Chapter Four
"You need to eat something."
Vanessa stared at the plate of toast that had been placed before her, the fourth plate of toast in as many hours and felt her stomach turn. Aunt Bertha hovered beside the bed, wringing her hands, her face a mask of guilt and desperate hopefulness.
"I am not hungry."
"But you must eat. You have not eaten since yesterday. Your mother will notice, and then she will ask questions, and…"
"Then let her ask questions." Vanessa's voice came out flat, lifeless. She had not slept. Had not moved from her bed except when absolutely necessary. Had simply lain there, staring at the ceiling, while her mind played an endless loop of horrors.
Martin, sitting at his desk, opening the first letter. Dear Martin, I despise you.
Martin, reading about how she watched him across ballrooms, cataloguing his every movement like some obsessed creature.
Martin, discovering that she had compared every suitor to him for six years and found them all wanting.
Martin understanding that she held him in the highest regard…and that she had, in truth, long harbored a settled affection for him…had completely mortified her.
The images would not stop. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, that mocking smile, those grey eyes, the expression of amused pity he would surely wear when next they met. Poor little Wayworth. So desperately in love with me all these years. How terribly sad.
She imagined him showing the letters to his friends at the club, passing them around for general amusement.
You will not believe what Edward's little sister has been writing to me.
Six years of romantic letters! The poor creature cannot seem to help herself.
She imagined the laughter, the knowing looks and the whispers that would follow her through every ballroom for the rest of her miserable life.
Did you hear about Lady Vanessa Wayworth? Wrote affectionate letters to the Duke of Montehood for years. Desperately in love with him. So pathetic.
A cold dread seized her. She wanted to be swallowed by the earth and vanish into nothingness. This was her only desire, for the humiliation that sat upon the horizon was a burden her spirit could not hope to sustain.
"Vanessa, please." Aunt Bertha's voice cracked. "I cannot bear to see you like this. If there were anything I could do…if I could take it back…"
"You cannot take it back. No one can take it back.
" Vanessa finally turned to look at her aunt, seeing the tears that threatened to spill down those lined cheeks.
The anger she wanted to feel would not come.
How could she rage at Aunt Bertha, who had only ever wanted to help?
It would be like screaming at a child for breaking a vase they did not know was valuable.
"I know you meant well," she said, softening her voice with effort. "I know you were trying to help. But please, Aunt Bertha…I need to be alone and think."
"Of course. Of course, dear. I shall just…I shall be in my room, if you require anything at all." Aunt Bertha backed toward the door, still wringing her hands. "Perhaps later you might want some soup? Cook makes a lovely soup. Very restorative."
"Perhaps later."
The door closed, and Vanessa was alone again with her thoughts.
She pulled the covers over her head like a child hiding from monsters.
The darkness was a small comfort, at least here, in this cocoon of blankets and despair, no one could see her.
No one could witness the complete and utter dissolution of Lady Vanessa Wayworth, who had always been so composed, so controlled, so utterly impervious to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
What a monstrous absurdity. It was a farce of the most cruel and ridiculous nature.
She had spent years building walls around her heart, learning to control her expressions, her words, her every interaction with Martin. She had become so skilled at hiding her feelings that even Helena, who knew her better than anyone, had only recently begun to suspect the depth of her attachment.
And now all of that careful work had been undone. Every wall she had built, every defense she had constructed, every lie she had told herself about being over him, all of it rendered meaningless by a stack of letters that should never have left her writing desk.
Three days. The letters had been at Montehood House for three days before she even knew they were gone.
What had Martin been doing during those three days?
Had he read them immediately, devouring every word with that keen intelligence that made him so infuriating?
Had he laughed at her naivety, her hopeless devotion?
Had he shared them with friends, passing around her most intimate thoughts like party favors?
Or had he set them aside, busy with other matters, the stack of letters sitting unopened on his desk?
Perhaps his secretary had received them and, not recognizing the handwriting, had placed them in a pile of correspondence to be dealt with later.
Perhaps, even now, her secrets were sitting in a neglected corner of Montehood House, waiting to be discovered, or perhaps forgotten entirely.
The hope was thin, fragile as spun glass but she clung to it anyway, because the alternative was unbearable.
She thought about all the things she had written over the years.
The early letters, from when she was sixteen and seventeen, full of girlish infatuation and breathless declarations.
You are the most handsome man I have ever seen.
When you smile, I forget how to breathe.
I find myself eternally haunted by your likeness, a distraction I have neither the power nor the will to suppress.
The later letters, from her first Season, when infatuation had deepened into something more complicated. You danced with Lady Hartwell three times tonight. Three times. I counted. I always count. Is she the one you will take as your wife? The very thought makes me want to scream.
The letters from last year, when she had finally admitted to herself that what she felt was not going to fade, was not going to pass and was going to be with her for the rest of her life.
You have my heart’s deepest affections. I have tried desperately to suppress these feelings but I have failed to do so.
I am utterly consumed and withdrawing my heart from yours would be inviting my own end, for I find I cannot live without this devotion, however much it may grieve me.
Every single one of those letters was now in Martin's possession. Every pathetic confession, every desperate longing and every moment of weakness she had allowed herself in the privacy of her own chambers.
She was ruined. Not in the traditional sense, not in any way that society would recognise, but ruined nonetheless. How could she ever face him again? How could she look into those grey eyes, knowing that he had read the contents of her soul and found them wanting?
It was beyond her power as she could never look upon his countenance without falling into despair.
The solution was simple…she would never see Martin Hale again,
The decision settled over her like a shroud, heavy and final. She would refuse every invitation where he might be present. She would claim illness, family obligations and religious conversion…whatever excuse might serve to keep her safely distant from the man who now knew her deepest secrets.
It would not be a simple feat. Martin moved in the same circles as her family, attended the same events and frequented the same establishments. Avoiding him would require constant vigilance, careful planning, and a level of social maneuvering that would exhaust even the most seasoned diplomat.
But she was determined and would do it. She would do whatever it took to preserve what remained of her dignity.
To encounter him directly and find her secret mirrored in his eyes… to endure the exquisite torture of his pity or the cruelty of his amusement, was a prospect she simply could not summon the courage to contemplate.
She would become a ghost of herself. A shadow, flitting through the edges of society, always watching for him, always ready to flee.
It would be exhausting. It would be humiliating in its own way.
It would require a level of vigilance that would drain her of all joy, all spontaneity, all the things that made life worth living.
She was determined to execute her plan as she could not bear see the look of knowing pity in his eyes.
***
Vanessa would feign illness for the entire season by claiming a recurring fever, a weak constitution, a sudden allergy to ballrooms and social gatherings. She would become a recluse, the strange Wayworth daughter who never left her chambers.
She had it all planned out. She would tell her mother that she had developed a sensitivity to crowds, there were such conditions and she had read about them.
She would claim that the physician had recommended rest and quiet, no excitement, no social obligations.
She would spend her days reading and embroidering and slowly going mad within the four walls of her bedroom.
It was an ill-conceived scheme, but in her extremity, she clung to it.
"You cannot hide forever," Helena said gently.
Helena had come as soon as she received Vanessa's desperate note, arriving at the townhouse with her usual quiet efficiency and settling into the chair beside Vanessa's bed as though she belonged there.
She had listened without interruption as Vanessa poured out the whole horrible story, her expression shifting from confusion to shock to sympathetic horror.
"I can certainly try," Vanessa said. "People do it all the time. There are women who have not left their homes in decades. They seem perfectly content."
"You would go mad within a week."
"Perhaps madness would be preferable to…" She gestured vaguely, unable to articulate the scope of her humiliation.