Chapter Eleven
Laurel, including several species but most often indicating Laurus nobilis, is an evergreen tree from the Mediterranean region.
The ancient Greeks famously wove crowns of laurel leaves to bestow upon their champions.
This tradition persists in phrases such as to rest on one’s laurels and poet laureate. In floriography, laurel means glory.
By the time Miss Forscythe’s soirée arrived, Elswyth was thoroughly exhausted.
Still, she dressed in a fine evening gown, a sheath of ivory silk that draped unstructured over her figure, with a lower bust and long, billowing sleeves.
Her mother’s necklace—a cage of gold in the style of twisting ivy—hung over her breast, and she wore her hair up in the style of unmarried women, woven into a complex coiffure à la Grecque.
Lily-of-the-valley dotted the hairstyle, tendrils of ivy keeping it in place, and the same flower hung from her wrists in bracelets.
In floriography, lily-of-the-valley meant the return of happiness.
This would be the first occasion where Elswyth would be seen out of mourning attire for Persephone.
Now she would enter half-mourning. Ivory was not generally considered an acceptable color for half-mourning, but Mrs. Rose insisted society would understand, given her need to marry.
Once Elswyth had finished the final touches of her makeup—she preferred to powder her scar alone—she hurried to the grand staircase at the entrance to Devereux Place to meet Mrs. Rose.
Instead, she was surprised to find her Uncle Percival waiting for her, standing on the marble floor in his dark suit and plum-colored vest. His hair was neatly oiled, although still too long to be considered fashionable, and his beard had been groomed to a gray point.
His eyes creased into a smile when he saw her in her gown, and he descended into a low bow, supported by his silver-tipped cane.
“Elswyth, my dear! You look radiant,” he proclaimed.
Elswyth hesitated on the stairs. They had not spoken overmuch since she had stormed from his office, save for when he participated in Mrs. Rose’s dance lessons, and even then Mrs. Rose had done most of the talking.
Sometimes they would exchange pleasantries over breakfast, but more often he would wake early, grab a scone from the table, and have a private word with Kehinde before departing on Parliament business.
She’d come to accept that her uncle—while he’d been nothing but kind—wanted very little to do with Elswyth.
“Lord Devereux,” she replied. She curtsied awkwardly on the stairs, keeping half the steps between them. “Apologies, I did not mean to intrude—”
Percival raised his eyebrows. “Intrude? Impossible. Come, please come.” He gestured for her to descend the steps, and she did, keeping the hem of her gown raised.
“What an enchanting sight. It is so good to have a lady in the house again. Beauty brightens the place, I think.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” she said, inclining her head. She knew she was no beauty, but she had come to take the lies and pleasantries of society in stride.
As her uncle moved to break the silence, Kehinde opened the double doors, stepping inside. A spring rain obscured the world beyond the door, and Kehinde wiped droplets of it from his bowler cap and cloak.
“The carriage is ready, Percival.”
“Splendid. We’ll be out in just a moment.”
Kehinde rolled his eyes. “Just a moment, then,” he said playfully.
“The horses like the rain even less than their driver.” The retort took Elswyth by surprise.
She tried to imagine her father’s footman speaking to him so willfully, as if he were a child that needed hurrying.
But then again, Percival and Kehinde’s relationship seemed quite unusual for that of a master and his servant.
Percival only waved him off. “Yes, yes, we’ll be quick. Elswyth, are you ready?” He extended his arm for her to take.
She paused. “You’ll be coming with me?”
Percival raised his bushy eyebrows. “Of course. I am intended to be your chaperone, am I not?”
“I supposed that Mrs. Rose, perhaps…”
“Ah—I understand. No, tonight is an event for the peerage. Meaning that your chaperone must also be a peer. I hope that I am not too much of a disappointment?”
“No, no, of course not. It’s only…” She tried to find the words. “I supposed you would not be interested in such things.”
His expression faltered, his usual cheeriness ebbing for a moment into something like sympathy.
“I can understand that assumption. I have been rather absent, haven’t I?
This business with the Reaper has the city in a fit.
My work demands more of me than it perhaps should.
But that has nothing to do with you, Elswyth.
I will always make time to be there for you when I am needed. ”
He looked at her with such sincerity that she felt she might wither under his gaze.
Again she felt that weight. As if, when he looked at her, he saw not only her, but Persephone and her mother as well.
But she was not Persephone, and she was not her mother—the love he held for her seemed, to Elswyth, misplaced.
She curtsied, allowing herself a wry smile, and attempted to mimic his exuberant theatricality. “In that case, I would be delighted to accompany you, Lord Devereux.”
Percival grinned, cheeks pleasantly plump under his silver beard. His hand clasped over hers as she took his arm. “An Elderwood and a Devereux about the ton again—society shall tremble in our wake. We’ll show them all why Elderwoods were once queens, yes?”
His eyes were alight with mischief, but Elswyth’s smile faltered. “I will settle for not embarrassing myself.”
Percival laughed, a booming sound that echoed through the entryway. “Impossible! You’ll—”
The double door slammed open, cutting him off. Kehinde entered, rain-soaked, a scowl on his face. Water poured in small rivers over his forehead, and his boiled wool raincloak had soaked through to become a sopping blanket.
“Percival.”
Percival jumped at the sound, nearly dropping his cane. He looked sheepishly at Kehinde. “Coming, coming!” Kehinde huffed, tapped his pocket watch, and returned to the rain. Elswyth noted the genuine anxiety on Percival’s face.
“Nine o’clock!” Percival said, checking his own watch. “I don’t know what I would do without Kehinde. I fear I should miss my own funeral without that man. Now come! Lord Forscythe abhors a late arrival.”
Percival leaned in, pulling her closer on his arm and hurrying toward the door. He whispered to her conspiratorially as they walked. “It’s one of the many reasons we despise each other.”
Elswyth had no time to respond before Percival dragged her into the rain.
When they arrived at Syon House, a dour-looking butler announced them at the door—“Lord Devereux accompanying his niece, Miss Elswyth Elderwood”—and then guided them toward the drawing room.
Beyond the silver-plated doors was a high-ceilinged room dominated by a marble fireplace.
A sprawling sitting area of gilded wooden furniture and towering ferns sat in the center, dotted here and there with exotic vases and sprawling bouquets.
A crowd of people turned to look at Elswyth and Percival.
Her face flushed, blood rushing to her cheeks and following the trace of her scar.
Percival inclined his head in a shallow bow, and she curtsied, ducking her face away, making sure to hold the uncomfortable posture for the proper amount of time.
Miss Forscythe appeared in front of her.
Percival had already limped across the room and was kissing the hand of Lady Narcissa Forscythe enthusiastically.
Lord Forscythe looked on with a stoic expression, but Percival soon cornered him with a vigorous handshake.
If they did loathe each other, Percival was determined to make it seem otherwise—with uncertain results.
Miss Forscythe took Elswyth by the arm and lifted her from her curtsy. “Oh, come now. Friends don’t bow to friends. I’m so thrilled that you came.”
“I must thank you again for the invitation, Miss Forscythe.”
“And I must insist that you call me Venus. And I will call you Elswyth. As friends do. Settled?”
Elswyth looked at the woman and was struck again at the perfect beauty of her face: the blade of her jaw and the twin sapphires of her eyes. “Of course, Venus. I am quite nervous, I must admit.”
“Oh, don’t be. Everyone here is fine stock. All close friends of mine—and Persephone’s. You’ll get on swimmingly.”
She had lingered on Persephone’s name, fixing Elswyth in a stare as if to punctuate the significance of her words.
Elswyth looked around the room. Almost all of the guests were young people, well-bred, around her age.
Most were quite attractive, and many looked bored despite the grand palace and the abundant wine.
Yes, she could see these being her sister’s friends.
Venus walked her to where two women stood talking. “Ladies, meet Miss Elswyth Elderwood—dear Persephone’s sister. Elswyth, meet Miss Hyacinth Thatcher and Miss Drusilla Wilton.”
The two women looked at her, then at each other. “Charmed,” Drusilla said coolly. She was olive-skinned and long-limbed, in a violet silk gown that showed her bare shoulders. She didn’t seemed charmed; her eyes wandered from Elswyth as if bored.
“So charmed,” said Hyacinth, nodding enthusiastically. She was a head shorter than Drusilla and Venus, with mousy brown hair and a busy yellow gown with a wide skirt and rows of cream lace.
“Where’s Cassia?” Venus asked, looking between them.
Drusilla pouted. “Her mother wouldn’t let her come.”
“What? Why not?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Hyacinth said, conspiratorially. “There’s been another flower girl.”
“A flower girl?” Elswyth asked. The women looked at her as though they were annoyed she’d spoken.