Cornelia could only nod her agreement. By any reckoning, she’d experienced her fair share of misfortune. Moreover, she couldn’t escape a sense of responsibility—if not for Oswald’s behaviour than for her failure to fulfil her father’s wish to see her happily wed.
Her father’s passing, two years after Mortmain, had only compounded her misery. It was all a monstrous mess.
And now, through her own imprudence, she’d jeopardized the pursuit of her one true interest. If she were no longer permitted to help at the museum, how mundane her days would become.
Shaking out her handkerchief, Cornelia gave her nose a good blow. Of course, there was no point in worrying about things before they’d happened. She really ought to pull herself together.
Assuming as cheerful a countenance as she could muster, Cornelia patted the sofa and called to Minnie, who immediately flew to her place by her mistress’s side, wriggling between the multitude of skirts. With her head tucked under the crook of Cornelia’s arm, the terrier looked up with baleful eyes.
“There, there, gorgeous thing.” Cornelia cupped her palm to one furry cheek. “You know I love you. Together, we’ll soldier on.”
“That’s the spirit.” Blanche beamed. “We must rise above mishap and tribulation; it’s all part of life’s rich tapestry.”
“Now, dearest, I want to show you the other item of interest from Madame Potins.” Eustacia rose to fetch the paper, folding it over and holding up the relevant page for her to see.
Cornelia swallowed hard. Looking back at her, in black and white, was a photograph of Mr. Ethan Burnell, taken on the steps of the British Museum. There was no mistaking that he was one and the same with the man Cornelia had accosted, exuding the same aura of restiveness—unruly and wild and unpredictable.
The caption read: ‘The Deliciously Dangerous Man Every Hostess is Inviting to Dine.’
Cornelia scanned the first few paragraphs. Really, Madame Potins was quite shameless. Though her experience as a married woman had been limited, even Cornelia could appreciate the innuendo. Moreover, Mr. Burnell’s physical attributes were listed in a most inappropriate manner. His achievements in the realm of archaeology and exploration were given but cursory mention, Madame Potins focusing most prominently on how long Mr. Burnell had been without the benefit of elegant female company.
“This is hardly news, Aunt. All the papers have been fêting Mr. Burnell. Some have even gone as far to include facts rather than making up twaddle like this.”
“Bish-bosh! Madame Potins is only saying what half of London is thinking. The man is divinely handsome, and his adventures into little explored realms only render him more fascinating. But, you’re missing the point, Cornelia.” Eustacia tapped the photo impatiently. “Surely, you recognize him?”
Cornelia bit her lip. There was something about him that contrived to appear familiar, but some people’s faces were simply like that, weren’t they—giving one the feeling that they’d always been known.
“Dorset, darling.” Blanche interjected. “Eustacia and I have been unravelling the threads. Over the years, we’ve kept up correspondence with Rosamund, and she mentioned her brother setting off to Mexico on some jaunt or other, but we didn’t put two and two together until earlier today.”
“Rosamund?” Cornelia didn’t think she knew anyone of that name. There had been a few girls she’d made friends with during her brief season but none had wanted to maintain a connection after the debacle with her mother.
“That first summer you spent with us at the cottage. Weather was glorious. We were on the beach every day. Rosamund’s mother was rather disapproving, because we let you run about with bare feet—but then her own boy insisted on doing the same. They were renting the villa on the clifftop. You and he were inseparable for a time. You must recall, dear.”
“You were only six. I warned Eustacia that you might not remember.” Blanche patted Cornelia’s knee. “A charming family, although the mother was a little overprotective.”
The realization stole Cornelia’s breath away. Growing up, she’d spent almost every summer with her aunts. Their garden had a gate leading straight to the beach and they’d always given her far more freedom than her parents would have conceived of. She’d played mostly on her own, but sometimes with other children and, from the furthest corner of her memory, she pulled out the image of the dark-haired boy, slightly older than herself. Had his name been Ethan? Perhaps…
“I’m surprised you didn’t say something yourself, Cornelia dear—what with Mr. Burnell’s exhibition being organized at the Museum. You seem to have been there more than at home lately. We wondered if you might have crossed paths.” Eustacia dipped her chin, peering at her niece over her spectacles.
Blanche gave an impatient sigh. “We hoped…that is to say, you’re your own woman of course, and there’s no necessity for you to ever be bound to a man again, but he is remarkably attractive.”
“And intrepid,” Eustacia added.
“And American.” Blanche clasped her hands, her eyes alight with excitement. “They aren’t half so stuffy over there, especially in the mid-West, so I’ve heard. He won’t know anything about…you know.”
“Even if he does learn of it, he likely won’t care.” Eustacia was positively beaming. “Americans are masters in the art of reinvention, and you’re still young enough to start again Cornelia—to begin anew with a man who adores you, to raise a family together, to share all life’s wonders hand in hand.”
For a moment, Cornelia said nothing. Then, slowly, a flame of anger flicked to life. Lifting Minnie off her lap and setting her onto the floor, she stood. Only when she’d reached the fireplace did she feel composed enough to arrange her features and turn to face her aunts.
Cornelia pushed aside the remembrance of Mr. Burnell straddling her upon the floor of the Palekmul gallery, and chose her words carefully. “So, you think I’ve been secretly meeting with…that man, and, on the basis of him knowing next to nothing about me, have been throwing myself at him, hoping he’ll form an irrevocable attachment before he realizes what a huge error of judgement he’s made?”
Eustacia assumed a hopeful expression. “One might call you childhood sweethearts?”
“Separated by an ocean but now reunited by the hand of Fate?” Blanche ventured.
Cornelia fought the urge to stamp her foot. She was a grown woman, perfectly able to think, and act. Since her father’s passing, she’d been financially independent, and she’d carved a meaningful life for herself, albeit within a limited frame.
With her history, few gentlemen of standing would contemplate linking their name with hers and, really, there was no need to pursue such an outcome. In fact, it was preferable to dismiss such thoughts entirely. She had no intention of repeating her error, marrying without proven affection, mutual respect or intellectual sympathy.
Mr. Burnell, whoever he was or might have been, was a stranger to her. Their lives had been altogether different. Beyond a brief history of sea paddling and building sandcastles, and an interest in antiquities, they had nothing in common.
Moreover, from all the papers inferred, he had the pick of London’s single women (and, in probability, the pick of quite a few of the married ones too). However intriguing the man might be, she wouldn’t stoop to joining the queue of females panting over him.