“Perhaps . . . London?”
Balfour House
Kent
10th April ’19
Eliza—
Lavinia has entered her seclusion, so we are expectant Margaret will be needed imminently. As your first year of mourning has now ended, will you have the goodness to inform your mother the date you mean to return to Balfour? You must indeed have had your fill of the Cure by now—I do hope you are not to become one of those sickly women forever struck by ailments. One must press on, Eliza!
Your mother
28
Eliza and Margaret traveled to London by hired post chaise, only in the company of their maids; Perkins and the rest of the household were to stay in Bath, to await their homecoming—though Eliza could not yet conceive of when this might be. When one was running away, one did not like to consider such practicalities as the return journey.
When she and Margaret had traveled to Bath, Eliza’s mood had been anxious but jubilant, as she was equal parts thrilled and fearful. This time, there was an air of manic determination in the manner with which she directed their hundred-mile journey to London as fast as she possibly could. Attending the Summer Exhibition when it opened in two weeks—seeing Eliza’s portrait exhibited there, with their own eyes—was by far the least important reason for their departure. Far more pressing to Eliza was flinging herself and Margaret into so much distraction that they might be able to outrun both their heartbreaks.
When London crested on the horizon ahead of them, Eliza was more certain than ever that this had been the right decision. In the serene elegance of Bath, one could not help but turn one’s thoughts inward, but in the insistent grandeur of London—Bath’s noisier, messier, demanding older sister—one could not help but be distracted.
The post chaise took them all the way to Russell Square, where they were greeted enthusiastically by none other than Lady Hurley herself.
“It is so wonderful to see you, both!” she sang, holding out her hands in welcome. “Hobbe, see to their bags at once!”
Eliza had written to Lady Hurley just as soon as Margaret had agreed, tearfully, to the scheme, and in her return letter Lady Hurley had at once invited them to stay at the lodgings she had taken for the Season. Lady Hurley was certainly not the only person of Eliza’s acquaintance in London, and nor was she the grandest—her townhouse, while spacious and lavish, was on the less-established Russell Square rather than the more fashionable Grosvenor or Berkeley—but she was the only one whose acquaintance Eliza wished to renew at such a time.
“To allow yourselves to think would be disastrous,” Lady Hurley said, clapping her hands—without being given any specific detail, she appeared to have surmised an accurate enough picture of what had occurred. “Let us go to the theater.”
And though every bone in Eliza’s body felt leaden with fatigue, she agreed at once: to think would, indeed, be catastrophic. Lady Hurley’s box at the Theatre Royal was well situated both to regard the stage, and also—as was just as important, for not even The Beggar’s Opera could hold Eliza’s restless attention for long—their fellow audience members.
“Last night we saw the Duke of Belmond,” Lady Hurley confided in Eliza and Margaret, as she brought her opera glasses to her eyes and began scanning the boxes across from them. “With a lady amongst his company who was most certainly not his wife, may I add.”
“Not the thing,” Mr. Fletcher said with smug relish. Mr. Fletcher, who had taken lodgings in Duke Street for the Season, appeared as much in evidence upon Lady Hurley’s arm in London, as he was in Bath.
As Eliza gazed around at the ornate interior, she noticed the glint of a fair number of opera glasses being turned in the direction of their box, too.
“Why are they looking at us?” she asked Lady Hurley.
Lady Hurley lowered her opera glasses and looked at Eliza as though she was denser than mud.
“My dear Lady Somerset,” she said, sounding greatly amused. “You are an unusually young widow of great fortune. Did you imagine you could join the Season and not cause a stir?”
The words were so close to ones that Melville had remarked to her, not so many weeks ago, that Eliza had to press a hand momentarily to her breast to soothe its pang before she could respond.
In the two weeks they were to spend in London ahead of the opening of the Summer Exhibition, it proved that on this matter Lady Hurley and Melville were both quite right. The last time Eliza had spent the Season in London, as Miss Balfour, it was only by the sheer force of her mother’s will that anybody had taken much notice of her. This time, however, she was the widowed Lady Somerset, and rich to boot, and not even her half-mourning prevented the ton from taking notice of her. By the next morning, they were besieged by invitations and very soon Lady Hurley was shepherding them from breakfast parties to morning visits, to picnics and promenades. In the evenings, they attended the theater, the opera and even a few balls—and if Eliza could not yet dance, she could certainly watch, she could certainly chat, and, as it happened, she could certainly flirt.
For while Melville had not given Eliza much reason to believe in any gentleman’s trustworthiness, he had certainly made her a better flirt. And once she had overcome her incredulity at the number of unattached gentlemen who were now dancing attendance upon her, Eliza’s overpowering need to keep her mind occupied made her quite motivated to engage in as many—somewhat frantic—flirtations as she could manage.
“One almost feels sorry for the poor lambs,” Lady Hurley said, with a cluck of the tongue, as several such lambs reluctantly left their box upon their second visit to the theater, the bell having rung to indicate the end of the interval. “The competition is so dreadfully fierce.”
“I do not feel sorry for them in the slightest,” Margaret said. “From birth, they are overpraised, overindulged and overvalued by society.”
Margaret had begun to regain some of her habitual sharpness.
“I notice that you, too, are not without your share of admirers, Miss Balfour,” observed Lady Hurley, an amused sparkle in her eye.
This was true, and though Margaret dispensed snubs and set-downs with almost vicious liberality, she did at least appear to derive a manic sort of enjoyment from the exercise.
“Do you have a favorite gallant, yet, Lady Somerset?” Lady Hurley asked, not bothering to hush her voice as the curtain rose again. This time it was The Two Spanish Valets and Eliza averted her eyes from the stage—Melville had so enjoyed the play when it had been performed at Bath—to shake her head in response.
There was the sweet Mr. Radley, of course, who made up in compliments for what he lacked in liveliness; the grey-haired and distinguished Mr. Pothelswaite, an amusing conversationalist with pleasing manners; the handsome but tedious Sir Edward Carlton. But none of them—no matter how amusing, how interesting, how engaging—could inspire in her any fraction of the feeling she had held for either Melville or Somerset. And try as she might to be distracted by London, Eliza still found herself dwelling—as she lay in bed or watched the opera—on both these gentlemen, still, and one most especially.