Chapter Ten #2
Because I am, Vanessa thought. Because he touched my ankle and I cannot stop thinking about it. Because he said things that I do not know how to interpret. Because I am beginning to hope for something I have no right to hope for, and hope is a dangerous thing.
"I am not hiding anything," she said. "I am merely tired. This enforced rest is exhausting."
Helena did not look convinced. She tilted her head, studying Vanessa with careful attention.
"You know," she said slowly, "I have always thought there was something between you and Lord Montehood."
Vanessa's heart stuttered. "What do you mean?"
"I mean the way you argue. The way you look at each other across crowded rooms. The way he always claims the supper waltz, even though he could have any partner he chose." Helena paused. "I have thought for years that there was something there. Something neither of you would acknowledge."
"You are imagining things."
"Am I? Then why did your face just go white?"
Vanessa pressed her hands to her cheeks. "It is nothing. The pain in my ankle…"
"Does not cause pallor." But Helena's voice was gentle. "I am not trying to interrogate you. I simply want you to know that if there is something…if you have feelings for him you can confide in me."
For a moment, Vanessa was tempted. The weight of her secret had been crushing her for so long, and Helena was her oldest friend. It would be such a relief to unburden herself.
But she could not. Not yet. Not when she did not even know what those feelings meant, or whether they were returned.
"There is nothing to tell," she said. "Truly."
Helena looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "Very well. Keep your secrets, if you must. But I shall discover them eventually…I always do."
They talked of other things, Helena’s latest suitor, the upcoming Castleton ball, the scandal surrounding Lady Whitmore's youngest daughter. But Vanessa's thoughts kept drifting back to Martin, to the park, to the dinner that loomed ahead like a storm on the horizon.
"You seem distracted," Helena observed. "Are you certain nothing is troubling you?"
"I am certain."
"Is it Lord Deane? Has he been calling?"
"He sent flowers yesterday. And a note expressing his concern."
"How attentive of him." Helena's tone was carefully neutral. "He is very devoted to you."
"Yes. He is."
"And yet you do not seem pleased by his devotion."
Vanessa sighed. "I am pleased. I am grateful. He is everything a woman could want in a suitor…kind…attentive…sincere. I should be happy."
"But you are not."
"I do not know what I am." She stared at the ceiling, at the elaborate plasterwork that she had memorised over three days of enforced contemplation. "I only know that something feels... incomplete. As though I am waiting for something that may never come."
Helena was silent for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentle. "Perhaps you are waiting for the wrong thing. Or perhaps you are waiting for the right thing, and you simply do not realise it yet."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that sometimes we are so focused on what we think we want that we fail to see what is right in front of us." Helena squeezed her hand. "Or perhaps I mean the opposite. Perhaps we are so convinced that we cannot have what we truly want that we refuse to recognise it when it appears."
Vanessa turned to look at her friend. "You are speaking in riddles."
"Am I?" Helena smiled mysteriously. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I am simply observing that Lord Montehood has never, in all the years I have known him, voluntarily risen before noon to ride in the park. And yet there he was, on the very path you habitually take, at the precise time you are known to ride."
Vanessa's heart stuttered. "That is merely coincidence."
"Is it?"
"It must be."
"If you say so." Helena rose, smoothing her skirts. "I must go, Mama is expecting me for tea. But I shall see you at the Castleton ball next week, yes? Assuming your ankle has healed sufficiently?"
"I hope so. If I must spend another week on this chaise longue, I shall go mad."
"Rest well, dearest. And think about what I said." Helena paused at the door, her expression softening. "Sometimes the things we want most are closer than we realise. We simply need the courage to reach for them."
She departed, leaving Vanessa alone with her thoughts and the growing suspicion that her friend saw far more than she let on.
***
The evening arrived with the inexorability of a tide.
Vanessa had spent an hour with her maid, selecting a gown and arranging her hair, trying to strike the impossible balance between looking attractive and not appearing to have made an effort.
She had changed her mind three times, dismissing first a pale pink that made her look washed out, then a deep green that felt too reminiscent of her riding habit and the memories attached to it.
Finally, she had settled on a dress of deep blue silk that brought out the green of her eyes, her hair pinned up with a few curls left loose around her face.
"You look lovely, miss," her maid had said, and Vanessa had felt a flutter of something that might have been hope or might have been fear.
Perhaps both.
She had applied a touch of rice powder to her nose, a hint of rose water to her wrists. She had examined herself in the mirror from every angle, searching for flaws, second-guessing every choice. Was the neckline too low? Too high? Was her hair too elaborate? Not elaborate enough?
It was ridiculous. She had dressed for countless dinners before and had never given her appearance this much thought. But tonight felt different. Tonight, Martin would be there, and she wanted…needed…to look her best.
Not for vanity's sake but for courage.
If he was going to speak truths that could not be unsaid, she wanted to be ready to hear them.
She was seated in the drawing room when the guests arrived, propped on the chaise longue like an invalid display, her injured ankle hidden beneath the drape of her skirts.
Her mother had arranged the furniture so that Vanessa would be the first thing visitors saw upon entering, a strategic positioning that Vanessa suspected was designed to elicit maximum sympathy.
Or perhaps maximum marriageability. With her mother, it was sometimes difficult to tell.
Edward came in first, his familiar figure a comfort in the midst of her anxiety. "There's my wounded soldier," he said cheerfully, dropping a kiss on her forehead. "How's the ankle?"
"Still attached. Barely."
"Dramatic as always." He grinned and settled into the chair beside her. "I've brought reinforcements. Martin's just behind me,he stopped to say something to Father."
As if summoned by his name, Martin appeared in the doorway.
He was dressed simply but elegantly, as always, dark coat, pristine cravat and an air of casual sophistication that seemed as natural to him as breathing. His eyes found hers immediately, and something passed between them a current of awareness that made her breath catch.
"Lady Vanessa." He crossed the room and took her hand, bowing over it with perfect propriety. "I trust you are recovering well?"
"Well enough, thank you. The enforced rest is tedious, but I am told it is necessary."
"Indeed. One must not rush these things." He released her hand, but his gaze lingered. "You look well. Better than I expected, given the severity of the fall."
"It was not so severe. I have survived worse."
"Have you?" A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. "You must tell me sometime about these worse incidents. I find myself curious."
"I am certain you do not wish to hear about my childhood misadventures."
"On the contrary. I suspect they would be most illuminating."
Edward groaned. "Please, no. If you get her started on childhood stories, she will be talking for hours. And I have heard them all before."
"Then you can provide commentary," Martin said. "Corrections where necessary. I understand siblings are useful for that purpose."
"You understand wrong. Siblings are useful for nothing except torment and embarrassment."
"How fortunate for me that I have none, then."
They fell into easy banter, the three of them, and Vanessa felt some of her tension ease.
This was familiar territory, the comfortable rhythm of old friendship, the gentle teasing that had characterised their interactions for years.
She could do this. She could survive an evening in Martin's company without betraying herself.
But then her mother entered with her father, and the dynamics shifted. Suddenly there were introductions and pleasantries and the careful navigation of social niceties. Lady Wayworth was determined to make an impression on the Duke, and her efforts were painfully obvious.
"Your Grace, we are so honored to have you dine with us. I do hope the meal will be to your satisfaction, I told Cook to prepare your favorites, though of course I do not presume to know your preferences…"
"I am certain it will be excellent, Lady Wayworth. Your hospitality is always impeccable."
"You are too kind. Much too kind." Lady Wayworth beamed and fluttered her fan. "Shall we proceed to the dining room? Vanessa, dear, can you manage, or shall we have the footmen…"
"I can manage," Vanessa said quickly, though she was not entirely certain this was true. The thought of being carried to dinner like a parcel was more than she could bear.
She made to rise, bracing herself on the arm of the chaise longue. Her ankle protested immediately with a sharp twinge that made her wince.
"Allow me."
Martin was at her side before she could respond. He offered his arm, his expression carefully neutral, but there was something in his eyes, a concern that seemed genuine, a warmth that made her heart race.
"Thank you," she murmured, slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow.
"Can you put weight on it?"
"A little. If I am careful."
"Then lean on me. I shall not let you fall."