Chapter Thirty
The Barringtons’ butler admitted Ophelia and Dessie. Dessie handed him her calling card. “We are here to see Lady Elizabeth.”
In Ophelia’s experience, butlers were generally unflappable.
Yet as he led them to a small corner room—a room that had been closed off during the ball—he wore an inexplicably puzzled, nervous expression.
“I will see if…if she is receiving callers.” He abandoned them there without lighting the gas lamp, and since the room’s musty drapes were closed, they were left standing practically in the dark.
As Ophelia’s eyes adjusted, she considered, then immediately rejected, the thought of sitting.
The chairs looked like something salvaged from a Norman castle: heavy, blocky, wood-framed, with crimson cushions, the nap worn to an uneven sheen. The things were probably haunted.
Dessie harrumphed. “Apparently they stick Americans in a storage closet.”
Even outside of the room they currently occupied, the atmosphere in the house felt oppressive.
Ophelia remembered how impressed she had been on the evening of the ball.
They must have hired extra servants and spent days cleaning and polishing.
In contrast, now there was an emptiness. A stillness. An air of decay.
A pattering of footsteps sounded overhead. Then raised voices, a man’s and a woman’s. Then a woman’s loud, desperate sob.
“What is going on?” she whispered to Dessie.
Dessie shrugged. “I can’t hear either. I don’t think you need to whisper.”
They waited. And waited.
This was ridiculous. “I think they’ve forgotten us.”
“I know!” Dessie exclaimed. “It’s very rude!” She went to the door, pulled it open further, and peeked her head out.
“Is anyone around?” Ophelia asked, wringing her fingers. They couldn’t wander about exploring.
“No. Do you think we should go out, knock, and come back in?”
“If we leave, they might not answer the door again.”
“Can you, you know, smash something loudly? That ugly vase maybe?” She pointed to something that might be Ming.
Ophelia scowled. “You’re not funny.” Dessie was referring to another broken vase, one belonging to Mrs. Astor. An heirloom. Breaking it had been mortifying enough, but then Daddy made the mistake of offering to pay for it, and Ophelia had wanted to melt through the floor.
Dessie slammed the door shut, opened it, and slammed it again. When no one came, she said, “Let’s go into the hall. This is absurd.”
She marched out of the room to the foot of the grand staircase, Ophelia at her heels.
“Is anyone home?” Dessie yelled.
Ophelia cringed. It would be nice to be a countess and get away with such things. But then, she thought, she was a countess’ sister, so why not? She steeled herself and called out, “Anyone at all?”
The next moment, they heard a door upstairs opening.
The marquess and marchioness appeared and came down the staircase at a pace rapid enough to raise Ophelia’s concern for their safety.
Lord Barrington was choleric and heaving, his jacket unbuttoned and flapping.
Lady Barrington was red-eyed but pale; her tower of false hair leaned to one side.
“How dare you show your face here,” Lord Barrington said to Dessie, seething. “Lynchford is not innocent in this. Those two are thick as thieves.”
Who two?
“What are you talking about?” Dessie asked, with admirably feigned calm. She’d always been the better actress. “And where is Lady Elizabeth? We came to see her.”
“Bah! Did your husband send you? Is this part of the scheme?”
Dessie turned to Ophelia. “I believe the marquess has gone mad.”
Don’t bait him! Ophelia’s gut churned. She took a deep breath and addressed Lady Barrington. Very sweetly. “Good day. Is your daughter at home to callers?”
“For God’s sake!” the woman hissed. She held out her fist and opened it to reveal a crumpled piece of paper. “This! Explain this!”
Ophelia took it and smoothed it. Dessie peered over her shoulder. The writing was cramped, but legible.
We’ve eloped. I’ll send word when we are settled. I’m sorry. –Bitsy
Ophelia fumed. This was the very last straw. She’d duel Trentham herself, as soon as he returned from…wherever he and “Bitsy” eloped.
“Bitsy?” Dessie said, taking the paper from her.
Ophelia gave her a sharp elbow. “But they’re engaged, aren’t they?” she asked the Barringtons. “You gave your permission. Why on earth would they elope?”
“To cheat Elizabeth out of her marriage portion!” Lord Barrington spewed spittle. Addressing Dessie, he said, “Your husband is a bloody hypocrite! Crying out for women’s rights when he married a dollar princess. And now, Trentham stole Elizabeth away without a contract, the greedy bastard!”
“That’s ridiculous,” Dessie said, seemingly ignoring the insult to her husband, though Ophelia ached to set the man straight. Lynch was sincere, and Trentham…not greedy. “Why would she agree to elope when she didn’t want to marry him at all?”
“Spite! The little fool.”
“Well, frankly, my lord, if that’s so, it makes no sense to blame Lynch.
” Dessie rolled her eyes in the way that only she could.
She adopted a tone haughtier than the Queen’s.
“If Bitsy is not at home, we will be on our way. Come, Ophelia.” Ophelia would have liked to run, but she followed Dessie’s lead and they walked the long hallway to the door with great dignity.
Outside, they sprinted to the carriage.
“Home, John!” Dessie called out.
They rode away, carriage wheels rattling over the broken cobbles, staring wide-eyed at one another. Ophelia felt hollowed out. Too devastated to cry.
“Dessie, this just can’t be. Even if Trentham had a hundred different faces, I can’t believe any of them would be cheap.”
Dessie frowned. “No. But he is impulsive. Or he used to be. And he does have a temper. Though Lynch says he mostly controls it now.” She pressed two fingers to her chin. “I wonder…”
“Wonder what?”
“When they discovered she was missing. It’s been days since we’ve seen Trentham, so that’s no help. But if Lady Elizabeth just snuck out this morning, we might catch them.”
Catch them? Haring off on a wild goose chase would be Dessie’s idea of a plan. “Don’t elopements usually take place in the middle of the night?”
“In novels. Back when couples raced from London to Gretna Green in carriages, chased by irate fathers or brothers. But that would take days in real life.”
“Gretna Green?”
“It’s just over the border in Scotland. The rules are different there. You can get married with no license, no parental permission. And you don’t even need a parson. It’s terribly romantic.”
“Dessie! This is Trentham and Lady Elizabeth! There’s nothing romantic about it!”
“A race in a carriage might be. But nowadays, you can get there much faster and safer by train. Oh!” Dessie gave a little bounce. Then she banged on the roof and shouted, “Not home, John! St. Pancras Station! Hurry!”
The carriage swayed abruptly. Ophelia wondered if John enjoyed or dreaded taking them out.
“You don’t think they are still there, do you? At the station?”
“It’s worth the chance. The benefit of a carriage is you can escape London at your pleasure. But if they are taking the train…”
“They have to follow the schedules!” Maybe not so wild a goose chase.
“We might catch them. But, Ophelia,” Dessie reached across to grasp her hand, “you should come up with something to say if we do, because I haven’t the faintest idea what is going on.”
Neither did she. But Dessie and Eli had both told her to talk to Trentham if she wanted the truth. She had enough of his lies. If nothing else, she was going to get to the truth.
*
The new St Pancras station was massive, with the beautiful, red brick Grand Hotel, which was only partially constructed, adjacent.
John did his best but couldn’t draw near enough to allow them to disembark next to the building.
So they slipped out of the carriage, clinging close to its side as carriages and men on horseback whipped by, until they found courage enough to dart through the traffic, hand-in-hand.
When they reached the doors, Dessie let go and wiped her palms on her skirt. Her face glowed with excitement. “Phew! I boast about New York City, but Grand Central Depot didn’t prepare me for this.”
“Don’t tell Lynch. Or Daddy,” Ophelia warned.
Dessie shouldn’t be dashing about in her condition.
She pulled open the nearest door, and gasped with dismay as they stepped inside, into chaos.
There must have been hundreds of travelers scrambling this way and that, many dragging trunks or pushing carts.
Every woman appeared to have three or four children trailing behind.
Dessie’s whole body sagged. “We’ll never find them in here.”
They’d come this far. Ophelia was not giving up. She turned and buttonholed a man in blue with brass buttons, who looked potentially official. “Where would I go to get tickets to Scotland?”
“Scotland, eh?” He pointed. “Window eight. Over there.”
“Thank you, sir.” She grabbed Dessie’s elbow. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
Assaulted by the scent of tobacco, sweat, and cheap perfume, Ophelia tried holding her breath as she hustled Dessie along. They reached window eight. Thankfully, the line was short, and the crowd thinned here. She could breathe. She said as much to Dessie, who shook her head.
“No, this is bad. It means the most recent train has already left and there won’t be another for a while.”
Ophelia sighed. What were they doing? They shuffled closer. Then again, closer. From somewhere wafted the scent of wet dog. She tried and failed to stifle a sneeze.
“Gesundheit. Ophelia, this is silly. I can’t see Lady Elizabeth or Trentham subjecting themselves to this. Where are the private cars?”
Daddy had his own. When he needed to travel by train, he simply had his car hitched to whichever one was going where he wanted. Surely Trentham did the same.
“I don’t know. But if they’re eloping, don’t you think they’d be sneaky? A private car isn’t sneaky.”