Chapter Seven
Bored, bored, bored.
Ophelia sat in a sturdy, well-cushioned armchair, angled to catch the sliver of morning sunlight that filtered into the Lynchford library. She needed the light for her embroidery. She could have used more, but the lamp was out of reach.
It was a smallish library, with what she understood to be an excellent selection of histories, political treatises, and maps, as well as a half shelf of novels that she suspected had been acquired lately, expressly for her, since, for the most part, the pages had not yet been cut.
Because of her aching leg, she hadn’t been sleeping well, so she’d risen early the last few mornings rather than lying in bed, fretting.
Dessie rose late, or at least stayed in her room until she felt well enough to come out.
Lynch was gone most of the day, doing whatever it was that he did so assiduously.
The boredom was worse than the pain in her leg. She wished she could play the piano, but Lynch’s instrument was so out-of-tune it was apparently merely decorative.
Ophelia picked up her embroidery scissors from the end table and snipped a thread from the final rosebud, then laid the baby bonnet aside.
That was number two. She didn’t know much about babies, but she did know they possessed only one head a piece.
If this went on much longer, she would end up embroidering caps for all Trentham’s enmarbled ancestors.
No. She wouldn’t. He’d sent a card and a bouquet of hothouse tulips the morning after her accident and nothing since. Not that it was his duty to entertain her.
And, thank God, that was Dessie’s voice in the hall.
A moment later, her sister entered the library, carrying a stack of calling cards and envelopes. Her hair was softly combed and unbound. She was casually dressed in a loose cotton gown, a bed jacket, and slippers. She had never looked so beautiful.
“Good morning, Dess.”
“Hmm. And how are you faring?”
Ophelia grunted.
“I know the feeling,” Dessie said. She sat in a chair next to a side table, set down the cards, and sighed. “I’m going to have to start paying calls again. And I should go to Lady Everly’s tea this afternoon. I told her I would go.”
“You could plead indisposition.”
“No, it’s too soon for that.” She lit the oil lamp, then plucked up a handful of cards and sorted them listlessly. “Besides, it’s important for Lynch that I make an effort. They are making an effort, thank goodness. I have to, too.”
Ophelia knew better than to say anything negative. This was Dessie’s world now, and she was right to do what needed to be done to support her husband, to be an asset rather than a liability.
However, it wasn’t Ophelia’s world, and she didn’t want to be a pesky tagalong. Two Americans at once might be too much for the ton to absorb. Since she was going to be here a while, she’d have to find her own purpose and activities to give Dessie breathing room. Once she could walk again.
“Lynch says—” Dessie halted, wide-eyed, and set the cards down. “Good Lord. Please tell me I haven’t become one of those.”
“One of those what?”
“One of those women who prefaces every statement with ‘my husband says.’”
Ophelia smiled. “Not yet. I’ll let you know when. So? What did he say?”
“Well, now I’ve forgotten.” She picked the cards back up again. She looked cross. But then her brow unfurrowed. “But there is something Lynch said that might actually interest you. Mr. Cameron has not left for Prussia. It seems he has come down with a head cold and is unable to travel.”
“A head cold? Sniffles?” She shook her head. What a baby. “Has he taken to his bed? Is Trentham tucking him in and serving him toddies?”
“I’d like to see that. But no. Robin is spending time at his club and in Parliament, listening to speeches like a good boy. Lynch says he—” Dessie stopped abruptly and slapped her own cheek.
That made Ophelia laugh.
“I’m surprised,” Dessie went on, “that Robin didn’t boot him out a week ago. I swear he was ready to clock the ever-so-talented Mr. Cameron during that entertaining piano lesson. If you had not cleverly thrown yourself out the window when you did—”
“Dessie, dear, you really have to stop concocting these little tableaus in your head.”
Her sister returned to her calling cards and invitations, smiling now.
“Oh.” Her smile faded. She stared at the cream-colored card in her hand. “Here is one.” She took a deep breath.
“One?”
“It’s an invitation to Lord Barrington’s ball.” She sounded awed. “They are bringing their daughter out. Lady Elizabeth.”
“Barrington?”
“The marquess. Honestly, Ophelia, don’t you know anything?”
She shrugged. “I haven’t memorized Debrett’s the way you have. Who are the Barringtons?”
“Important people. They go back to William the Conqueror. This is…startling. They even included you.”
“That is startling.”
“Be serious. Just for one minute. Barrington is a stodgy, fusty man. And his wife is worse. Lynch had despaired of getting his vote, but maybe…I know a debutante’s ball is not the same thing as political capitulation—”
“What are those words coming out of your mouth?”
“But it’s a foot in the door, don’t you see?” She looked at the card again, then waved it. “The ball is two weeks from now. We have to go. And you’ll be recovered by then.”
Ophelia swallowed hard. “Should I be? Recovered, I mean?” Now she was serious. She knew she was a walking disaster. “Dessie, I wouldn’t want to ruin anything. If this is so important to Lynch…”
“Just stay away from the windows. And stairs. And servants carrying trays.” She looked Ophelia up and down. “And maybe don’t sparkle quite as much as you do.”
“I don’t sparkle.”
“Mr. Cameron might not agree.” Dessie sighed heavily. “The Barringtons are a very, very old family. Weighty. But they are poor as church mice. I can’t imagine how they can afford to host a ball. And, unfortunately, Lady Elizabeth Barrington hasn’t much to recommend her, other than her name.”
So, the family needed money. “She should find a rich American who wants to be a lord.”
“It isn’t funny. Don’t be insensitive.”
“I don’t mean to be!” She wasn’t mocking Lynch. Or Dessie. “But, well, why not?”
“You know why not. Think! Her husband won’t be the marquess. Men have to be born to the title.”
“Oh, right. Titles don’t pass through females.” Which made no sense, when the country was ruled by a queen.
“The Barringtons are down to entailed estates, from what I understand. They’ve nothing left to sell but baubles. There is no son. No male heir that anyone knows of. With the marquess’ death, the title will be extinct. The estates will revert to the Crown.”
“So, what happens to Lady Elizabeth?” Whose family went back to the Conqueror? Did that legacy mean something or not?
“She will have nothing. It’s horrifying. Someone will take her in, I suppose, if…when she outlives her parents. But what she needs is a husband. Everyone knows it. Everyone wishes someone would marry her. But no one is willing to be the sacrificial ram.”
“Sacrificial ram? That is horrifying. The girl is a person.”
“And very sweet, from what I’ve heard. Young. Not quite eighteen. With a touch of the bluestocking about her.”
“Which recommends her in my book.”
“Your book isn’t what counts. She is skinny. Pallid. A bit nearsighted.”
“You didn’t read that in Debrett’s.”
“No. It’s common knowledge.” Dessie shuddered. “It is awful to think about. I remember my coming out ball. The glee. The excitement. No expense spared.”
“The beaus lined up down the street.” Great fun so long as the Delancey sisters didn’t aspire to marry into New York Society’s uppermost “old money” echelons. Which they didn’t, but Daddy thought they should. And when they were relegated to the fringes, he simply aimed higher.
“The point is, I looked forward to it for months. Probably years. While Lady Elizabeth is probably dreading hers.” Her face fell, and she stared into the distance for a moment before returning her attention to Ophelia.
“So, anyway, do your best not to outshine the poor girl. I wish you still had that awful gown you wore to my coming out. That was sweet of you, by the way. I knew what you were doing and I was ashamed of myself for letting you.”
“I wasn’t doing anything. I liked that dress.”
Dessie cringed. “Please don’t say that. Your taste can’t be that bad.”
She’d meant to respond in kind, teasing, but a flicker of panic kindled in her breast as she imagined a coming-out ball and the unfortunate Lady Elizabeth. “I don’t think I should go. Not if Lynch needs this man’s support.”
“Well, that’s the dilemma, isn’t it?” Dessie said. “There’s no shadow big enough to conceal you. You’re beautiful and you’re a novelty. But you can’t possibly say ‘no’. No one says ‘no’ to the Barringtons.”
*
After thumbing through the rest of the cards and writing a few responses, Dessie retired to dress for the day.
Ophelia buried her nose in a rather lurid novel until her sister returned wearing a sunshiny jonquil morning dress.
Pretty, yet simple. Ophelia remembered helping her choose the pattern but hadn’t pictured how lovely it would look on Dessie once completed.
“That dress suits you. I know our dressmaker at home said we should never wear yellow with our coloring, but she was wrong. At least, in your case.”
Dessie smiled. “I love the color. One nice thing about being married is I can please myself. I don’t have to dress to appeal to men.”
“You never did.” That didn’t come out quite as she meant it. “Never did have to. And no man would find you unappealing in that dress.”
With a laugh, Dessie brushed aside the scold. “I’m sorry to leave you alone this afternoon.”
“Don’t be silly.” She tapped the book and wriggled deeper down into her armchair. “I have company.”
“I’m just worried you’re regretting your promise to spend a year here.”
A year? “The only thing I regret is spraining my ankle again.”
Dessie sat down and began jiggling her feet. “Perhaps we could invite a few people to supper.”
“You don’t have to entertain me.”
“Believe me, it won’t be entertaining.” She stood back up.
Ophelia wasn’t used to seeing her so fidgety.
Was she nervous about the ladies who would be at tea, or were fidgets another symptom of her new condition?
“I suppose I should have the carriage readied. If Lynch returns before I do, tell him I’ll be home by—”
The Lynchfords’ butler, Peters, stepped into the doorway. “Lady Lynchford, there is a delivery for Miss Delancey. Shall I have it brought in?”
“Yes, do!” Dessie said. She turned to Ophelia, eyebrows raised. “How delightful! A delivery? Did you buy something?”
“No.” She shook her head, confused.
“Then I wonder who sent you a gift.”
“Maybe Daddy?” That was the only thing that made sense.
A moment later, two tidily dressed laborers wheeled in a large crate on a trolley.
“Put it there by the window,” Dessie said.
The men did. Then they pried open the crate and pulled off velvet wraps. Ophelia gasped. An Erard harp. It appeared to be an even finer model than the one she had at home in New York.
“Did you? Did Lynch? Oh!” She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the strings.
“No.” Dessie bit her thumbnail, smiling around it. “But I feel terrible for not thinking of it.”
“Miss Delancey?” One of the men came forward and handed her an envelope.
She noted the seal, gulped, then set it in her lap. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
She and Dessie waited until Peters had ushered the men out.
“Dare I ask?” Dessie said.
“Trentham.” She felt a pang in her chest. She opened the envelope. He wrote in a firm, legible hand with loops as tall and narrow as he was.
Dear Miss Delancey: Eli has assured me that a musician of your athleticism can play the harp with one foot in the air. I hope this token of my regret that you should have fallen upon misfortune while a guest in my home will help to make your recovery less burdensome. Yours etc., T.
“I can’t possibly accept this.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too much!”
“If you were going to reject it, you shouldn’t have let those men leave it here. I agree, it is rather much, but it’s not too grand a gesture from the duke who maimed you.”
“But how many heads will he have to part with?”
“Heads?” Dessie squinted her confusion.
“I can’t have him selling his ancestors to gift me with a harp.”
“Selling his ancestors?”
Ophelia waved her hand, fanning the air. “You know.”
“I don’t.” The pleasantly amused air fell away and she scowled. “But I can hazard a guess. I don’t know why you think every titled gentleman in England is down to his last tuppence. It’s…it’s condescending.”
“I don’t mean to be. I just assumed—”
“That is my point! Your assumptions. Trentham is not purse-pinched. He is one of the wealthiest men in the country. Not only land, which he has scads of, and not only entailed property either, but also an obscene bank account and investments, good ones, that would even impress Daddy.” Her voice rose.
“Believe me, he could purchase a concert hall full of harps and the concert hall too, without batting an eyelash.”
“Well, good for him. I don’t know why that makes you so angry.”
“I’m not angry at him. Ophelia, you can’t go on assuming every man who pays attention to you is after Daddy’s money. You are going to end up—”
“A wizened old spinster?”
“I was going to say, unhappy.”
Now her chest hurt even worse. “I don’t know why you are pushing Trentham at me. Only last week, you were warning me away from him.”
“The warning still applies. But he’s Lynch’s friend. It’s a thoughtful gift and the appropriate response is ‘thank you.’”
“I will thank him,” she said, chastened. “Anyway, how is it that you know the extent of Trentham’s bank account—”
“It’s common knowledge.”
“But not his deep dark scandal? Is that not common knowledge?”
“Probably it is.” Dessie’s voice dropped low, subdued.
“But the fact that it is buried so deeply that no one ever talks of it makes me think stirring the pot is not in anybody’s interest. Let’s not stir the pot.
I like Robin. It’s difficult to believe he did anything very terrible, but if he did, and Lynch stands by him, I think I’d rather not know what it was. ”
Ophelia didn’t want to know either. Yet somehow, that made him seem even more dangerous.