Both Melville and Somerset had been in this room, frequently and recently. There was not a direction Eliza could gaze in that did not remind her of one of them, and she felt a hot rush of rage that they had managed to taint the sanctuary she and Margaret had built for themselves here. Hurt, at long last, gave way—very briefly—to fury. Eliza lasted only an hour downstairs that day before she was overcome by fatigue and had to retreat, once more, to her bedchamber, where she ordered the shutters to be closed and the fire doused, so that she might be left in the dark to try to find the sleep that was eluding her.
By the fifth day, Eliza was able to remain downstairs for several hours—and the kernel of pride she felt at the achievement was morbidly absurd. Sorrow had made her the invalid she had once pretended to be—indeed, never had there been a time when Eliza had felt more like wearing black and taking the Cure, than now. Either one of these heartbreaks would have felled her. Two—both—seemed frankly excessive.
The door nudged open, and Perkins came in, bearing a tray.
“Perhaps we might have the fire lit, Perkins,” Margaret said.
“I shall send Polly up presently,” he nodded. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “There is a visitor downstairs.”
“If it is Lord Melville,” Eliza said, “tell him to go.”
Melville had called on Camden Place every day that week, and Eliza had refused to see him upon every single instance.
“It is not Lord Melville, my lady, but Lady Caroline,” Perkins said calmly.
Eliza’s refusal was on the tip of her tongue, but Margaret—seated across from her—was not able to hide the yearning in her eyes. Eliza took in a ragged breath.
“I will not stay,” she said. “But show her up, Perkins.”
“Are you sure?” Margaret began.
“Yes,” Eliza said, though she could not tell if it was true.
She did not even bother patting her hair into place and when Caroline appeared in the doorway, looking predictably stunning in a gown of primrose-colored sarsenet, trimmed entirely around the bosom with a quilling of blond lace, she felt a rush of petty irritation toward her.
“Good morning, Eliza, Margaret,” she said crisply. “What a fine mess my brother has made.”
There was to be no dancing around the subject, then.
“I imagine you have a lot of questions,” Caroline said, regarding Eliza directly.
“No,” Eliza said. “No, I don’t, actually.”
If she had wanted more of an explanation, she would have accepted Melville’s visit. She did not. For what could he say that would change the facts as they stood? And what could Caroline possibly tell her that might make Eliza feel better? Nothing. Eliza stood. She found she could not look at Caroline any longer. Blameless though she might be, she was still too much of a reminder of Melville to bear.
“I am afraid I cannot stay, Lady Caroline—do you mind if I leave you with Margaret?”
“Of course,” Caroline said. “But—wait.”
She pulled a letter from her reticule and offered it to Eliza. Eliza did not take it.
“What is it?” she asked guardedly.
“It is regarding the Summer Exhibition,” Caroline said. “Your portrait has been accepted. Congratulations.”
Eliza stared at the billet. It was so odd. Not a week ago such news would have thrilled her. She would have been delighted beyond belief. Melville would have been delighted, too—would have declared he had known, all along, that she could do it and here was the proof. Would he have been lying? Would his deception have extended even to sharing in Eliza’s celebration?
Eliza’s stare finally left the billet in Caroline’s hands. Twenty years of desiring such an accolade and now . . . Now it was just one more thing that had been sapped of joy. Eliza forced her legs to move and made for the door without saying anything further. She shut it firmly behind her, but as she did so, her vision darkened just slightly at the edges—it had been so many days since she had exerted herself, and she had stood up far too quickly. Reaching for the wall, she steadied herself against it for a moment, breathing deeply.
“Did you know?” Eliza heard Margaret say, through the door.
“Of course I did not!” Caroline said. “I would never have agreed to it, which is exactly why I should imagine Melville kept it a secret. If she would just let him explain . . .”
“What is there to explain?” Margaret said. “We know everything. Melville was having an affair with Lady Paulet, Paulet discovered it and Melville was in dire enough financial straits to require a new patron. It may explain Melville’s motive, but it does not excuse his actions.”
Her indignant voice was a little muffled by the closed door, but still audible to Eliza from where she was leaning. Vision returning, Eliza straightened, about to make her way upstairs until . . .
“It was not Melville who had the affair with Lady Paulet,” Caroline said quietly. “It was I.”
Oh. Oh.
“Why then does everyone think . . . ?” Margaret said.
“We could not exactly tell the truth, could we?” Caroline snapped, as if Margaret were particularly stupid. “It seemed better to let Paulet assume Melville had been her lover, but we had not predicted his rage. It would take a large investment for any publisher to stand up to him. Hence, the Selwyns’ arrange—”
“Do you still love her?” Margaret interrupted. “Lady Paulet?”
This was not for Eliza to hear. She moved quietly away from the door, toward the stairs, and was just about to climb them when she saw one of the housemaids, Polly, ascending from the other direction, heading toward the drawing room.
“Polly,” Eliza whispered. “What are you . . . ?”
“Perkins said I am to light the fire, milady,” Polly said, a little nonplussed to find her mistress lingering upon the stairs in such a way.
“There was a time,” came Caroline’s voice through the door, and though she had lowered her voice even further, her words were still faintly perceptible.
“We do not require it,” Eliza hissed. “Not now.”
Obediently, Polly turned back around. Eliza looked wildly up and down the stairs, with more energy than she had felt in days. How likely was it that another member of the household might be sent to the drawing room—to deliver refreshments or some other errand? Lady Caroline and Margaret’s voices were quiet enough to not be overheard unless one was hovering directly outside, and Eliza trusted her servants to be above eavesdropping, but was it enough to risk such a discovery?
No. Eliza planted herself before the door, standing guard.