“I have already had several offers from engravers,” Melville said quietly, returning to Eliza’s side as the group moved off, “who wish to be able to copy and distribute the image—and the publishers of my already printed titles will likely pay to reproduce, even if Paulet disapproves. It should constitute a solid source of capital.”
Eliza nodded.
“I will pawn my diamonds,” she whispered back. “Sell the phaeton, to hire some painting rooms . . .”
“We can sell the Berkeley Square house—find smaller lodgings,” Melville added. “Let Alderley again for the summer . . .”
The ton would discuss them, gossip, snicker at their misfortune—but that did not scare her, either. Eliza felt as giddy and as eager as if they were discussing their honeymoon, not their forthcoming frugality.
“We will manage,” she said with a fervent nod.
“We will manage beautifully,” Melville corrected.
Economy and prudence had never been so romantic. And now, there was only for Eliza and Margaret to pack up Camden Place. In contrast to the easy manner in which they had left Harefield, this seemed a task that took a great deal more time and consideration, for in the three months they had lived in Bath, all members of the house seemed to have accumulated a vast number of possessions. In the end, they had to hire two whole post chaises in order to transport everything, for Eliza was to care for Margaret’s possessions while she was abroad—and it took the better part of a whole day for the footmen to load the trunks.
It was as she was directing the removal of the easel that Perkins told her, quietly, that they had a visitor—one he had taken the liberty of showing into the drawing room. Eliza had walked downstairs and pushed open the door to find Miss Winkworth standing within—a vision in pale cambric, trailing her fingers thoughtfully over the keys of the pianoforte.
“Miss Winkworth,” Eliza said, a great deal surprised. “I had thought you still in London!”
Miss Winkworth looked up.
“I asked Mama if we could break our journey in Bath,” she said. “Tomorrow, we are bound for Harefield, for the . . .”
“Wedding,” Eliza finished for her. The announcement had been made in the papers last week. “Yes. I am sorry to not be able to attend.”
Miss Winkworth smiled, gently, as if she knew this to be a lie.
“I know that you refused to help my mother,” she whispered. “I heard what you said to her, about Arden.”
She sent Eliza a dimpling smile.
“She was angrier than I have ever seen her,” she confessed, and the prospect did not seem to frighten her as it once had.
“I wish I could have done more,” Eliza said truthfully. She looked at Miss Winkworth. It would have been indelicate to enquire after her attachment to Somerset even if she herself had not already been romantically attached to the gentleman, but . . .
“I hope,” Eliza said, “that you have been able to form a genuine attachment, during your time in London?”
Miss Winkworth’s rosy blush told her she understood Eliza’s meaning.
“I have,” she said simply.
Eliza nodded. They were well-matched, she saw suddenly, Miss Winkworth and Somerset, Winnie and Oliver. He needed someone to protect, and she needed protection. He derived value from caring, and she from being cared for. They would be happy.
“I have told Somerset he is not to contest your fortune,” Miss Winkworth said softly.
“You did what?” Eliza said, unsure if she had heard correctly. “You told Somerset?”
“I do not like to disagree with him, ever. But you have been so kind to me, and I felt too guilty to stay silent,” Miss Winkworth said, pulling a little face as if she could still not believe her effrontery.
“Guilty?” Eliza repeated. “Why ought you . . .”
“Because it was I who told him, about you dancing with Melville,” she said, head dipping down. “I saw you, that night, and I did not say anything, for weeks . . . But after your falling out, when he and I began to court . . .”
She trailed off, her face growing ever pinker.
“I wanted him, you see,” she said. “I needed him to fall out of love with you, a little.”
Eliza stared at her, a little aghast. She did not know what to say. She would never have expected any of this from such a mouse.
“You certainly achieved that,” she said, mouth dry and mind reeling. It was not that this would change anything—not that she would wish anything, in the end, had unraveled differently, but . . .
“Somerset has agreed to leave your fortune as is,” Miss Winkworth said. “I had to make myself look very sad for a while—and my mother is not happy—but he agreed.”
“You are far slyer than I thought you,” Eliza said slowly, and Miss Winkworth gave an adorable, impish smile. “Thank you, I think—yes, thank you.”
For whatever Miss Winkworth’s motives, this was a gift indeed. She would be able to retain her staff, Melville could publish Medea, they could keep Berkeley Square, she would not have to sell her possessions and—and . . .
As Eliza began to think of all the many, many ways her life was to be so much less troubled than she had prepared for, her breath caught on a gasp. She would have been all right, without the fortune. She would have been. But to be offered such an unexpected reprieve . . .
“Thank you,” she said again.
“You know,” Miss Winkworth said, “the wording in the will seems to me rather specific in any event. I wonder, if you no longer belonged to the Somerset family, the clause might become . . . a little void?”
Eliza felt certain, for a moment, that she could see the shades of the woman Winifred Winkworth would become in her face. She would do well, as the new Countess of Somerset. Fare better than Eliza had done. Find strength that it had taken Eliza until now to cultivate.
“Is there anything else I might do for you?” Miss Winkworth asked.
“I could not ask for anything more,” Eliza said, half laughing. “I—” She paused. “Actually—the landscape in the first-floor parlor of Harefield . . . It was painted by my grandfather and I would like to buy it. You may name your price.”
She could certainly afford it, now—again. Miss Winkworth nodded, dimpling.
“Good day, Lady Somerset.”
She bobbed her a little curtsey and floated away.
* * *
• • •
Less of a lamb, and more of a lion,” Margaret said, when Eliza told her, Caroline and Melville later that day but Eliza’s eyes were on Melville. He smiled.