Chapter 20
Edward had been gone for four days.
Not that Valeria was counting. She had told herself this firmly on the first morning, when she came down for breakfast and found his chair was empty.
She told herself again on the second morning, when she caught herself setting his place at the table before remembering that he was not there.
By the third morning, she had stopped going down for breakfast altogether, which prompted Mary to bring a tray to her room and stand in the doorway with folded arms until she ate her toast.
The toast was cold. The butter was too hard. Valeria ate it anyway because arguing with Mary required more energy than chewing, and she had spent what little she had staring at a bedroom door that was not hers.
She had not counted the first day, when the house felt too large and too quiet without Edward in it, even though he had occupied approximately one room and one window and had barely spoken above a murmur.
She had not counted the second day, when she caught herself looking toward the east corridor every time she heard footsteps, expecting the heavy, steady tread that was not there.
She had not counted the third day, when she walked past his bedroom door, stopped, and stood there like a fool for thirty seconds before Mary appeared at the end of the corridor with an expression that could have curdled milk.
She was certainly not counting now, on the fourth day, sitting in her dressing room while Caroline and Mary prepared her for the masquerade ball.
“Hold still,” Mary said, pinning a curl.
“I am holding still.”
“You have sighed seven times in the last five minutes. That is not still.”
“I have not sighed.”
“Eight,” Mary sing-songed, pinning another curl.
The dressing room was warm, dresses laid out across every surface.
Mary had pressed the blue dress twice because the first pressing left a crease near the hem that only she could see.
She had polished the gold thread with a soft cloth and laid out the pearl earrings that had belonged to Valeria’s mother.
Valeria looked at the earrings. She had not worn them since before Gordon. He had confiscated her jewelry the second week and put it in a locked drawer. She had asked for it once, and he had told her that wives did not need ornaments. They needed obedience.
Mary had found them after he died. Cleaned them and laid them on the dressing table without a word. They had belonged to a woman who laughed too loudly and danced too much and who would have taken one look at Gordon Hansley and thrown him bodily out of her house.
“The earrings,” Caroline gasped, looking up from her swatches. “Oh, Valeria. Those are Mother’s.”
“They are.”
“She would have adored tonight. The masks. The drama. She would have worn something outrageous and scandalized the entire county.” Her voice softened. “Father says I am exactly like her. He does not always mean it as a compliment.”
“You are exactly like her,” Valeria affirmed. “He means it as a compliment every time.”
Caroline blinked. The baby kicked. She put her hand on her belly, and the moment passed.
“The gold mask,” she said. “With the blue dress.”
“Mary already decided on the white mask.”
“Mary decides everything.”
“That is the foundation of our household,” Mary piped up, not looking up from the pins.
“He will be here tonight,” Caroline assured.
Valeria did not ask who she meant.
“He sent word this morning,” Caroline added, examining a ribbon as though it contained state secrets. “Richard saw the rider come in. He is on his way back.”
“Good,” Valeria uttered.
“Good?”
“Good. Fine. I am glad he will not miss the ball. It would be rude to the guests.”
“The guests,” Caroline repeated. “Of course. The guests.”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know something I do not.”
“I know many things you do not. For instance, I know that you have been sleeping poorly for four nights, and that you walked past his door yesterday and stood there for half a minute, and that you have not eaten a proper breakfast since he left.” Caroline folded the ribbon.
“I know these things because Mary tells me, and Mary knows everything.”
“Mary should learn to keep secrets.”
“Mary does keep secrets. She keeps yours. But she also keeps mine.”
“Traitor,” Valeria muttered.
“Loyal servant,” Mary corrected. “To both of you. Now, hold still.”
“The neckline is too low,” Caroline observed, examining the dress from across the room.
“The neckline is perfect,” Mary countered.
“It shows her collarbones.”
“That is the point.”
“Richard will look.”
“Richard looks at you, Your Grace. He has not looked at another woman since you threw a teacup at his head in the drawing room at Ashcroft.”
“I did not throw a teacup. I placed it firmly.”
“It shattered against the wall.”
“The wall was closer than I expected.”
Valeria almost smiled. Almost. The corner of her mouth moved the way the corner of a door moved when a draft caught it, present and then gone.
“Are you nervous about tonight?” Caroline asked, suddenly serious.
“I am not nervous. I am irritated. There is a difference.”
“You are nervous and calling it irritation because it sounds more dignified.”
“I am not nervous. I have paint under my fingernails from ruining my dead husband’s portrait with the most dangerous man in England.”
Mary looked up from her pins. Caroline looked up from her swatches. They stared at Valeria. Valeria stared back.
“That,” Mary drawled, returning to her work, “is the most interesting thing you have said in three years.”
Caroline had taken charge of the wedding preparations with the ruthless efficiency of a woman who was running out of time before the baby arrived.
The candles should be beeswax, not tallow. The flowers should be white roses, not lilies, because Valeria hated lilies. The musicians should play waltzes, because waltzes were more romantic. When Valeria protested that she did not need “romantic”, Caroline told her that she did, and that was final.
Throughout all of it, Valeria functioned. She approved. She decided. She managed. Three years of managing Gordon had made her exceptional at it.
But at night, alone in her room, the managing stopped, and the thinking started.
Edward had left. A message arrived, and he was gone within the hour, riding toward London and the life that had existed before her.
She was not angry. She was worried. And worry for Valeria was more dangerous than anger. Anger was hot, clean, and burned fast. Worry was cold. It lived in your chest and grew roots.
Edward was not Gordon. Valeria knew that. She knew it in her bones and in every part of her that had learned to read men the way women read novels.
But he had left. And leaving was leaving, no matter who did it.
She sat at her writing desk, staring at a blank page. She dipped the quill.
Dear Father,
I am to be married again. His name is Edward Langton, the Duke of Welford. The ton calls him the Hound.
He is a good man. He painted flowers on Gordon's portrait because he said Gordon did not deserve a clean forehead.
I think you would like him, Father. I think you would like him very much.
She folded it and tucked it in the drawer. She was not ready to send it. But the words existed now. Real things were harder to take back than imagined ones.
Come back. And when you come back, stay.