CHAPTER FOUR
Elizabeth had not been able to rid herself of the questions revolving in her mind, even as she made her preparations for the evening.
How different would he find her after three years passing?
How would she compare with the woman he had chosen in her stead?
Would he pretend they had never meant anything to each other?
Had he told his wife all about her? She did not even know the lady’s maiden name.
Perhaps she knew her. Aunt Chalford had kept all details from her when fresh, and she had never thought to find out later.
She felt a little sick, and Ditcham worried at her pallor.
She blamed it upon the particular shade of her gown, which brought a repetition of the complaint that it was too sombre a dress for such an occasion, and that her aunt would be displeased.
‘No more, Ditcham, please. The gown is perfectly suitable.’
In an effort to placate her maid, Elizabeth selected a necklet of diamonds that had belonged to her mother, with diamond drop earrings and a diamond star that shone from among her dark locks, but it was clear that Ditcham was unhappy dressing her in such a manner.
Lady Chalford was as horrified, and more vocal. ‘What can you be thinking of, Elizabeth? Were it not so late I would have you go up and change immediately.’
‘If you are unhappy, Aunt, I can tender my apologies and remain here.’
‘Oh no. I see what you are about, trying to make me leave you behind so that you might avoid meeting Syston. Well, you shall not do so, even if you are dressed like some timid widow, creeping out into Society. Really, Elizabeth, I had expected better of you. People will say you have given up on catching a husband.’
‘Given up? No, ma’am. Rather I have no interest in “catching” a husband as if he were a rabbit in a snare. I deceive nobody, and no gentleman will think I am setting my cap at them.’
‘I despair of you, truly I do. What your poor dear mama would say …’
‘Is irrelevant, surely, Aunt.’ Elizabeth’s chin went up. ‘I am convinced she would not want to see me an object of pity. Since I advertise the fact that I do not seek a husband, none can pity me when I do not find one.’
50Lady Chalford shook her head and was only distracted from saying more by her daughter’s appearance.
Amelia looked a picture, as her mama had known she would when she selected the palest aquamarine-blue silk trimmings for the gown to show off her fair hair, with its hint of gold.
There was a sparkle to her eyes that matched Elizabeth’s diamonds, and Lady Chalford knew that at least her daughter would win hearts.
Lady Durnford’s party was well-attended, and it was some time after eleven o’clock when Elizabeth almost literally bumped into the Viscount Syston, who was on his way to procure his wife a glass of ratafia.
Despite having mentally prepared herself, Elizabeth forgot everything, and just said ‘Oh’, in a small voice.
Henry made an indeterminate sound in his throat, bowed politely and coloured, as if the act had driven the blood into his cheeks.
‘Miss Ashling, your servant. I hope I find you, er, well?’
So that was how he wanted it to be, forgotten, set aside as an aberration.
He was distant, barely more than formal, this man who had professed himself charmed beyond words by her merely smiling upon him, giving him her first waltz, the man who had pressed fervent kisses upon her fingers, whispered words of love and had told her his plans for his future, their future, with shining eyes.
‘I enjoy my customary good health, sir.’ He would find she could be as distant.
‘Yes, well, good, excellent. I regret I must not linger, for I am upon an errand of mercy.’
He made it sound as if it involved rescuing someone from 51disaster, she thought, and wondered, all of sudden, why he had seemed so much her own knight in shining armour.
The fair, slightly wavy, hair seemed less lustrous, the blue eyes more faded, and of dash there was no sign whatsoever.
Was that the effect of marriage, or just that she was no longer a girl in her first Season?
‘I will not delay you, if your task is so urgent.’
‘Urgent? Ah, not exactly that. My wife, I do not think you have met my wife,’ and he said it ponderously as if she might not otherwise understand, ‘is in need of refreshment. Such a hot evening.’
‘Then you must complete your errand without delay. Good evening to you, my lord.’ Elizabeth inclined her head, and turned away, her thoughts jumbled.
She was filled with anger that he should think it necessary to hold her at a distance, as if she might throw herself upon his chest and make a scene after all this time, and disappointment that he showed no emotion other than embarrassment.
He might have been friendly, as an old acquaintance not met for some time, but no, he preferred to treat her as merely someone who would receive a nod or bow in passing.
She was also confused by the fact that seeing him cost her not one pang.
She had thought that it would, for the sake of the girl she had been.
He was the love of her innocence, of her hope that a husband’s love would be stronger than her father’s, before she found out what the real world meant.
Yet there was nothing but negative emotions in her heart.
She was curious, however, to see Henry’s wife, and manoeuvred herself so that she could see him leave the 52room with refreshments, and thereafter follow at a discreet distance.
She watched him weave his way to an embrasure, where a middle-aged lady with a steely expression and a young woman with a long face at variance with her retroussé nose and reddish-brown hair were sat.
The latter looked up at his approach and spoke briefly, extending her hand to receive the glass, but she did not smile at him.
As evidence it was circumstantial, but Elizabeth did not think the Systons enjoyed the relationship that her friends the Godmanchesters enjoyed.
Still in contemplation, she turned, heading to where Amelia was in conversation with Lord Nuneaton, a gentleman with many years’ experience upon the Town.
Her colour was a trifle heightened, and Elizabeth thought perhaps he was being a little extravagant in his compliments.
She did not notice Mr Escott approach from her right until he was before her and bowing.
‘Miss Ashling, I am transported.’
Elizabeth bit back the response that she wished he might be transported to the Antipodes.
‘You are, sir?’ Her voice was not encouraging. ‘I can conceive of no reason why that should be so.’
‘But you are here, in the Midst of the Multitude, and suddenly the mundane has become Gilded by your Brilliance.’ He put a clenched hand to his mouth as if bottling up further flowery comment, but then let it fall, and continued.
‘I called yesterday, but you were engaged upon Equine Exercise. The Image of you in my Mind, 53upon your Noble Beast, brought some Diminution to my Disappointment.’
It was odd, she thought, the way she could hear the stressed capital letters in his speech, and wondered if he thought in alliterative phrases even when ordering his dinner. The idea of the Slug being a ‘noble beast’ brought an unwilling smile to her lips. He saw it as encouragement.
‘Ah, Her Lips convey that my humble Words please. I am in alt.’
‘I would far prefer it if you refrained from talking about me in the third person, Mr Escott, as if I were not actually present.’
‘You are ever present in my Thoughts.’
Try as she might, she was unable to prevent the look of disdain crossing her features. ‘I do not consider that fitting, sir.’
‘My Goddess!’ he breathed, reverently.
‘It needed only that!’ She groaned, and closed her eyes.
Her fists clenched in frustration, stretching the fine kid leather taut.
She had agreed that she should not berate him or be cruel at their next meeting, but this was insupportable.
‘Mr Escott, this must cease. You are making yourself look foolish. I beseech you …’
‘Ah, she beseeches, but really she Commands!’ Mr Escott pressed his hand over his heart.
‘If I cease it is Bowing to an Injunction from the Divinity Herself, and yet I disobey, my Muse. The very fire in your eyes Inspires, the way you look down upon me from your Olympian height crushes me to dust as a Man, but remoulds me in a Poet’s form. ’
54‘It does what?’ She sounded appalled.
‘It remoulds me, so that the ink flows upon the Page as Bright Blood does in my Veins.’
‘Sir, you place far too much importance upon a … a fleeting image in your head. I am no goddess, I assure you, merely a woman. You need only be firm with yourself.’
‘Merely a Woman?’ The idea seemed alien to him. ‘How could I Dare to use such an Epithet?’
‘Just repeat it to yourself,’ she replied, rather caustically, ‘several times a day.’ She was losing all patience. ‘I am sure you will realise your error very soon, Mr Escott. I am entirely, er, unworthy of the elevation that you have bestowed upon me.’
‘Alas! She Frowns!’
For an awful moment Elizabeth feared he was about to lay his hand to his forehead in another theatrical gesture, but he refrained, and seemed instead to withdraw into some inner contemplation.
‘Mr Escott?’
‘She frowns, and from that blessèd Brow, unbid … Ah yes, I feel the Verse upon me.’ He smiled beatifically at her, turned and was gone, no doubt in search of pen, ink and paper.