Eliza knew this of course: the qualms had been documented at length.
“But I reassured myself,” Mrs. Balfour continued, “by remembering that you have behaved well all your life. You have always done the right thing, always behaved with propriety, known your duty, honored your family. I have always been able to count upon you. I have never had to worry.”
“I—” Eliza began.
“But entertaining a notorious rake in your home? Driving a phaeton upon public roads for anyone to see? Coming to London the very moment you entered half-mourning to dally with every gentleman that crosses your path, your name being bandied about town as if you were some common jade and not a Balfour—not a countess? I should have worried more, Eliza.”
She did not raise her voice—that was never Mrs. Balfour’s way—but she had a manner of speaking, in crisp and damning tones, that made even more of an impact than if she had shouted.
“Mama,” Eliza began, “you cannot listen to the gossips—they make everything sound so much worse than it is.”
“Have you been visiting faro houses, Eliza? Have you been staying with a woman who reeks of trade?” Mrs. Balfour asked. “Where were you this evening, in a gown that is entirely inappropriate for your state of half-mourning?”
Eliza did not answer. To lie at this juncture would be fatal.
“It matters not,” Mrs. Balfour said. “It does not truly even matter what I think—though I confess myself to be very disappointed. It matters what society thinks, it matters what Somerset thinks—both agree that you have become dreadfully, unforgivably, fast.”
“Somerset?” Eliza repeated, thrown. Were Somerset and her mother corresponding? “What does he have to do with this?”
“Only everything, Eliza,” Mrs. Balfour said, leaning forward. “No doubt you have a letter waiting for you in Bath, from Mr. Walcot. I shall add failing to have your correspondence forwarded to my account of your irresponsibilities. Fortunately, Somerset himself saw fit to write to your father a week ago, to warn us of what was to come.”
“Wh-what did he say?” Eliza said, faintly.
“That given your recent behavior, he has no choice but to rescind your bequeathment,” Mrs. Balfour said. “He is to take away all the estates, as soon as the paperwork can be fulfilled—and that should not take above a few days.”
“But—but he can’t!” Eliza protested.
“I assure you, he can,” Mrs. Balfour said, and Eliza wondered how much her fury was tempered by vindication. “As the will so clearly stated: it is up to him to interpret your behavior and he has interpreted it, as I do, as deplorable.”
“But he said he would not!” Eliza said. “He agreed not to, in exchange for—”
She broke off, feeling suddenly and certainly that there would be no benefit to Mrs. Balfour learning of the Selwyns’ scheme. But it did not make sense—Somerset knew what Eliza could reveal about his family, knew the disgrace she could bring to his doorstep with just a few words. When last they spoke, he had seemed committed to avoiding such a circumstance—what had happened to change his mind?
“Then perhaps the sustained embarrassment to his family’s name has changed his mind.” Mrs. Balfour sat back, death blow now dealt. “One cannot live in a man’s pocket, as you have been doing with Melville, entertaining him for hours in the privacy of your home, without accusations of the most grievous sort being levelled at you.”
“I will go to Harefield,” Eliza said, blinking around the room as if to find the answer upon the walls. “I shall make him see sense.”
“No, you will not,” Mrs. Balfour said briskly. “I have a suite of rooms booked at Pultney’s. You will accompany me there, now, and tomorrow you will accompany me back to Balfour, Margaret will go to Lavinia, and then you will instruct Perkins to pack up your house.”
“No.”
“No?” Mrs. Balfour blinked.
“I cannot,” Eliza said.
Mrs. Balfour stared at her.
“You cannot?” she repeated. She had evidently not considered it a remote possibility that Eliza would disobey her. In truth, neither had Eliza. She had always suspected, if such a moment as this were to come, that she would capitulate instantly.
“Eliza, I had not thought it necessary to explain exactly what your behavior has risked for our family’s reputation. But perhaps it is.” She leaned forward once more, eyes narrowing. “If word spreads that Somerset is taking away your fortune, and the reason for it, the shame will attach to us all. The best we can hope for now is to keep the whole thing as quiet as possible and beg Somerset to do the same.”
“No, Mama—that is not the best I can hope for,” Eliza said. Mrs. Balfour’s nostrils flared and Eliza plunged on before she could be interrupted. “For tomorrow—tomorrow I will be attending the Summer Exhibition. I have had a painting accepted, a portrait of Melville.”
Her voice held no shame at the admission, only quiet pride, and Eliza laid trembling fingers on her lips. She had thought all satisfaction at the achievement to have vanished, rendered impossible by Melville’s betrayal—but there it was, still there. Hidden, until now, but not gone.
“Eliza . . .” Mrs. Balfour breathed. “What have you done? Have you—have you put your name to it?”
“It is anonymous.”
“For now,” Mrs. Balfour whispered. “But word will no doubt get out eventually and . . .” She pressed a hand to her head.
“I know this is beyond comprehension for you, Mama,” Eliza said, “but I could not let such an opportunity pass me by.”
Mrs. Balfour stared at her, as if she did not recognize her in the least.
“When did you start to believe your pleasures were above your duty to your family, Eliza? To risk all of us, for yourself, is beyond comprehension,” she said at last. “You have brothers, nieces and nephews—it is your duty to act for their best interests, as well as your own.”
“And I did!” Eliza cried. “For ten long years! I have given you most of my life, Mama! Made every sacrifice you have ever asked of me, gave up everything. I did it, for all of you, and I did it without complaining. But I am done now. I want more from my life than duty.”
She was breathing hard. They were both standing now, though Eliza was not sure when it had happened.
“And do you not think I wanted more?” Mrs. Balfour asked. “That your grandmother wanted more? That any of the ladies on this street want more for themselves? We cannot. And so, we get on with it.”
Eliza stared at her. She had never suspected Mrs. Balfour had ever wanted anything other than the life she had, the one she spent every day still fighting for. And Eliza wished, suddenly, that they might have reached this subject in another conversation, that they could have spoken with such honesty at another, softer moment. Eliza would have liked to have known this version of her mother, before.