Eliza paced the length of the room, sat down upon the settee, stood back up again, looked at the portrait, closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her face. What had she done? In the light of such a revelation, her behavior over the past few weeks appeared very suspect—the flirtation, the teasing, the dancing! She had betrayed Somerset’s trust in every way she could.
“What are you going to do?” Margaret asked.
“Nothing,” Eliza said at once.
“You are not going to tell him?”
“Tell him? Tell him? Tell him?”
“I am sensing the answer is no,” Margaret said.
“Margaret, you do not seem to understand the gravity of the situation,” Eliza said. “I am as good as engaged to Somerset. I love Somerset. I love Oliver.”
She felt a surge of powerful guilt that she had even considered she might love another—when she had promised herself to Oliver, she had meant it with her entire being. That had to count for something.
“Do you love him?” Margaret said, eyes narrowing.
Eliza took a deep breath. She thought of Somerset. She thought of his letters, the way they made her feel. How it had felt to see him again, in January. How it had felt to touch him, to kiss him, in the carriage on that night of the concert. As if something lost had been returned to her, long after she had renounced all hope of its restoration.
“Yes,” Eliza said.
“More than Melville?” Margaret said.
“I . . .” Eliza started. “I do not know.”
For how could one compare the two? One she had carried with her, her whole life it had seemed. It was requited, and close now to being hers for perpetuity. The other she had only just stumbled across. And Melville? Every woman in England seemed to have a tendresse for the man. He could have his pick of anyone. And while he might—might—be fond of Eliza, yes, and flirt with her, that too, and sometimes look at her as though he was delighted by the mere sight of her . . .
“It does not matter,” Eliza said. “I am promised to Somerset. He is the man I will marry.”
“You are not engaged yet,” Margaret pointed out.
“We are as good as,” Eliza said fiercely. “And I will not—I cannot—jilt him for a second time, Margaret. I cannot.”
The sound of hooves upon the cobbles outside had her looking toward the window.
“Caroline!” Eliza said. “I had forgotten.”
She must have slept late this morning. She had not even had breakfast.
She looked down at herself as if expecting to find herself miraculously gowned in a habit. She was not.
“You could cancel,” Margaret suggested.
“No, no! I—I do not want to,” Eliza said.
She wanted everything to be normal, for all that had just occurred to be placed back from whence it came.
“Then I shall delay her,” Margaret said easily. “While you change.”
And although Caroline was notoriously impatient at such delays, when Eliza finally emerged from the house, wearing her black habit, gloves and velvet beaver hat, she did not seem irritated.
“She hath risen!” Caroline called, leaning up from where she had been bent toward Margaret.
“My apologies,” Eliza said, as Margaret stepped back from the carriage and Caroline’s groom threw Eliza up into the seat. “What are we practicing today?”
“Junctions!” Caroline said merrily, and she set the horses off.
For all of Eliza’s abstraction, that day made for a good lesson, one of the few where Eliza felt as if she were properly driving with a measure of competency, rather than those where she felt she might cry from frustration.
“Very good,” Caroline said, after a few minutes of watching. “I am persuaded that soon you might be able to have a phaeton of your own.”
“Of my own?” Eliza said, startled by the thought. “I’m sure I am not nearly dashing enough for that.”
“Well, you cannot always be borrowing mine!” Caroline retorted. “I am not nearly kind enough for that.”
Eliza laughed. “I have seen ample proof of your kindness. Do you really think I am ready?”
“Indeed I do,” Caroline said promptly. “You may not yet be driving to an inch, but you are not far off. Perhaps not a high perch, but I think you might manage something a little staider—though in a very fine color.”
“Perhaps a violet, or a pink? As I am a very grand lady,” Eliza suggested.
“Oh, why choose? Stripes, I say!”
Eliza laughed. The decision to come out today had been a good one. Out here, in the hills, she did not need to think of Somerset, or of Melville. There was too much else to concentrate on.
“But perhaps you may not want to make such a purchase,” Caroline said. “Would you get enough use from it, at Harefield?”
Eliza’s smile abruptly faded from her face.
“Margaret has not broken any confidences,” Caroline said quickly and unnecessarily, for Eliza knew that Margaret guarded her secrets as closely as a dragon hoarding gold, just as Eliza did in return. “But the way she has begun speaking indicates that she believes your time in Bath to be soon at an end. And it is not difficult to divine why.”
Eliza, navigating a corner, did not answer. For what could she say?
“Am I to wish you happy?” Caroline pressed.
“Such wishes would be . . . a trifle premature,” Eliza said at last.
This Caroline appeared to accept. There was a silence for a moment, then, “At least you will not have to change your name.”
Eliza could not help but laugh.
“Have you ever been tempted, my lady?” Eliza asked, once she had mastered herself. “By marriage, I mean.”
“Tempted? Yes,” Caroline said with a sly smile. “By marriage? No.”
“Is it that you never met a gentleman you felt affection for?” Eliza asked, curious as ever for more details of the lady’s life.
“After a lifetime of my name already coming second to my brother’s,” Caroline said, “I am in no hurry to relegate mine into third place.”
At Eliza’s inquisitive look, she added: “First Melville’s sister, then Lord Whosit’s wife—for if I am marrying, I assume him to be a marquis at least—and Caroline, third.”
“I did not know that bothered you,” Eliza said. “You and Melville seem to rub along so nicely together.”