“Of course, with such a handsome subject, how could it not be?” Melville said. All at once, the puzzling atmosphere in the room broke.
“Now we must hope it sets quickly,” she said, “for the sending-in day is fast approaching.”
Eliza could not prevent a faint note of anxiety from entering her voice. She had made no substantial additions for over a se’nnight, and done everything—from carefully selecting the mixes to diligently ensuring the parlor’s constant warmth—to assist the drying process, but even so, to transport a painting so far, so soon after completion, was a risk indeed.
“I shall have it collected next week,” Melville said. “And direct my man to treat it with the utmost delicacy.”
They had agreed Melville would see the portrait framed and submitted—on behalf of his anonymous portraitist—so as to protect Eliza’s identity. Any news, of acceptance or rejection, would go to him.
“I cannot quite believe it is finished,” Eliza said quietly, the profundity of the moment suddenly dawning upon her. In the horror of her realization, she had quite forgotten to take in the rest. “Thank you, for asking me.”
She looked up at Melville.
“I thought you quite mad, when you did,” she confessed. “But I am so glad I said yes.”
“I am very glad, too,” he said simply.
He held out his hand. Eliza hesitated, wondering wildly if he meant to dance with her again, and then placed hers in his. Melville brought her hand up to his face and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, holding Eliza’s eyes all the while and there was a moment, one shining, brief moment, where Eliza almost forgot why she could not love him.
And then she remembered. She pulled her hand back.
“I shall have to wish you good day, my lord,” she said, voice trembling a little.
It could not be. It simply could not.
Melville gave a quick—almost flustered—nod of his head, and left.
Grosvenor Square
March 30th ’19
Eliza,
The shortest of notes—I can only apologize for such brevity—I have arrived in London, where the Season is in full swing and preparations are underway for Annie’s ball. You can imagine, I am sure, the furor Augusta is creating—and it demands far more of my time than I had predicted.
Just a word on ditches—Mr. Penney wrote to me regarding the possibility of flooding in Chepstow, and I have authorized our trench to continue across the border onto your territory. As the lands are so soon to be rejoined, I am sure you will not mind such an overstep. Swift action on such occasions is, after all, essential.
I shall remain here seven days more and then I will return to you. I am counting down the hours!
Yours,
Somerset
Camden Place
April 2nd ’19
Mr. Penney,
From your recent correspondence directly with Somerset, I can only assume you must have mislain my correspondence address. Please find it above. I trust any questions regarding my lands will be applied to only myself in future.
Yours sincerely,
Lady Somerset
24
The second of April marked a year and a day since the old earl’s death. The date was a more bittersweet affair than Eliza would have predicted, months before. Any day now, they expected Margaret to be sent for, infusing each arrival of the post with a sense of jeopardy, and in a week, regardless, Somerset would return to carry Eliza off. With each passing day, Eliza felt more disturbed. She wished Somerset’s letters might still have the tenor of that very first note, for to receive billets ever shorter in length, and more irritating in their high-handedness—did he truly think she would not mind such an interference?—was causing her apprehension at his return to build even higher.
At least, however, Eliza was at last able to shed her blacks and the most severe restrictions upon her. Madame Prevette had outdone herself with Eliza’s new wardrobe—her skill in rendering even the sober colors of grey and lavender into the most dashing gowns imaginable was superb. Each day, Eliza sighed with delight to choose her dresses: there was the slate-grey silk, with its demi-train and the little lace ruff around her throat, the dove-grey crêpe, adorned with black ribbons to compensate for the lighter color, a clinging robe of lavender silk for evening wear, and a stone-colored riding habit, trimmed around the body with swansdown.
After the monotony of wearing black every day for the past year, even this muted palette felt a veritable explosion of color to Eliza, and after months of circulating solely through the same three or four locations in Bath, Eliza was finally to be invested with a little variety. Lady Hurley had already left for London and was sorely missed by them all—the Winkworths, too, had gone, though missed they were not—but Bath was still busy enough for Eliza’s liking and by the fifth day of April, she had already attended a card party, a picnic expedition and a trip to the theater. But on the sixth of April, something of even greater excitement occurred: Eliza’s phaeton arrived. It was not violet or pink, as she and Caroline had joked, but a gleaming black with red lining upon the body frame. Eliza was so proud of it she thought she might burst.
“Look at her!” she declared to Caroline, who had walked around to view it.
“I am glad you approve,” Caroline said, smiling.
“We ought to name her,” Margaret said.
“As one does a boat?” Caroline laughed.
“Such a grand lady deserves a name,” Eliza agreed.
“Oh, she is a lady now, is she?” Melville asked. “What admirable social ascension.”
“She is at the very least a duchess,” Eliza declared.
“We must take her on a proper outing,” Caroline said.
“Can it be Wells?” Margaret suggested eagerly. “I have yet to see the cathedral’s mechanical feature, and I wondered . . .”
Melville wrinkled his nose.
“The cathedral it is,” Caroline said promptly, and Eliza looked down to hide a smile.
“I shall drive my phaeton, and Lady Somerset may follow with hers. Today!”
They set out within the hour, and as Eliza wound her way through Bath’s streets in pursuit of Caroline, she felt herself to be very dashing, indeed. Caroline had instructed Melville to accompany Eliza, in case they ran into any difficulty upon the road—Melville, of course, was quite as prodigious a whip as his sister—and Eliza resigned herself to a day of blushing. But as the carriage ran like a dream and Melville made all the appropriate sounds of admiration, lounging back in the seat, she could not bring herself to regret the arrangement.