Chapter Eight
Blackwood returned home in the early hours with the conviction that distance from Elizabeth was the only sensible course remaining to him.
In his carriage after the opera, with the city slipping past in muffled shadows, he had acknowledged what he could scarcely deny any longer—Elizabeth Seton was free of entanglement in the Trust’s designs.
Whatever had drawn her into proximity with danger, calculation played little part in it.
The assumption had been a foolish one, born in part from his desire to deny his attraction to her and to create a pretext for keeping her close.
That recognition left him with a single obligation.
To protect her, he must withdraw his attentions and make it clear his focus lay elsewhere.
He repeated the thought now, pacing the length of his library as dawn pressed a pale line against the sky.
Avoidance would keep her safe. Distance would deny the Trust leverage.
If they had noticed his distraction, and they had, unmistakably, then removing its source was more than prudent; it was necessary.
He would send no regrets. He would place no call.
He would keep her beyond reach. The thought of what he must do cost him more than he cared to examine.
Sleep proved elusive. When it came, it brought no rest, only a slight reprieve from his thoughts of her.
By midmorning he had bathed, dressed, and summoned the composure expected of him.
The household stirred around him with discreet efficiency.
Letters were sorted. Appointments noted.
It was an ordinary morning, save for the persistent awareness that ordinary was no longer within his reach.
His sister joined him for breakfast with a briskness that spoke of purpose over decorum.
Despite her youth, she was practical by nature, impatient with excessive ceremony, and had embraced the Season with an enthusiasm that surprised those who mistook reserve for disinterest. She spoke readily of exhibitions and invitations, of gowns commissioned and acquaintances assessed.
He listened, offering the encouragement she expected, careful to ensure that no shadow of his own preoccupations intruded upon her anticipation.
He had long ago resolved that whatever else the Trust demanded, they would not be permitted to sour her enjoyment of this moment.
She had been denied too much already, though she did not know it in those terms.
“You will attend the musical this afternoon,” she said, buttering her toast with decisive strokes. “You promised.”
“I promised to ensure you were not bored, poppet,” Blackwood quipped. “My attendance was not a requirement.”
She smiled, unfazed. “You will come. It is easier to enjoy oneself when one is properly chaperoned.”
“You do not require supervision,” he said.
“Perhaps not,” she allowed. “But I prefer it when you pretend otherwise.” Blackwood chuckled, her teasing never failing to amuse him.
They stayed in the morning room, the light slanting across polished wood and silver service, the air pleasantly scented with tea.
“You do not understand,” Eleanor continued, abandoning her toast to gesture expansively.
“Lady Winthrop has promised that Miss Hargrove will attempt Mozart. Attempt, mind you, not perform. She has been practicing ‘Voi che sapete’ for weeks, and I am told she approaches it like Susanna herself was perched upon her shoulder issuing instructions.”
Blackwood arched a brow. “Mozart is rarely improved by earnest devotion.”
“That is precisely why one must attend,” Eleanor insisted. “There will be a moment—there is always a moment—when she reaches the higher phrase and commits entirely, only to discover that enthusiasm does not guarantee accuracy. The room will freeze in collective dread. It is delicious.”
“You attend in hopes of catastrophe?”
“In hopes of sincerity,” she corrected primly. “Which so often resembles catastrophe.”
Blackwood folded his newspaper and set it aside, conceding her attention if scarcely her argument. Eleanor’s eyes shone as she described the anticipated program, each detail embellished from delight instead of malice.
“And Mr. Talbot has vowed to sing a patriotic ballad,” she went on. “He swears it stirs the blood. Last time he attempted it, he stirred only Mrs. Fortescue’s spaniel into hysterics. I have never seen a creature so offended by baritone.”
Blackwood exhaled in what might have been laughter suppressed. “Your charitable spirit is formidable.”
“I am entirely charitable,” she protested. “I admire anyone willing to sing before Lady Winthrop’s pianoforte. It has a tendency to betray the timid.”
Life seemed brighter for her animation. Eleanor rose from her chair and began pacing lightly before the hearth, her movements quick and restless.
“There will be a harp,” she declared, pausing dramatically. “Miss Weatherby has borrowed one from her aunt. It will be positioned near the window, angled precisely so that the light may strike the strings at an advantageous angle. She believes the instrument alone confers romance.”
“And does it not?” Blackwood asked.
“It confers expectation,” Eleanor replied. “Which is far more perilous.”
She stopped before him, hands clasped behind her back in exaggerated solemnity.
“Imagine it. The chairs arranged in semicircles as though Parliament were to convene upon melody. The elder ladies nodding gravely at each misplaced trill. The younger gentlemen pretending discernment while calculating who looks prettiest when applauding and will be the most fetching on their arm that evening.”
“And you,” Blackwood said, “where do you position yourself in this elaborate theater?”
She considered the question with theatrical seriousness. “Near the pianoforte, but not too near. One must appear supportive without suggesting ambition. I have no intention of being coerced into performing.”
“You never resist coercion,” he observed mildly.
She laughed outright. “That is because I prefer to choose my imprudence.” There it was again, that word hovering between jest and truth. Eleanor spoke less of scandal than of unpredictability, of moments left unchoreographed by expectation.
She resumed pacing, the hem of her gown whispering across the carpet.
“After Mozart there will be Handel,” she predicted, counting on her fingers. “A piece suitably grand and utterly unsuited to a drawing room. The poor accompanist will perspire heroically. Someone will inevitably suggest a duet. It will be magnificently dreadful.”
Blackwood regarded her with that mixture of indulgence and vigilance Elizabeth had noticed. Eleanor’s enthusiasm was hungry. She consumed anticipation the way others consumed praise.
“And if the afternoon proves disappointingly competent, poppet?” he asked.
She stopped again, tilting her head. “Then we shall have lost nothing but an hour. But if it proves gloriously imperfect, we shall have witnessed a rarity.”
“Which is?”
“Unrehearsed humanity,” she said, her tone briefly sincere.
The levity softened. For an instant she seemed less the amused spectator and more the young woman peering beyond the polished surfaces of her world.
Then the brightness returned.
“Besides,” she added, reclaiming her seat, “I cannot allow Mr. Talbot to dominate the room unchallenged. He requires an audience to sustain his conviction.”
Blackwood shook his head. “You intend to provoke him.”
“I intend to encourage him,” she corrected, her eyes dancing. “It is a public service.”
She reached for her teacup again, though she no longer seemed interested in drinking. Her energy coiled and uncoiled in small gestures, fingers tapping porcelain, a foot grazing the carpet, looking toward the door as though adventure might arrive at any moment.
The musicale existed, for her, less as an event than as possibility. A room full of polite expectations could fracture into laughter or admiration or mild disaster. She relished the chance.
Blackwood watched her with an expression too measured to be merely amused.
“You seek excitement in trivial settings,” he said.
“For now,” she replied, equally quiet.
The words lingered.
Eleanor smiled again, but the smile carried a trace of restlessness beneath it.
The musicale was harmless. Mozart, Handel, patriotic ballads and harps.
Yet her delight in its unpredictability revealed a deeper appetite for moments not predetermined, for circumstances that resisted tidy orchestration.
She wanted to be surprised. And the drawing room, however genteel, was only rehearsal for her larger pursuits.
Blackwood rose at last, conceding the afternoon because he recognized the current beneath her levity. “I am unable to join you, but if catastrophe occurs,” he said dryly, “I expect a full account.”
“Oh, you shall have it,” she promised, her laughter bright as a struck chord. “Every misplaced note.”
He gave a short nod, conceding the point.
Satisfied or choosing to appear so, she returned to her list of calls.
When she spoke of calling upon a friend newly arrived from the country, he agreed at once.
When she mentioned an interest in visiting a bookseller near the Strand, he made a note to arrange it.
He did not begrudge her these small freedoms. On the contrary, he delighted in spoiling her and her youthful joy reminded him why he endured what he did.
Blackwood seized upon the thought with the same swift relief he brought to any problem that offered a clean solution.
Distance could be manufactured. If he needed the world to believe he had no interest in Elizabeth Seton, he would evict her by force of habit and spectacle.
What better way to signal his removal than to be seen enjoying the company of other women?
Let the ton draw its own shallow conclusions.