He looked at her sideways, as if suspecting there was far more to the story.
“Is anyone else attending?” he asked suspiciously.
“Somerset,” she said. “And the Selwyns. And, I hope, the Winkworths.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well, after a great deal of consideration—and due attention paid to all my previous engagements—I am afraid I cannot attend.”
“What previous engagements?” Eliza demanded.
“I have engaged myself to spend as little time with the Winkworths as possible,” Melville said. “I find that I despise them—all save for Miss Winkworth, who I merely find dull.”
“You have only met them once!”
“And I find that sufficient.”
“It is not a proper excuse,” Eliza protested.
“Why should I need an excuse?” Melville said. “The simple fact of the matter is that it does not at all sound like something I would enjoy. Why should we attend?”
Eliza stopped abruptly in the street, and turned to face Melville, feeling so frustrated with him—with everything—that she might just cry.
“I had thought you desired my friendship, my lord,” she said, desperately. “And what is friendship, if not kindnesses such as this?”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“Perhaps we could strike a bargain,” he suggested.
Eliza raised her eyes to heaven, silently asking the lord for patience.
“What kind of bargain?” she asked at last, still with her eyes upon the sky.
“If we attend . . .” Melville said slowly, as if he were trying to think of what he wanted, “then you must show me your paintings.”
Eliza looked at him in surprise.
“Why, that is very easily done,” she said. She would have expected something far more outrageous.
“That,” Melville said, “is what I have been saying all of this time.”
“Then I accept,” Eliza said, ignoring this. “Please arrive at half past six.”
She hurried away.
“Half past six in the afternoon?” Melville called after, horror plain in his voice. Eliza did not turn back to answer.
10
The evening was not an immediate disaster. Indeed, before the guests arrived matters were progressing beautifully: Eliza returned home to find a note of acceptance from Mrs. Winkworth, the dining room dressed beautifully with fresh flowers, and that Perkins and the cook had managed to concoct a delicious menu that did, miraculously, include veal. And once Eliza and Margaret had dressed for dinner—Eliza in a chemise of black Italian gauze, fastened in the center with a jet brooch, and Margaret in a gown of Berlin silk that matched her eyes—they were so well pleased with their reflections that Eliza began to tentatively hope that despite the impulsive nature of the plan, and despite the fact that a more ill-matched group of persons could not be found in England, the evening might not turn out too badly.
It was a hope that lasted until the Winkworths’ arrival, ten minutes early. For when they learned the Melvilles would also be in attendance that evening, their pleasure at being invited to dine with so many members of the peerage subsided dramatically.
“Did you know of this?” Admiral Winkworth demanded of his wife.
“Lady Somerset made no mention of it in her note,” Mrs. Winkworth said.
“Is there an issue?” Eliza said. Eliza had known the Winkworths did not like the Melvilles, but she had hoped their social pretensions would be sufficient motivation to overcome it.
Admiral Winkworth rustled his moustache with vigor enough to sweep the floor.
“When I was stationed in Calcutta, my lady,” he said, “it was common enough for the soldiers to consort with native women, but for a member of our nobility to marry, to mix his British blood with that of—”
“Lord Melville and Lady Caroline are my guests!” Eliza interrupted, frantically. “I must request you treat them with civility.”
“If I may speak plainly—” Admiral Winkworth began.
“No!” Eliza blurted out. “No—I am sorry, but I would prefer that you do not, sir.”
Eliza’s heart was beating with nauseating quickness. She exchanged panicked glances with Margaret.
“If you cannot be comfortable in their company, then . . .” Eliza trailed off. They could not ask the Winkworths to leave—could they? No. The clock was striking half past the hour, and she could hear the front door being opened again below—it was too late.
“Of course we can!” Mrs. Winkworth stepped in, shooting her husband a quelling look. “Can we not, husband?”
“The Right Honorable. The Earl of Melville, and the Lady Caroline Melville,” Perkins announced.
“Good evening,” Eliza whispered.
The Melvilles looked characteristically dashing: Lady Caroline in a gossamer satin robe of dove grey with white lace striping across the skirt, her hair dressed with pearls, and Melville in a close-fitting black coat, plain white waistcoat and pantaloons—his curls a little dampened by the rain that had begun to fall.
“Behold!” he said, with a flourishing bow before Eliza. “We are on time.”
“You seem very proud of yourself,” Margaret noted, with more calm than Eliza felt herself capable.
“Oh, it is a veritable coup,” Lady Caroline assured her. “We have not been so punctual in years.”
“In the navy, we flogged the late,” Admiral Winkworth said.
There was a beat of silence.
“It becomes instantly clear why military men are all so dreary,” Lady Caroline observed.
Margaret laughed, Admiral Winkworth grunted, Mrs. Winkworth’s posture was very tense, and her daughter stood silent, tremulous with anxiety—and so when Somerset was announced shortly after, Eliza could have fainted with relief. She was even pleased to see the Selwyns.
“Somerset, you have of course already made the acquaintance of Lord Melville and Lady Caroline,” Eliza said. “But Lord and Lady Selwyn, I do not believe that—”
“No, we have not, and I consider it a veritable travesty!” Lady Selwyn declared, her face wreathed in smiles. “When we have so very many common friends who ought to have made introductions years ago.”
Lady Selwyn could be charming when she chose and Melville was certainly falling for it, returning her curtsey with a bow and her smile with a grin.
“What friends are these?” he said with mock outrage. “We must berate them severely for such a failure.”