Caroline brushed her fingers softly over Margaret’s wrist. Eliza sat up. She had intruded enough.
“I will let Lady Hurley know she may rest easy,” she said. “That the hour was too late to wake the household—or—or something.”
“Oh, send a note and stay to breakfast,” Margaret entreated her. “There is far too much for just us to eat.”
It was tempting, for Eliza had been awake for hours now, and the repast was a handsome one—soft bread rolls and several fragrant meat dishes Eliza did not recognize—but now the panic had faded, her heart had quietened, and her hands were no longer quite as clammy, she was cognizant that Melville might appear at any moment. When she was worried for Margaret’s safety, such an encounter of course did not weigh with her, but now Margaret was demonstrably more well than Eliza had ever seen her, Eliza would rather avoid it. The day had been full enough already.
“He is not here,” Caroline said, reading the direction of Eliza’s thoughts exactly.
“Oh?” Eliza said, much relieved. Much relieved and yet also, somehow, the tiniest bit disappointed—which was exactly why she needed to leave now, because even to be here was to feel confused.
“He left for Russell Square only a few moments before you arrived,” Caroline said.
“To speak to you,” Margaret added, as if this was not clear enough.
Eliza’s breath tried to catch—she would not let it.
“We have already spoken at length, last night,” she said stoutly. “There is nothing further to discuss.”
“If you say so,” Margaret said dubiously. “I shall see you at Russell Square anon.”
Eliza slipped past the butler a little sheepishly—he was standing guard at the bottom of stairs as if concerned she might chance a robbery—and out onto the street. Lady Hurley’s driver had disembarked from the carriage to confer with one of the footmen across the street, and, catching sight of Eliza, he hastened back toward her, just as a curricle came clattering around the corner, drawn by a pair of prancing greys, and driven by Melville.
“Let us leave now, quickly,” Eliza called to the driver, holding out an arm expectantly to him—the steps to the carriage were too high for her to reach alone.
Melville pulled to an abrupt stop ahead of her and leapt down. He was wearing no hat, and in his hand was clasped a sealed billet.
“My lady,” he said breathlessly. “I have just come from Russell Square.”
“Congratulations,” Eliza said. “I am just going there.”
“May I escort you?”
“I already have a carriage.”
Melville took a hurried step forward. He looked drawn, tired and—though his caped driving coat, Hessian boots and buckskins were all very fine—a little disheveled, for his neckcloth was loosened as if he had been tugging upon it. This, however, inspired irritation rather than sympathy in Eliza; when she had not slept well, she appeared drawn and jaundiced, and it was unjust that Melville in fatigue should remain so appealing
“Eliza—” he said quietly.
“Lady Somerset,” she corrected.
“Lady Somerset,” he agreed. “I only wish to apologize.”
“Your apology did not go well yesterday,” Eliza pointed out.
Melville winced.
“I behaved abominably,” Melville said. “I only wish to speak with you—with no expectation of forgiveness—and I come with hat in hand.”
Eliza’s eyes flicked up to Melville’s bare head.
“Metaphorical hat,” he added, with the tiniest of smiles—and Eliza scowled. She would not be appeased by humorous chatter and a becoming appearance. She was not so easily manipulated, anymore.
“I would have refused to see you, had I been home,” she said.
“I expected as much,” Melville replied. “It is why I wrote a letter, too.”
He held out the billet. Eliza did not take it. She knew well what a beautiful writer he was; no good could come of reading such a letter. Melville let his hand drop.
“Lady Somerset—please, could I just escort you back to Russell Square?”
Eliza sighed, fiddling with the buttons on her pelisse. She was so tired, but . . . After all the bravery of this morning, was this to be the moment she quailed? Eliza nodded without looking up. She spared a moment to inform Lady Hurley’s driver of her intention, bidding him tell his mistress that all was well, before accepting a hand up into the curricle without further words.
“Would you like to drive, or shall I?” Melville asked, very politely.
“They are your horses,” Eliza said.
“So they are,” Melville agreed.
He set them off at a brisk pace. Melville inhaled sharply as if he were about to begin speaking, paused—subsided for a moment—and then began again.
“I owe you . . . many apologies,” he said. “Last night, I was so afraid you might run off at any moment, that I became overcome with a sense of haste. Of course, of course, you may demand of me any question you wish.”
Eliza eyed Melville narrowly. His words were too fluent.
“I have breached your trust. I must earn it back,” he added when she still did not speak.
“Who has knocked such sense into you?” Eliza asked.
“Ah—Caro,” Melville said. “Then Margaret. Then Caro again.”
Eliza snorted.
“And are you merely repeating lines they have fed you?”
“No, no!” Melville said. “It is how I feel: I want you to ask me whatever you need.”
Eliza pressed her hands to her face. It was far more difficult to remain angry with a calm, humbled Melville, and if Eliza could not hold onto her anger, then she would instead have to be dreadfully afraid. She could not bear to feel any of her hurt renewed. It was already painful enough.
“It does not have to be now,” Melville said, as they drew onto Russell Square and he slowed his horses.
“Oh, but it might as well be,” Eliza said, face still half-hidden. It was pointless—truly pointless—for to repair even a friendship on so rotten a set of foundations was inconceivable, but Melville would plainly not cease until they had lain the whole to rest. It would at least, surely, spare them from having to revisit the conversation yet another time.
“Perhaps not quite the spirit I was after,” Melville murmured, unable to prevent himself from funning even now, but he turned the horses obediently and headed instead for Hyde Park.