“And are you? Particularly romantic?”
It was another terribly personal question, but given what Melville had just shared it did not feel so very strange to answer.
“As a girl, very much so,” she said. “I scarce wished for anything more than to fall, truly and greatly, in love, independent of duty, circumstance, familial interest.”
“The reality did not meet your expectation?”
“Oh, it did, in every conceivable way,” Eliza said. “It was just that I did not marry him.”
It was the first time she had spoken about her relationship with Somerset, however indirectly, and as if afraid she might clam up at any moment, Melville asked his next question very quickly.
“What made you develop such a partiality for him?”
“Oh,” Eliza smiled even to think of it, “I cannot think when, exactly it began—the moment we met, I suppose. He called me beautiful.”
“And?”
“And? I assure you, this was enough to make me notice him—while you, my lord, may be used to drowning in flattery, for me it is a novelty. And then, once I had started noticing, I could not stop. He always was so honorable, so kind, so conscious of his responsibilities.”
“Responsibility is not a word I usually associate with love,” Melville noted.
“I am not the writer,” Eliza said, self-conscious. “I do not know how to say it prettily. We merely had a great deal of mutual admiration and respect a-and enjoyment of each other’s company . . .”
“I shall do my best with it,” Melville said, patting down his pockets. “The difficulty is going to be finding a rhyme for ‘mutual.’ A half rhyme will have to do—contractual, perhaps? I wish I had a quill to hand.”
Eliza threw a small piece of chalk at him and Melville dodged it with a laugh. It was the sort of behavior that would have been unthinkable, not long ago, but one could not spend as much time together, as Eliza and Melville now were, without growing more comfortable in each other’s presence. And in moments such as this Eliza found herself oddly glad for the circumstances that had required a delay to her and Somerset’s official engagement. It was not just the act of working upon the portrait she would have missed out on—it would have been the company, too. As unlikely as it might once have seemed, she was beginning to count Melville as one of her dearest friends.
Harefield Hall
March 9th ’19
Dear Eliza,
Your letter took a veritable age to arrive and the sight of your handwriting, which has not changed in these ten years, had me breathing easier than I have this week past.
Your commission sounds a charming scheme. When I remember the darling little drawings you used to show me—and I do remember them—I can well believe that another has been similarly enchanted. Shall I guess the painting’s subject or is it to be a surprise? Perhaps a view of Camden Place, or the abbey? I look forward to seeing it regardless—but seeing you, most of all.
I cannot now write more, for I am being called away—expect a longer note from me anon.
Yours ever,
Oliver
18
Mid-March brought with it a false spring; a brief spell of sunshine that had everyone fooled for the fortnight it lasted, improving tempers across the city and turning the attention of many to the London Season. For while most of Bath’s residents remained year-round, many of the wealthier inhabitants—such as Lady Hurley and the Winkworths—would be removing to the metropolis at the end of the month. All seemed energized by the approaching Season, but none more so than Lady Hurley, for no sooner had she spotted Eliza and Margaret at the Pump Room, than she had bustled over, dispensed entirely with pleasantries and invited them to a party.
“Before I leave for London,” she explained, with all the rapidity of an officer delivering a field report, “I have settled my heart on hosting a rout next week, with a little dancing, to bid farewell to Bath, and I absolutely insist you are in attendance.”
Eliza hesitated.
“Do not, I beg of you, say it would be improper!” Lady Hurley said. “Why, Lady Somerset, it must be eleven months since your mourning began! If you are seated, throughout, and do not stay too late, I am sure it cannot be thought in the least remarkable for you to attend a small party at a private residence.”
“Come, Eliza, surely you are allowed some fun, now?” Margaret said.
Oh, dash it. It was not so very improper—she had only a month left of full mourning, after all. She was sure that Somerset would recommend she enjoy herself.
“We should be delighted to attend,” Eliza said. “I have a fancy for a new evening dress, anyhow, and this makes the perfect excuse.”
“I have just come from Madame Prevette, and she has in some ravishing new black gossamer that would look divine,” Lady Hurley said. “Though I did not enquire how much of it remains.”
“Then we must hasten to the modiste before the other widows make a run on it,” Eliza declared, smiling to imagine a flock of black-clad women dashing down Milsom Street.
But Lady Hurley was too busy casting about for the Melvilles to pay heed.
“If I can be sure of their attendance, too, it is likely to be the most modish event of the year, but I cannot find hide nor hair of them. Though perhaps”—she threw a roguish look toward Eliza—“it would be quicker for you to invite Melville, my lady, for I am sure you will see him before I!”
“I do not know what you mean,” Eliza said.
Lady Hurley cackled. “Oh, we all saw you, whispering together at the concert last week,” she said. “And riding together yesterday afternoon! Very cozy.”
She bustled away, without waiting for a response, but Eliza’s cheeks still pinked.
The day before, when Eliza had been suffering from a fit of the sullens—for no matter how carefully she painted, Melville’s ears were still lying awkwardly—Melville had removed the paintbrush from her hand and suggested a ride would clear her mind.
“Now?” Eliza had said uncertainly. “Alone?”
“I would prefer your groom attend us,” he had said, making for the door so that he might change into riding dress. “I suspect otherwise you might attempt a seduction.”
And while it might not be altogether sensible to jaunt about the countryside with an unmarried gentleman at such an unusual hour, even with her groom in attendance—in Bath, one commonly rode before breakfast—after an hour on the hills, breathless and laughing, she had not cared. Now, however . . .
“Pay her no mind,” Margaret advised Eliza, but as they walked to Milsom Street, Eliza could not help but wonder if the gazes upon her had increased in number since last week—whether the ogles were more speculative, whether she could hear her name being whispered by the little flocks of ladies and gentlemen that passed them.