Chapter 9
The Wallflower Club, though that was by no means an official name, or the Desperately Longing to Leave England Group, had commenced.
Ernestine’s dearest friends, Clementine, Juliet, and Araminta, all sat in various attitudes, practicing appreciation for all things Italian in the little sitting room that gave her succor on rainy English days.
Which meant most days during this Season.
Juliet sat at the pianoforte, playing a beautiful Italian aria and singing in such rich fashion that one could imagine they had been transported to a grand opera house.
Clementine sketched pictures of Florence, copied from books purchased at Hatchards.
None of her family or her friends’ families, and certainly not Roland, had the funds to go on an Italian tour or a full tour of Europe.
It was one of the great sadnesses of Roland’s, she knew.
So many of the young gentlemen of the town did go, but Roland had to be more careful with his pounds and pence.
And good man that he was, he never bothered his aunt about it, but he took it on the chin.
The family was well-off enough that they were comfortable, but they weren’t the sort of people who had oodles and oodles of pounds to throw about, certainly not oodles and oodles of pounds, like the Earl of Seaborough, to buy countless Roman statues and display them in a garden.
Ernestine sat reading Italian literature. How could one not adore Dante? Now, of course, there were more romantic Italian works to read, and she did read them! But oh, how she loved the mental challenge of the journey in his works, the questions of soul, morality, and a corrupt society.
Reading was the greatest passion that anyone could ever enjoy, in her opinion, as well as looking at the incredible etchings in the various books she’d read.
She’d been particularly struck by the various etchings depicting Dante’s idea of hell. She understood hell better than most. The ache inside her was building again. It did so every year.
There was no question about it, and the only thing that assuaged it at present was the situation which allowed her to sit with her friends and take refuge with Roland and Delia in the evenings.
But her heart? That cavernous place in her chest? It still ached. Often, she felt as if she was staring into a vast void, broken inside, eternally undone. Tears often threatened, but she had become a master at holding them back.
How she wished that she did not feel that way, that she had not had something inside her snap as a girl that she had never been able to put back together again.
Still, she was lucky. So many people had similar experiences and no one to catch them at all, no one to mend them. And while she was mended with uneven stitching, she did her very best to convince her family that she was mostly all right, but she never felt quite right.
And so she clung to an idea of her future, the idea that once she left England, she would be truly happy. It was that idea that helped carry her on in the darkest, most painful moments.
She popped a grape in her mouth and imagined how beautiful it would be to eat real Italian grapes and sit in the real Italian sun, away from the foul air of London. She would finally look at the blue skies and the green cypress trees that she had read about.
The grape burst in her mouth, a promise of how much better her future would be.
“My dear, my dear,” her aunt exclaimed, bustling into the room, waving an invitation in her hand.
A wave of apprehension traveled over her. They did receive quite a few invitations, but none that made her aunt so terribly excited.
“You’ve done it, my dear!” her aunt cheered. “You’ve gained us entrée! I don’t know how. But you have done it. To the highest echelons of society. You have charmed the earl and his friends. We have been invited to a house party.”
Her insides positively crumpled with dismay. “I beg your pardon,” she whispered, putting her book down. The pages fell together, a horror, because she had not put in a bookmark. But she couldn’t believe her ears.
“The Duke of Rivers, my dear,” her aunt enthused, her curls bouncing about her kind face, “has invited us! We are to leave tomorrow. It is going to be an exceptional affair, with entertainments and delights by the lake, as well as dancing and opera, it seems.”
Ernestine’s friends twisted towards her, giving her a strange look before they began to applaud.
“How marvelous,” Juliet said.
“Truly wonderful,” Araminta added.
“You shall love it,” said Clementine.
But her friends clearly could see her distress, despite their attempts to join her aunt’s joy.
She sat brittlely, unable to speak. She knew it made her a terrible niece, but she suddenly wished she could hide under the pianoforte.
Her aunt popped her head to the side. “Dear, I know you dislike England and the Season is not easy for you, and I can understand why.”
She wished her aunt would let her go away now, but her aunt seemed so certain that, at some point, she would change her mind.
Her aunt sobered, and her eyes changed from a look of elation to one of sympathy. “You know I don’t want to let you go, though I know I must if you insist. But you are the last thing I have of my dearest brother and darling sister-in-law. And when you go, you will not have to do any of this.”
She let out a sigh.
She understood how much her aunt had loved her mother and father and how she did not wish to let Ernestine go, but sometimes one needed to let go.
“Could you bear it?” her aunt ventured. “I hate to ask it of you, my darling, but we are invited because of you. Could you do it for Delia and Roland?”
She folded her hands in her lap and met her aunt’s gaze, even as the ache in her heart turned into a veritable well.
How could she possibly say no to that? Her aunt was a dear, dear creature and her cousins were dear, dear creatures too.
She would be the most selfish thing alive to deny them such a chance.
“I don’t understand why the Duke of Rivers should wish me to go,” she blurted, the words slipping past her lips before she could stop them.
“Don’t you, my dear?” her aunt queried gently, heading to the cold fireplace and staring down into the black grate.
“The Earl of Seaborough has no serious interest in me,” Ernestine protested, sitting up a little straighter, surprised that thoughts of him softened the pain inside her.
“That’s not what the gossip is,” teased Clementine, wagging her brows as she put aside her pen.
“I don’t have any interest in the gossips.”
“That’s not true,” Araminta pointed out, as she smoothed her peach skirts.
“Right,” Ernestine ruefully admitted. “I love a good bit of gossip. Ladies should enjoy it. It’s the only way that we’ve been allowed to communicate for years.” She let out a frustrated note. “Gentlemen are so trying.”
Her aunt nodded, placing a wrinkled hand upon the simple fireplace mantel decorated with porcelain dogs and horses. “It’s true. It’s very, very true.”
The truth was she found the gossip sheets invaluable.
It was good to know that even the hallowed people of the ton were capable of rather scandalous behavior and were not perfect.
She was not in the gossips, not yet, at any rate, but it did seem as if her name was on people’s lips.
“Do you think that last night put a stop to some of the whispering?” she asked.
Araminta shimmied forward on her seat. “Well, it certainly has caused them to talk about other things besides you and Seaborough and Allworthy! Everyone is trying to figure out how it’s possible that you have become the most sought-after young lady of the ton!”
“It’s absurd,” Ernestine rushed without any sense of self-pity.
She was simply a realist. “I don’t have anything to recommend me.
My temperament is terrible. My complexion is fine.
I have a love of books and have a look that suggests everyone should get away from me because I do want them to get away from me. ”
Her aunt laughed. “I know, my dear, but it seems that look is quite appealing to the Earl of Seaborough.”
She couldn’t stop the laugh that rippled past her lips before she groaned. “Then I must try smiling at him more.”
“Do,” her aunt said with a nod. “It would be interesting to see what he does. Perhaps he likes a disagreeable young lady, and he’s tired of having everyone smile at him.”
She couldn’t imagine being tired of having everyone smile at one. She’d never experienced that, and she didn’t think she ever would. She simply didn’t have the personality for it, no matter how hard she tried, and she had tried once upon a time, but such things usually ended in disaster for her.
“All right, Aunt,” she said, willing herself to do the right thing. “I will go, but not for me, for our family.”
Her aunt blew out a breath as if she had somehow been holding it all the while, despite their chatter, then clapped her hands together. “Thank you, my dear. Thank you.”
Before they could say anything further about it, her aunt started for the door. As she headed through it, she paused and cheered out, “I must go and tell your cousins.”
As soon as her aunt had departed, Ernestine groaned, though she knew it made her a terrible sort. “I don’t want go.”
“You must go,” Clementine said gently, standing, her robin’s egg blue gown swishing about her delicate form.
“It will be quite grand! Something we lowly ones cannot even dream of!” put in Juliet from the piano as she played a merry little tune.
Araminta laughed. “How true! You must eat every bonbon and marzipan, quaff every glass of wine, and study every painting, every sculpture, every tapestry! As well as all the terribly elegant behavior of such lofty people.”
“Indeed,” crowed Clementine as she rushed forward and took Ernestine’s hand. “Tell us exactly how they live, what they speak of, who they speak of, what meats they consume, what dresses they wear, and what jewels too! Jewels as large as ostrich eggs, no doubt!”
Juliet beamed and played a burst of Mozart. “Tell us what songs are sung. The best entertainment shall be there. You’re very lucky to be able to go and hear it.”
“Perhaps I am,” Ernestine allowed, grateful to hold her friend’s hand. “But so many of the people there will be positively unbearable. They don’t give two figs for anyone but themselves.”
Araminta nodded. “That’s true. The whole ton is a bit terrible, isn’t it?”
“You danced with several of the most important lords, didn’t you?” Clementine said brightly. “And you survived.”
She laughed. “Actually, they were all very nice to me.”
“There you go,” assured Juliet. “You shall do very well there.”
She doubted that. “None of this makes sense. What is the earl about? I don’t want him to want me. I want to leave this place, and I don’t want…”
She sucked in a sharp breath.
Clementine, Araminta, and Juliet exchanged quick glances.
“Yes, my dear?” prompted Araminta.
“I don’t want him,” she said firmly. Perhaps too firmly.
Clementine nibbled on her lip. “Are you certain about that?”
She snorted. “He’s the sort of man that can never be tamed. He’s wild. He’s delicious and delightful. And everyone woman wants him.”
Clementine cleared her throat. “Except you.”
“Delicious and delightful?” echoed Juliet.
“Then you must sample him!” teased Araminta, thrilled to bits.
“Oooh, if he is delicious,” ventured Clementine, “you must have a taste.”
“I don’t want a taste,” she lied. And, yes, much to her horror, in that moment, she knew she was lying. “Tasting desserts like that only ends in feeling sick. I don’t wish to have an upset stomach.”
All four of them looked at each other and burst out laughing.
The idea of the Earl of Seaborough, that handsome, handsome man, causing anyone to have an upset stomach was rather absurd.
No, if anything, he was likely to cause a burning of the heart, an ache that many ladies no doubt had experienced, but she refused to be one of them.