“Why would I lie now?” Melville said. “What could I hope to gain from lying, now?”
“The same thing you stood to gain last time,” she retorted. “Your circumstances have not changed, have they? You still need money, or a patron. For all I know it might be my fortune you’re after now.”
She had not even truly meant it—it had spilled out of her with her anger and frustration—but Melville flinched back, leaning away from her.
“Is that what you think of me?” he said. “That I am some common fortune hunter?”
“Can you blame me?” Eliza said, feeling a chill in the space his body used to warm. “After what you have admitted already to doing for money.”
“You must know I would never—”
“Must I?” Eliza cried. “I thought I knew you; for months I thought I knew you, and then I discovered everything to be false. How am I supposed to know, Melville? Prove it to me.”
“If you cannot forgive me, then this is all fruitless,” Melville said.
“If you will not prove it to me, then perhaps it is fruitless,” Eliza said.
“You are not trying,” he said.
“You are not trying!” she said. “It is you who is guilty. It is you who has led me so astray that my life risks being every bit as broken as yours!”
In that moment, all Eliza wanted was to hurt him as she had been hurt, and Melville’s face twisted in pain and anger.
“Oh, yes, it would be much easier to blame me, wouldn’t it,” he snapped. “Tell me, what part of your life did I ruin? The part where you spent years pining for a man who doesn’t even see you? Or the part where you waited obediently for society’s permission to be happy?”
Eliza jumped to her feet, tears springing to her eyes.
“The part where I loved you,” she choked out. “That’s the part I regret.”
Eliza turned on her heel, dashing back toward the rotunda, half blinded by sobs. Tearing through the crowd, she looked urgently about for Margaret but trying to catch sight of her in the sea of dancers was as fruitless as parsing a single drop of rain from an ocean. Every time Eliza caught sight of a woman in a pink domino, she was either the wrong height or the wrong shape or just plain wrong.
And then, finally, she caught sight of her. Margaret was in the center of the room, dancing a country dance, twirling around and around with her hands clasped with a lady wearing a red mask and domino. Caroline. Eliza watched them for several moments, spellbound, her tears paused. They were not the only ladies dancing with one another, for there were more women in attendance this evening than gentlemen, and under the safety of their masks and dominos—released from any fear of observation—Margaret and Caroline were spinning and laughing with abandon. As one does when one is dancing with the person that they love.
Eliza waited until the dance had ended to catch Margaret’s eye. Margaret, unlike Eliza, had no trouble recognizing Eliza. She left Caroline’s side immediately and hurried over.
“Did Melville find you?” she demanded.
“Yes,” Eliza said.
“What did—” Margaret began, but Eliza interrupted.
“I am going home,” she said.
“I will come with you!” Margaret said at once.
“No,” Eliza said, gently. “Stay. Dance. Return safely.”
“Are you sure?” Margaret said. Over her shoulder, Eliza saw Caroline hovering at a little distance, her eyes watchful.
“Yes.”
“I do not know what I am doing,” Margaret admitted shakily. “I do not know if this is even possible.”
“Tonight, you are just dancing,” Eliza said, her gut wrenching with the effort it took to speak calmly. “Now, off with you!”
Eliza turned and wound her way back toward the carriages to find herself a hackney cab, alone and unattended, and only once she was safely ensconced within did she give herself permission to weep.
30
Eliza walked slowly into Lady Hurley’s home, untying her loo mask with clumsy hands and casting off her domino at last. She had never desired sleep so much in her life.
“My lady.” Hobbe, Lady Hurley’s steward, approached at a fast clip.
“Good evening,” Eliza said tiredly. “Could I have some tea brought up to my room, please?”
“My lady, Mrs. Balfour is in the drawing room.”
Eliza was sure she had misheard.
“M-my mother?”
Hobbe nodded.
“Here? Now?”
“In the drawing room, my lady,” Hobbe repeated.
“When did she arrive?” Eliza asked, mouth drying.
“Around seven o’clock this evening.”
It was now past eleven.
“Oh no,” Eliza said faintly. Without knowing the whys and wherefores behind her mother’s visit, Eliza was absolutely certain it could not be for a good reason—and that she hadn’t been in to receive her made it far worse.
“I did explain you were attending a concert, and that you were not sure what time you would be back . . . But she insisted upon waiting for your return.”
“Good lord!”
Eliza stood still for a moment, wondering what on earth to do, what could be done to alleviate this very unfortunate collection of circumstances. She stared down at her dress, at her bronze-green dress, and wondered if the sound of her voice had carried up to her mother or whether Eliza might be able to sneak upstairs to change.
“Eliza!” Mrs. Balfour’s voice called from the drawing room, and Eliza was moved to obey its summons without consciously deciding to do so.
She paused at the door, took a deep breath and entered.
“Mother, what a pleasant surprise!” she said brightly.
Mrs. Balfour did not get up to greet her. She was arranged neatly upon the sofa, sipping tea. How she managed to look so intimidating in the pose was beyond Eliza, but one could not argue with its effects.
“I am so sorry that we were not at home to attend to you upon your arrival. We—”
“Do sit down,” Mrs. Balfour said, cutting across Eliza. It did not matter that this was Lady Hurley’s house, and she was only a guest—it had become Mrs. Balfour’s room as soon as she had entered it. Eliza sat on the facing settee, hands clenched in her lap.
“When I first received your letter,” Mrs. Balfour began, in a slow, considered voice, “declaring your intention to set up your own establishment in Bath, I had qualms.”