Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
In the late afternoon light, Elizabeth sat in one of the many drawing rooms of the Spencer home, the atmosphere rising, stifling and repressive. When her mother wasn’t looking, she tugged her itchy lace collar from her throat to breathe.
Against a background of brass-colored damask walls, the Duke of Westerly reclined on one of the vulgarly gilt and needlepoint Napoleonic love seats.
From a garishly ornate table in marquetry of purpleheart and mother-of-pearl inlays, a servant poured cups of tea for the many women of notable society arranged like so many drooping flowers.
Beneath the electric light of a crystal chandelier, her mother enthroned herself on a plump sofa.
Alva had waved her glorious hand in the décor but had failed in every way possible, paving the assertion the city drunk must have given birth to the sad oppressive scheme.
The duke possessed a moon face and exceptionally white skin, the sort some women spent considerable money and time trying to achieve.
A mouse of a mustache wriggled beneath his long nose.
She cringed when he stroked the few strands of hair left to him into position across a mostly bald pate and then repeated the question she hadn’t answered.
What were they talking about? Weather? Books? Fashion? The Queen of England? His long heritage? From years of strict training Elizabeth spoke some inane pleasantry.
Like a rooster with an ear infection, the duke cocked his head to one side, then the other, as if studying her from different angles.
Her mother and her select friends along with the duke’s aunts occupied the other sofas.
Their tittering and the duke’s scrutiny annoyed her.
Instead, Elizabeth became mesmerized with an older woman’s silver rolls of hair that bobbed at her temple in an iambic pentameter rhythm beneath her little bonnet.
All the meaningless chatter, the smiling masks, the expectation to impress–oh, how she needed to escape the hot, crowded room to breathe the fresh invigorating air off the Hudson River. She wanted to talk to someone who listened with mindfulness. And listen to someone who spoke from the heart.
Framed by the brocade drapes of apple green, her mother looked brittle, as delicate and antique as the garlands of Georgian plasterwork that adorned the ceiling and mantelpiece.
Elizabeth’s mind was faraway thinking of Zachary. How with miraculous powers he had appeared and saved her from a riot and then vanished from her life. Were their fates not entwined?
He’d never want someone like her. Someone with a foul past. Despite Zachary declaring her disgrace as trivial, the reality was that men rose sanctimonious when it came to their wives.
They insisted on high moral value for the women they would marry.
She dared to unbutton the first button of her collar.
At least they could be friends, couldn’t they?
Her mother rose, leaned over to Elizabeth. “You will not see him again,” she whispered brusquely, presenting a fake tear. And then producing a handkerchief, she patted her cheeks. The grand finale of her performance was swept to the center of the room.
Nor will I ever marry the duke.
“I understand,” said the duke’s mother, “that your daughter entertains orphans?”
The inference of Elizabeth’s volunteer work at the orphanage was considered indelicate.
Alva froze in her tracks, twirled, and then smiled at Elizabeth. “That is a but a passing diversion.”
How dare her mother bar her from seeing her daughter.
Reality set in. Her mother’s marriage plans were coming at her like a steaming locomotive.
Did she have no choice in the matter? An icicle lodged in her stomach.
The luxury of the current status quo would cease.
Looming imperious restrictions sealed imprisoning bars.
Elizabeth would be shipped to England and never see her daughter.
Might her father support her refusal to marry the duke? He had supported her college education. She held fast to a last sliver of hope.
“We shall consider,” her mother said—meaning of course, that she would consider, and the other ladies would listen humbly to her discourse and conclusion on the topic, concerning the announcement of her betrothal to the duke and all the subsequent preparations.
What was she to do? Her blood turned to ice.
She was treading perilous water, trying to put her feet down on something solid, yet there was no bottom.
Elizabeth rose to leave. “It is not a passing fancy. I love my work with the orphans and will not be denied.”
“You should not speak of such—”
Elizabeth stood full on rebellious, summoning her best erudite response to infuriate her mother and expose her as a dreaded bluestocking with the duke’s family. “Dear Mother, that’s because of my natural flair for high dialectics, always ready to strike back at the slightest hint of inanity.”