The clock struck one. Somerset stood to take his leave.
“I will bid you good day,” he said. “You intend to visit the Pump Room tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, we do,” Eliza said eagerly.
“I shall find you there,” he said. He gave a short bow, then left.
“Oh, my goodness,” Eliza said, once they had conclusively heard the front door close behind him. He was staying. He was staying and she would see him again—tomorrow. “Oh, my goodness.”
“Matters in Bath are about to get very interesting, indeed,” Margaret said, sounding quite as gleeful as a cat might, upon consuming a large jug of cream.
9
That Eliza slept at all that night was nothing short of a miracle. She could not, for the longest time, and ended up—as had become something of a habit, this past week—taking her portfolio to bed with her, hoping that the lull of pencil upon paper would soothe her mind. But though she intended to capture the elegance of Camden Place, or the exterior view of the Pump Room, both calming, warm images, every time she tried, she instead found herself sketching the drawing room that day: Margaret’s sly smile as she sparred with Lady Caroline, Melville’s attentive eyes upon her bookshelves, and Somerset . . . Again and again, Somerset. His hands clenching at his hat, the furrow of his brow, how he had looked, teasing her . . .
She fell asleep still clutching it in her hands, causing Pardle to cluck over the charcoal smudges it had left on her sheets.
“The bombazine, today, my lady?” Pardle asked.
“I think the silk, instead,” Eliza decided. It was far finer than any Eliza would usually wear to the Pump Room, of course, but given the very special occasion that today marked, it seemed only appropriate. Her eagerness to have Somerset once again within her sights was unequalled, and she had twice to remind herself that the need for such urgency had elapsed. She might see him every day until March, now, at the Pump Room, the Assembly Rooms, at church . . . After years of scarcity, it seemed an embarrassment of riches, and ten o’clock could not come soon enough. As the clock struck quarter to, Eliza and Margaret set out, winding their way through Bath’s cobbled streets with as much briskness as was acceptable in ladies of quality.
They stood at the entrance, bidding polite good days to half a dozen acquaintances, while Eliza scanned the room frantically for Somerset. At last, she laid eyes upon him, standing in the middle of the room, speaking with Mrs. and Miss Winkworth.
“Poor man,” Margaret observed. Eliza heartily agreed and made as if to step forward, but Margaret seized her arm.
“Then we will be embroiled in conversation with her too,” she said, shaking her head. “Let him come to us.”
“How on earth have they been introduced so quickly?” Eliza bemoaned, trying to catch Somerset’s eye. It was not considered good manners to simply walk up to a person and begin speaking, one waited for, or requested from a mutual acquaintance, a formal introduction. As this was a rule that Mrs. Balfour insisted upon in others, but believed herself exempt from, it was perhaps unsurprising that Mrs. Winkworth felt the same. Eliza could only hope Somerset had not been offended by her encroaching nature.
“I imagine Mrs. Winkworth only needed to notice his signet ring to make her own introductions,” Margaret suggested, her thoughts having traveled in a similar direction.
“Perhaps I will invite him to walk with us tomorrow,” Eliza whispered to Margaret, as they stood waiting. “Lady Hurley mentioned that she often walks in Sydney Gardens after the Sunday service and so we could all promenade, together.”
The halcyon vision filled her mind’s eye, just as Somerset looked up and noticed them at last. Excusing himself from the Winkworths, he approached, appearing to Eliza even taller and broader and fairer than he had the day before, the sun streaming in through the large windows gilding him in golden light.
“Good day, my lady, Miss Balfour,” he said. His eyes moved briefly and—perhaps?—appreciatively over Eliza’s dress. “You are looking well.”
“Thank you,” she said. The silk had been the right choice. “I see you have met the Winkworths.”
“Your neighbors, as I understand it,” he said, nodding. “According to Mrs. Winkworth, I have apparently met them both before, at the opera, though as I have no memory of that encounter—and as Miss Winkworth could not have been more than eight years old at the time, I cannot help but wonder at its veracity.”
Margaret snorted.
“I hope they were not too forward,” Eliza said.
“They were perfectly charming,” Somerset said. “Though Mrs. Winkworth did criticize her daughter’s posture, at great length.” He paused, and added, delicately, “You know, I have the strangest feeling that Mrs. Winkworth reminds me of someone . . .”
Eliza saw a teasing smile quivering at the corner of Somerset’s mouth and found her own lips curving in helpless imitation.
“I had the same feeling, upon first meeting her,” Eliza said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“I thought you might.”
Eliza, inordinately pleased to find that Somerset’s reserve had eased even further since their last meeting, could barely contain a smile. The fortnight stretched ahead of her, and she imagined a hundred of encounters such as this, with Somerset all the while growing evermore easy in her presence.
“Have you met with Mr. Walcot today?” she asked.
“I have, yes, much as he might wish me at Jericho,” Somerset said. “There is much to learn about the business of being a landlord, if I am to perform the duty well.”
There were many gentlemen who valued land only for the wealth and privileges it afforded them, but far fewer who placed the duties they owed to their constituents in higher importance. It did not surprise Eliza that Somerset belonged to this second group.
“I am fortunate that Mr. Walcot has the patience of a philosopher,” he added, with a self-deprecating grimace.
Eliza raised her brows. That had not been quite her experience.
“I have no doubt that I am the slower pupil,” she assured Somerset, wryly. In her second meeting with Mr. Walcot, this had been made very clear to her.
“Is your father no longer taking care of your business for you?” Somerset asked.
“No, but I am to meet with a land agent next week,” Eliza said. “I have a great many questions for him. He may think me particularly stupid.”
Poring dutifully over the very dry texts she had taken from the library had impressed upon her quite how much there was to know.
“Don’t be foolish, Eliza,” Margaret said. “You are far cleverer than half the lords I know.”