Chapter Two
"No, no, no…the blue trunk goes in the second carriage, not the first. The first carriage is for linens. Linens, Mr. Hendricks. Surely you can tell the difference between linens and personal effects?"
Lady Wayworth's voice carried through Wayworth Manor with the authority of a general commanding troops into battle.
The household had been in a state of controlled chaos for three days now, every servant pressed into service for the annual migration to London.
Trunks were hauled up and down stairs. Crates of silver were carefully packed in straw.
The good china, not the everyday china, Lady Wayworth had been very clear on this point, was wrapped in cloth and nestled into boxes like precious eggs.
Vanessa observed the mayhem from the safety of the morning room, where she had retreated with a book she was not reading and a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.
She had offered to help, early on, but her mother had waved her away with the particular expression that meant you will only make things worse, dear.
She was not offended as her mother was probably right.
The book in her lap, a novel Helena had recommended, something about a mysterious count and a crumbling castle, held no appeal today.
She had read the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word.
Her mind kept drifting, as it had been drifting for days now, back to the ball and the waltz and the way Martin had looked at her in those final moments before he walked away.
I am not the man I ought to be.
What did that mean? She had turned the phrase over in her mind countless times, examining it from every angle, and she was no closer to understanding.
Was it an apology? A warning? A confession of some kind?
Martin was not typically given to cryptic statements as he said what he meant, usually with devastating precision.
So why had he chosen that moment to speak in riddles?
Unless he had not been speaking in riddles at all. Unless the meaning was perfectly clear, and she was simply too afraid to see it.
"Is that the Castleton's invitation?"
Vanessa looked up to find Aunt Bertha settling into the chair beside her, a plate of biscuits balanced precariously on one knee and a tangle of lavender yarn in her lap.
Her aunt had been attempting to knit something, a shawl, perhaps, or possibly a very misshapen blanket, for the better part of a week now, with results that could charitably be described as creative.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The letter in your hand, dear. I thought perhaps it was an invitation.
The Castletons always host the first ball of the Season, do they not?
I remember attending one in... Oh, it must have been 1804.
Or was it 1805? Frederick was still alive, I know that much.
He danced with Lady Castleton and she stepped on his foot quite badly.
He limped for a week afterward, poor man, though he never complained.
Frederick never complained about anything.
It was one of his most admirable qualities, and also one of his most infuriating. "
Vanessa glanced down at the paper in her hand which was not a letter at all, but a page from her book that she had been absently folding and unfolding for the past quarter hour. "It is nothing, Aunt. Just a bit of paper."
"Ah." Aunt Bertha nodded sagely, as though this explained everything. "You have been doing that rather a lot lately, you know. There you sit, fixed upon vacancy and tormenting that poor paper, while a slight furrow steals across your forehead. Pray, what weights your spirits so?”
She gestured vaguely at her own forehead.
“Your mother is fussing over your health, but I see that clouded brow and your idle folding. You are not ill, my dear…you are merely distracted by a suitor.”
"I am not…"
"There is no shame in it, dear. Thinking about men is one of the few pleasures afforded to women in this life, and we should indulge it whenever possible.
" Aunt Bertha selected a biscuit and bit into it with evident satisfaction.
"I think about Frederick constantly. Not in a morbid way, mind you. Just... reminiscing. The way he laughed. The way he always smelled faintly of tobacco and peppermint. The way he used to read poetry aloud after dinner, even though he was dreadful at it. Absolutely dreadful. His recital of Milton was quite an assault upon the ear.”
"That sounds lovely."
"It was. It was perfectly lovely." A soft smile crossed Aunt Bertha's face, transforming her features into something younger, more wistful.
"I had seventeen years with Harold, my first husband and eight with Frederick.
Twenty-five years of matrimony in total, I would not relinquish a single hour of that time for all the comforts in the world.
Even the difficult days. Even the days when I wanted to throttle them both. "
Vanessa found herself smiling despite her distraction. "Did you want to throttle them often?"
"Oh, constantly. Matrimony is rather like that, I find. One moment, one is swept away by the most fervent attachment, and the very next, one is surveying the fire-irons and wondering if they might not be put to a more decisive use than tending the hearth.”
Aunt Bertha's eyes twinkled with mischief.
"Harold was particularly skilled at leaving his boots in the most inconvenient places.
I nearly broke my neck on them at least a dozen times.
And Frederick…Frederick had a habit of bringing home stray animals.
Dogs, cats, once a very disagreeable goat.
He could not bear to see a creature in need, even when the creature in question ate three of my best hats. "
"A goat ate your hats?"
"My very best hats. Including the one with the peacock feathers that I had been saving for Lady Morton's garden party.
" Aunt Bertha sighed. "I did not speak to him for three days.
And then he came to me with this ridiculous expression, like a puppy who knows it has done wrong but cannot quite remember what, and I forgave him immediately.
That was the trouble with Frederick. One could never stay angry with him for long. "
"The secret," she continued, selecting another biscuit, "is that the affection must always outweigh the murderous impulses. If it does not, you have entered into matrimony with the wrong person."
"That is... surprisingly practical advice."
"I am a surprisingly practical woman, beneath all the…" She waved a hand at herself, encompassing the lavender shawls, the tangled yarn, the biscuit crumbs now dotting her bodice. "Well. Beneath all of this. Do not let the yarn fool you. I am quite sensible when it matters."
A tremendous crash from somewhere in the house made them both jump. Lady Wayworth's voice rose to new heights of displeasure, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps and apologetic murmuring.
"That would be the vase in the upstairs hallway," Aunt Bertha said calmly. "I noticed it sitting rather precariously on that narrow table. I meant to mention it to someone, but I got distracted by the yarn. The yarn is very distracting."
"Perhaps we should take a turn in the garden," Vanessa suggested. "Before Mama discovers we are sitting here doing nothing useful."
"An excellent idea. Fresh air is good for the constitution and more importantly it shall place us quite beyond the reach of the coming storm.”
The garden was a welcome respite from the chaos within.
Spring had arrived in full force, painting the grounds in shades of green and gold, filling the air with the scent of new growth and possibility.
Vanessa walked beside her aunt along the gravel paths, letting the peace of the outdoors settle over her like a blanket.
The roses were beginning to bud, she noticed.
In a few weeks, they would be in full bloom, filling the garden with color and fragrance.
She would miss them, in London. The townhouse had a small garden, but nothing could match the sprawling grounds of Wayworth Manor, where one could walk for an hour without retracing one's steps.
“You wear the expression of a person deeply lost in contemplation.” Aunt Bertha observed.
“My mind is ever in motion… a restless habit I find impossible to subdue.”
“I believe you are blessed to have the ability to deliberate…
Most people go through life without ever having a genuine thought at all.
They simply respond to whatever stimulus presents itself without any deeper consideration.
" Aunt Bertha paused to examine a rosebush that had not yet begun to bloom, her fingers gentle on the tight green buds.
"You, my dear, have the opposite problem.
You think so much that you sometimes forget to feel. "
"That is not true."
"Is it not?" Her aunt straightened, fixing her with a look that was far too perceptive for comfort.
"When was the last time you did something purely because you wanted to, without subjecting the matter to such exhausting scrutiny?
When was the last time you allowed yourself to simply feel something, without immediately trying to understand or control it? "
Vanessa opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again.
The honest answer was that she could not remember.
Every emotion she experienced was immediately subjected to scrutiny, examined and categorised and filed away in the appropriate mental compartment.
It was how she survived, how she maintained the composure that everyone admired so much.
It was also, she was beginning to realise, exhausting.
"Lord Deane is calling this afternoon," Aunt Bertha said, after they had walked in comfortable silence for some minutes. "Your mother mentioned it at breakfast. Twice…and with significant looks."
"Mama has a gift for significant looks."