Precisely why Eliza had not mentioned it.
“My apologies,” Eliza said.
“Come, you must join our party—we are gathering in the Octagon Room,” Mrs. Winkworth said, beckoning them. Margaret stepped meaningfully on Eliza’s foot.
“Actually, I think we ought to sit . . .” Eliza tried. It might not be wise to alienate Mrs. Winkworth, but neither would her set be Eliza’s first choice of friends in Bath.
“I was very much hoping to make some introductions,” Mrs. Winkworth said, a steeliness in her honeyed tones that so strongly reminded Eliza of Mrs. Balfour that she immediately capitulated and followed her into the Octagon Room where they were engulfed by the hum of many voices, the rustle of many skirts, and the sparkle of many jewels. Eliza sucked in a deep, steadying breath. One would have thought her tenure as Countess of Somerset, with all the hunting parties hosted at Harefield Hall, would have inured her to such nerves, but she had felt so vastly out of her depth amongst all the high-ranking peers the old earl had counted as friends, that the experience had detracted rather than added to her social confidence.
“Lady Somerset, Miss Balfour, may I introduce to you some of my dearest friends . . . ?”
As Mrs. Winkworth made the introductions around the group—each curtseying or bowing deeply to Eliza in turn—she skillfully contrived, without exactly lying, to give the impression that she and Eliza were far better acquainted than they truly were, perhaps desirous of using the borrowed glory of Eliza’s title to boost her own social standing. Eliza, meanwhile, could only try to remember each name—Mr. Broadwater with the spectacles, Mrs. Michels with the enormous turban—and concentrate on not twisting her hands in nervousness.
“And this is Mr. Berwick, our celebrated artist . . .”
Eliza swung her eyes over to this gentleman, interest unfeigned.
“Oh, Mrs. Winkworth, you should not flatter me so,” he said, with unconvincing humility and a bow to Eliza. “You are almost worse than Mr. Benjamin West—the President of the Royal Academy, you know, Lady Somerset—he sings my praises at every opportunity, to my mortification.”
Under Mr. Berwick’s bumptious speech, Eliza’s interest wilted.
“May I express my very great sorrow for your loss, my lady,” Mr. Berwick went on. “Though we artists are all true empaths, I still cannot imagine how you are feeling.”
Eliza certainly hoped not.
“It has been a very trying time,” she lied.
There were murmurs of sympathy around the group.
“If a little distraction would be beneficial,” Mr. Berwick said. “I would be honored to have you sit for a portrait. Madame Catalani is sitting for me at the moment, but yours would be an even higher privilege. A haunting elegy to a widow’s grief . . .”
He gazed into the distance as if to imagine it.
“I hardly think that would be proper, Mr. Berwick—” Mrs. Winkworth began crossly.
“Darling Lady Somerset, Miss Balfour, you both look divine!” Lady Hurley arrived just in time to interrupt Mrs. Winkworth mid-flow. She squeezed Eliza’s arm in welcome, an intimacy that she, being a lady herself, felt comfortable indulging in though they had only met thrice, while Mrs. Winkworth looked on jealously.
“Your earrings are very fine,” Margaret said. Lady Hurley—dressed today in a gown of ruby velvet, superbly ornamented with silver trimming—was a handsome dowager of indiscriminate age, lively humor and truly magnificent bosom.
“Oh, these old things? A gift from my late husband,” Lady Hurley dismissed the nutmeg-sized diamonds with a graceful wave of her hand. “I must say, it is so lovely to see the rooms filled out at last.”
“Splendid!” Mr. Fletcher agreed heartily. Lady Hurley’s junior in age by at least ten years, the handsome Mr. Fletcher was nonetheless her loyal gallant, escorting her everywhere with utter devotion.
“Bath was almost at risk of feeling a little flat, do you not think?” Lady Hurley said to no one in particular.
“I cannot agree,” Mrs. Winkworth said sharply. “As Camden Place is full year-round, we never feel deprived of company. Though I imagine it might feel a little flat on Laura Place, Lady Hurley. Has number four been let yet? It must have been a year since its last residents.”
Even in the fortnight since their arrival, Eliza had witnessed a dozen such unsubtle jibes—Lady Hurley’s late husband had picked up his title in the city, and Mrs. Winkworth’s disdain of such commercial roots was well-known, but Lady Hurley only smiled.
“You will be pleased, then, to hear number four has indeed been rented just this week,” she said. “Do you know Lord Melville? He and his sister, Lady Caroline, have rented the house for three months.”
Mrs. Winkworth looked as though an artichoke had been thrust unexpectedly down her throat, Mrs. Michels’s eyes expanded, and Mr. Broadwater made a shocked harrumph. Eliza and Margaret exchanged disbelieving glances. Since their arrival in Bath, their days had been so full that they had not had time to consider Melville a great deal and, as their bruises had long faded, the crash upon the Bath Road had assumed the quality of a dream. Melville turning up in Bath, of all places, seemed highly unlikely, and from the questions being pelted at Lady Hurley, they were not alone in this surprise.
“Is it really true, Lady Hurley?”
“Three whole months?”
“Is he as charming as they say?”
“Oh, you know I am far too discreet to indulge in speculation,” Lady Hurley said, oozing self-satisfaction. “Though you may ask them yourselves, for I invited them to join us, tonight—ah, here they are now!”
5
Lady Hurley could not have designed a more perfectly dramatic moment. As one, they all looked to the doorway just as the Melvilles appeared within it: Lord Melville, dressed tonight in a long-tailed coat, knee breeches and silk stockings, and beside him his sister, standing almost as tall as he and exquisitely gowned in a gossamer satin dress of a celestial blue that shone beautifully against her brown skin. Lady Hurley beckoned to them with one heavily bejeweled hand, and as they walked languorously over, more heads began to turn and crane in their direction. From the excited murmurs and whispers that began filling the room, they had been recognized.
“Oh. My. Goodness,” Margaret breathed from beside Eliza, speaking each word as if it were a separate sentence.
“Good evening, my lord, my lady,” Lady Hurley said in loud, smug welcome. “I am so pleased you have come!”
“It is our pleasure,” Lady Caroline said, in a low and musical voice. “I became acquainted with Madame Catalani in Rome last year—I am looking forward to hearing her perform again.”