow beneath the chin.
“Charming, milady!” declared Chantal in what seemed to be honest approval.
Elf left the room hoping the maid was right.