Chapter 1 #3
She had been the one who had read too many novels and believed too firmly in the idea that there was something waiting for them beyond Lady Byron’s garden gate.
She had been the one to convince them that they deserved a debut, that they shouldn’t spend their lives hidden away because of the shadows their fathers had left behind.
She had been so sure she could protect them.
She thought that if she played the game perfectly, if she found a love match that would secure their status, the ton would forget the past.
‘I made a mistake’, she thought. ‘A massive, arrogant mistake.’
She had expected the talk about the Byron sisters returning after so many years. She had prepared herself to fend off the questions about how their fathers had passed away and the state of their inheritance.
She had known, walking into it, that people would talk about her family.
The late Lord Vane’s daughter, raised by Lady Byron with two other girls, after her father’s spectacular financial collapse and death, coming to London after years in the country.
She had known that would be the story, had prepared herself for it, had told herself it was manageable.
A curiosity, nothing more. People would remark upon it and move on to the next thing.
But she hadn’t prepared for Lord Finch.
No… Nothing had prepared her for Lord Finch. She hadn’t prepared for a man to look her in the eye, speak of devotion, and then systematically dismantle her reputation by leaving her at the altar.
Now, every room they entered felt like a battlefield they were losing.
“Maybe we should just go back,” Euphemia said, her voice small and hollow.
“Growing up, all I ever wanted was to leave the country home, dreaming of love. Lady Byron was strict with us, and sometimes, unbearable, but it was not as terrible as this. Maybe I should just pack our trunks, crawl back to the country with my tail between my legs, and admit to Lady Byron that she was right. We should never have come to London. It’s a cruel place. ”
“Is that truly what you want?” Emily asked.
“No,” Euphemia answered after a short pause, her eyes flying open. “I don’t know what I want.”
“Then don’t think about it right now.” Emily squeezed her hand once and released it. “We will figure it out, Effie. But for tonight, you’ve done enough fending off of vultures.”
Emily squeezed her hands one last time. “I have to return to the ballroom. I’m certain, His Grace will be looking for me, and if I’m gone too long, he’ll likely start a search party.
If you find you’ve had quite enough of the ton for one evening, don’t feel obligated to return to the floor.
We can have own little party tomorrow. Just the two of us.
Retire to your room in the West Wing. The guest suites there are quiet, and the staff has already prepared the hearths.
I’ll try to check on you before I go to bed, or first thing in the morning. Is that all right?”
Euphemia felt a surge of gratitude that threatened to bring back the very tears she had just suppressed. “Thank you, Emily. For letting me talk and talk until I made sense of the noise.”
“You can always talk and talk… to me,” Emily assured her with a wink. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Euphemia watched her go, threading her way through the room, and then she was gone into the crowd and the party closed around the space she had left.
Euphemia walked towards the other direction until she found a stray bottle of wine on a side table and poured herself a glass. Then another. The wine was crisp, cold, and did a magnificent job of dulling the sharp edges of the whispers that still seemed to echo in the hallway.
By the time the clock struck midnight, the fatigue had settled deep into her marrow. She couldn’t stay a moment longer. Every laugh from the ballroom felt like a needle prick, and every shadow looked like it was watching her.
She set her glass down and began the long trek toward her room.
Her head felt heavy, her thoughts drifting like autumn leaves in a stream.
She passed the grand staircase and navigated the labyrinth of corridors, her footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rugs.
She was so focused on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other that she barely noticed the change in the decor, the way the portraits on the walls grew older and the air grew stiller.
She turned a corner, her hand trailing along the wainscoting as she made her way toward the East Wing of the house. The silence here was absolute, save for the distant, rhythmic ticking of a longcase clock. She found the first door that looked familiar, turned the handle, and stumbled inside.
She didn’t bother with the lamps. She didn’t even call for a maid. In the dim moonlight filtering through the drapes, she kicked off her slippers and collapsed straight onto the bed, sinking into the velvet coverlet.
She was asleep before her head fully hit the pillow, unaware that the room smelled not of lavender and guest linens, but of sandalwood and old books.