Eliza ran her teeth across her bottom lip. It was the most conciliatory offer she was likely to receive from him. And had the previous night not proved that she and Melville had no future together, anyway? But yet . . . Was she really to allow any man to make such demands of her, anymore? Allow her life to be ordained, in perpetuity, by their high-handed judgments or capricious moods?
“No, we do not have an agreement, my lord,” Eliza said, gently.
It was foolish. It was reckless. It was necessary.
“I cannot allow what I want—or who I want—to be dictated to me,” she continued. “And if my fortune is the price I have to pay for such freedom, then I will pay it.”
Somerset gaped at her.
“Goodbye, then,” Eliza said, gathering up her skirts in her hands. She took one last look at him, one last long look. Part of her would always love him, she knew. They had been too much part of each other’s stories, for too long, for all that love to disappear. Their roots would always be a little tangled. But Eliza would have had to give up too much to be with him. And she could not do that anymore.
She walked toward the door. As she reached it, she paused.
“Be kind to her, Oliver,” she said, without turning. “She is very young, and who she is . . . may yet change.”
33
Eliza felt disjointed, on the journey back to Russell Square. The threads tying her to normalcy had been cut again, by herself this time, and though the world around looked the same as it had done minutes before, everything was different. Eliza was rich Lady Somerset no longer. It was done. There was no going back and she did not want to—but how was she to proceed from here? She still had five hundred pounds a year to her name—her jointure could not be taken away from her, and that was something. It was sufficient, at least, to rent a small house, and pay for her essential expenses, though the life she had so much enjoyed of late, of careless expenditure and new dresses and shining carriage horses, would be behind her.
Perhaps she could set herself up as a portraitist—earn a living, as some gentlemen did? Eliza bit her lip. She would not know where to begin. I should think you perfectly able to meet such challenges, Melville had said to her once, and though the mere thought of Melville had a rush of bitter anger rising up within her, Eliza still found herself sitting a little straighter. She could do it. She could—she would—do it all.
Whatever serenity Eliza had achieved by the time she walked into the breakfast room of Russell Square was shattered immediately by Lady Hurley.
“Oh, Lady Somerset, thank goodness you are home!” she moaned, jumping up from her seat to wring Eliza’s hands.
“Whatever is the matter?” Eliza asked.
“It is Miss Balfour,” Lady Hurley said, lowering her voice as a maid entered with a tray. “She did not arrive home last night.”
For a moment, Eliza was sure she had misheard.
“From the masquerade?” she said faintly. “No, no! She was to accompany you home in the carriage.”
But Lady Hurley was shaking her head, and Eliza felt her heart begin to pound, sickeningly.
“We left before her—she said she would be escorted by Lady Caroline once the dancing had finished,” Lady Hurley said miserably. “But her bed was not slept in.”
“You left her with Caroline?” Eliza demanded. “Does she know where . . . ?”
“I do not know where the Melville house is,” she said. “And I cannot very well find out without all sorts of questions.”
“Have the carriage brought around,” Eliza interrupted, not caring if it was rude, and dashed up the stairs before Lady Hurley could reply.
There was nothing to worry over. Margaret had been with Caroline, and Caroline would not let anything happen to her. This was all a simple misunderstanding. Something they would laugh about in years to come, she was certain.
Eliza pushed open the door to Margaret’s bedchamber, hastened over to the writing desk, and began riffling through it. She discarded a note from Margaret’s mother and a theater program and—there! Caroline’s handwriting—and, at the top of the billet, their address. Berkeley Square! She dashed back down the stairs and past Lady Hurley, who was wringing her hands in the entrance hall.
“I shan’t be long!” she called over her shoulder and leapt into the carriage, calling, “Berkeley Square!” to the driver, willing him to go as fast as possible.
I ought not have left her there. This was not Bath, where every person was an acquaintance, every locale only a stone’s throw away from their home, and every event as safe as houses. It was London, and even though Margaret was going to be all right—certainly, she would be all right—still, Eliza ought never to have left her.
Eliza veritably hammered upon the Melvilles’ door to be greeted with the second baffled butler of the morning.
“I am afraid,” the butler said, “that my lady is taking breakfast—and not yet accepting visitors.”
But by now Eliza was quite au fait with forcing herself into homes. She could hear Caroline laughing somewhere close.
“She will accept me,” she declared, ducking under the butler’s arm and pushing the door open.
“My lady!” the butler yelped, scrambling after her. “My lady!”
Eliza had already walked inside, taking two hasty steps into the room and—
“Oh, thank goodness,” she breathed.
For there was Margaret, sitting next to Lady Caroline at the breakfast table, sipping at a cup and leafing through a broadsheet. Neither lady was yet fully dressed for the day; they were instead both wearing very modish dressing gowns—had Eliza not been so dreadfully relieved, she might have blushed.
“Good morning, Eliza,” Margaret said. “I did not know we were expecting you this morning.”
“We were not,” Caroline said. “How awfully modern, to barge in unannounced.”
Her voice was just as languorously amused as usual, but today the effect was quite different for the curve of her lips was far softer, her eyes were brighter—and Margaret, next to her, was smiling so hard it looked as if it hurt.
“An early French lesson?” Eliza said, falling into a chair without asking, and laying a trembling hand to her brow.
It was all right. She was all right.
“Of a sort,” Margaret said, cheerily.
“Did you not think a note might have been considerate?” Eliza demanded. “I was halfway to thinking you murdered!”
“Such dramatics so early in the day,” Caroline murmured into her chocolate.
“I wasn’t thinking,” Margaret said—in explanation rather than apology. “A strategy that has served me rather well.”