“Oh yes, guidance is imperative!” Mrs. Winkworth said. “One would not want Miss Selwyn to marry beneath her.”
Eliza felt her mouth twist in a rather bitter smile. Somerset’s eyes skittered briefly to her and then away again. She wondered if he, too, was considering the irony of his now being on the other side of the argument, when once it was he, with no title or fortune to recommend him, who had been considered the inferior match.
“And what if her sentiments do not align with your guidance?” Margaret asked.
Lady Selwyn raised a brow and did not answer.
“I think it unlikely,” Selwyn said.
“And should such a moment arise,” Somerset added, “Annie would certainly speak her mind.”
“Has everyone sampled the Savoy cake?” Eliza asked, deciding that she could not bear to listen to this any longer. She would rather they return to any of the fraught subjects of the evening, than spend another moment discussing Annie’s future.
“Yes, delicious,” Melville said, obeying Eliza’s entreating gaze. “Perhaps I might offer it around again—”
“And in the event of such a moment arising,” Margaret pressed Somerset. “You would cede to her wishes—as the head of the family?”
Eliza tried desperately to catch Margaret’s eye—she did not know what her cousin was trying to achieve, but it was not to Eliza’s liking. If she was intentionally alluding to Eliza’s own history, then this was not the time for it. For what purpose did it serve now?
“Certainly,” Somerset said. Lady Selwyn’s mouth thinned, but she remained silent—she was too well-bred to disagree with her brother in front of so many observers.
“And if she fell in love with a pauper?” Lady Caroline said.
“I—I . . . We—” Somerset broke off. Under the twin, judging gazes of Margaret and Lady Caroline, his neck began to redden.
“She would not,” Selwyn asserted.
“Out of the question,” his wife agreed.
“Because she would never think to disobey?” Margaret suggested.
“Because,” Somerset interjected. “Because we would discuss it and—”
He broke off again, unable to answer satisfactorily.
“Parry, sir, parry,” Melville encouraged.
Somerset sent him a burning look.
“Annie knows her duty,” Selwyn interjected. “She’ll come to heel.”
Eliza squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, wishing she were able to do the same to her ears.
“It would never come to that,” Somerset snapped. His gaze flickered to Eliza again, defensive and harried, and then back to Margaret.
“If Miss Selwyn is as I remember,” Miss Winkworth said softly, sending a dimpling smile in Somerset’s direction, “she has spirit enough to make her opinion known.”
“Yes, exactly,” Somerset agreed at once. His eyes locked again with Eliza’s. “A lack of spirit is certainly not Annie’s issue.”
It was as if a bucket of icy water had been thrown abruptly over Eliza. She sucked in a desperate, shocked breath, feeling as if all the wind had been knocked out of her. All nine faces around the table turned toward her, but she did not heed them—still staring at Somerset, stricken to her very bones.
“My lady . . .” Melville said very softly.
Eliza stood without making a conscious decision to do so, the legs of her chair making a dramatic screech against the floor.
“I think it is time for the ladies to retire for tea,” Eliza said. She could barely hear her own voice over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. “Margaret, if you will escort everyone to the drawing room, I will,” she caught her breath on a slight gasp, “I will join you in just a moment.”
11
Eliza darted from the room and up the stairs, hardly knowing where she was going, only that she needed to be alone. Just a moment, to master herself unobserved. She pushed her way into her bedchamber, closed the door and leaned back against the wood, closing her eyes and trying to breathe. Even now, she could not allow herself to break completely, for the sobs burning for release in her throat were not quiet, ladylike tears that she could indulge in for a few minutes before wiping her face and reappearing seamlessly into the dinner party. These tears would be loud and ugly. They would make her eyes swollen, her cheeks red, and everyone would see, and although she had already made a scene, already had her distress witnessed by everyone, Eliza still pressed her hand against her mouth and held the anguish in.
He had not forgiven her. And Eliza had not expected him to, exactly, but to be presented with such irrefutable proof, as clear as day in the bite of his words, the damning fire in his eyes . . . It was a shock, that was all. He had not forgiven her. He could not, he would not—and whatever secret hopes she had been harboring over their reacquaintance were foolish. This dinner party was foolish. Had she truly thought that if she contrived enough reasons for them to spend time together, believed that if she could hold him here in Bath, away from the poisonous tongues of his family—that he might fall in love with her again?
She had spent the day dashing around Bath, spent hours in front of the mirror, teasing her hair just so, in eager pursuit of a gentleman who held her in such contempt. A gentleman who had insulted her at her own dinner table, in full view of all her guests, with words that might have been especially designed to hurt her. Eliza pressed a hand to her breastbone as if the pain there might be eased with physical pressure. All this evening had achieved was to reopen a wound that ought to have healed long ago . . . Still, at least she knew she could endure this. She had become adept, over the years, at enduring this kind of hurt.
Eliza took a deep, steadying breath. Pushing her shoulders back and her memories down, she opened the door and headed for the stairs. It was time to rejoin the fray. As much as she might want to send all her guests away now and hang the consequences, she ought to save some face: an hour more of tea-sipping and polite chit-chat and then she could bid the whole awful, humiliating endeavor adieu. Eliza made to enter the drawing room, when she saw the door to the parlor—her painting parlor—was standing ajar, a pane of light escaping into the hallway. Worrying that she might have left a candle lit, she pushed the door fully open to find Melville standing there, examining the pile of watercolors that lay upon the table.
“Lord Melville?” Eliza said uncertainly. What was the appropriate way to challenge someone, when they were so obviously caught not where they were meant to be?
“My apologies for trespassing,” he said, not at all apologetic. “You did say I could see them.”
“I did not think you meant tonight,” Eliza said, voice hushed. She would have prepared if she had known, would certainly not have encouraged him to riffle free rein through all her pieces. “Have you left Admiral Winkworth, Selwyn and Somerset all alone to the port?”