Cornelia dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. She’d been tempted to tell all over dinner, but the incident with Mr. Burnell was just too humiliating. Besides which, she knew her aunts would simply latch onto the ‘exciting’ parts of the story, and ask her a hundred questions about the American, rather than understanding how worried she was.
Cornelia attempted a smile. “I’m fine, and I do enjoy being at the museum. I’m just thinking of Lord and Lady Sturgeon… It’s wonderful, really, to see them making such efforts to win one another over. And, it’s the time of year, perhaps. Too many memories, making me over-emotional.”
Blanche immediately looked contrite. “Oh, Cornelia! Simply thoughtless of me! It’s the anniversary tomorrow isn’t it. Do sit down and I’ll bring you a brandy.”
While Blanche poured her the restorative, Eustacia bustled to retrieve her imported box of Turkish Delight, pressing Cornelia to take a piece.
With her aunts seated on either side, Cornelia reminded herself of how very fortunate she was. In her time of need, they’d travelled up from their beloved cottage in Dorset to offer comfort and support, and stayed in London far longer than she could have hoped for.
Cornelia knew Eustacia missed tending her roses and, though Blanche had kept up her watercolours, there was no seascape to inspire her from the Portman Square residence.
The anniversary they spoke of had nothing to do with her father’s passing. Rather, they were referring to the death of the man who had, briefly, been her husband. The man who’d taught Cornelia the folly of trusting one’s heart to a stranger, and who’d shuffled off the mortal coil under the most humiliating of circumstances, five years ago.
Oswald Mortmain—who had not loved her, nor even pretended to; who had cared nothing for her happiness, merely giving her the respectability of his name—such as it was. As the nephew of an impoverished viscount, he had little else to recommend him.
It had taken barely a month for Cornelia to realize that her marriage was a sham. How thrilled she’d been to receive the invitation to the festive gathering at the Mortmain family seat, in Hampshire. She still remembered that fateful night, when she’d woken to an empty bed and the commotion of guests and servants, milling about the passageway outside her room.
He was not the first husband to take his lusts to some other woman’s chamber, nor the first to suffer an attack of the heart, swift and sudden, mid-coitus, but few gentlemen managed such a spectacular end atop the lady of the house.
The matter had been impossible to conceal and, to Cornelia’s shame, the family had spoken as if it were her fault that her husband had indulged in night-wanderings—and with the wife of his uncle, no less.
It had hardly helped that the incident followed so closely on the heels of the other ‘Great Scandal’, the fact of which had obliged her father to arrange the hasty marriage to Mortmain in the first place.
Oswald had taken her not for love, nor for the running of his household. Not even for the bearing of children, as far as Cornelia could gather. His only interest had been in her dowry, the generosity of which had been in counterpoint to the enormity of her mother’s scandalous behaviour.
“It is all rather unfortunate, my darling.” Eustacia rubbed Cornelia’s back. “To have one’s reputation smeared while having done nothing remotely scandalous oneself.”
“Horribly unfair,” agreed Blanche. “As if you can help what happened with your mother, or that dreadful husband of yours.”
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 then 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.
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 called to Minnie, who immediately flew to her place by her mistress’s side, wriggling between the multitude of skirts.
“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. Instead, Madame Potins lamented 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 included 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. She’d made friends with a few girls 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.”
Growing up, Cornelia had spent almost every summer with her aunts, whose garden had a gate leading straight to the beach. 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?
“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…tha
t is to say, there’s no necessity for you ever to be bound to a man again...but he is remarkably attractive.”
“And intrepid,” Eustacia added.
“And American.” Blanche clasped her hands, her eyes alight. “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, merely lifting Minnie off her lap and setting her onto the floor. Only when she’d reached the fireplace did Cornelia feel composed enough to face her aunts.
She 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 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.
She’d suffered enough humiliation to last a lifetime. To court more would be beyond foolish; it would be absurd.
“There’s no need to be sensitive about it, dearest. We’re only thinking of your happiness.” Eustacia looked rather hurt.
“In any case, you won’t need to worry about seeming over-eager. We have everything in hand.” Blanche smoothed out her skirts and gave Cornelia a conciliatory smile. “We sent a runner to the museum this afternoon, with our letter to Mr. Burnell. Making ourselves known as old friends, we’ve requested three tickets to his opening lecture, and we’ve barely mentioned you at all.”
Eustacia picked at a bit of imaginary fluff on the sofa. “Just the merest mention—in case he might remember Dorset a bit more than yourself Cornelia.”
“We barely said anything at all about you being available for courtship,” Blanche added. “Or about how marvellously clever you are.”
“And we’ve absolutely not mentioned that you have a bit of a temper.” Lifting the teapot lid, Eustacia peered inside to see if there might be sufficient for another cup. “Although such a thing isn’t necessarily off-putting. A man like Mr. Burnell might view it as a sign of hidden passions.”
Heaven help me!
Would she really have to face Mr. Burnell again?
Thanks to her aunts, he’d think she was just like his other fawning admirers.
Was there no end to the humiliation?
Chapter 3
British Museum, London
Afternoon, December 13
Every eye in the room was focused upon him.
The man gripping the podium scanned the rapt audience as he reached the conclusion of his impassioned lecture. “No one can doubt that those who lived in Palekmul, thousands of years ago, were more advanced, intellectually and technologically, than we have yet conceived.”
Eustacia was whispering to Blanche. “Dear little Ethan, grown into such a strapping man. Who would have thought! And he speaks with such authority!”
“The extraordinary layout of Palekmul defies any notion that it expanded in random fashion. Not only are its structures linked in an orderly manner, but the city’s main temples appear to have been placed most purposefully, in direct relation to solar alignments. So much more remains to be uncovered, buried deep within the jungle. On my return, I intend to map a full mile radius of the main temple and I believe the findings will be unprecedented, changing everything we think we know."
Seeing Mr. Burnell set his notes aside, the crowded room erupted in applause.
He bowed his head in recognition.
Cornelia had to concede her enjoyment of the lecture. She’d attended several in the past, and the men who gave them were invariably pompous and long-winded. Mr. Burnell delivered his address with conviction, but without conceit.
She’d hoped he’d toss aside her aunts’ letter—surely one among hundreds requesting an ‘audience’ with the great explorer—but the tickets to this, the last of his lectures on the subject of Palekmul, had arrived the previous morning. Though Cornelia had taken pains to keep to the basement since the awful blunder, it had been impossible to deny her aunts the pleasure of attending all together.
In her desire to escape notice, she’d chosen a plain skirt and jacket in dull navy serge and dipped the brim of her hat low. He’d seen her under quite different circumstances, after all, and might not associate her with the woman who’d threatened to shoot him a few nights ago. She had but to keep out of sight behind the other visitors. Her aunts had no real interest in the contents of the gallery and might easily persuaded to leave after a swift turn about the room.
All would be well, if she only kept her head.
An expensively attired matron to Cornelia’s right sighed audibly. “So masterful! We must get him to one of your soirées, Mathilda, and soon. A man in his prime, and so very handsome; such a waste for him to return across the ocean without sharing the full extent of his knowledge. One senses he will be satisfying in all respects.”
The other tittered.
Cornelia gave an inward huff. Mr. Burnell was beguilingly attractive, in a wild sort of way, and the fit of his clothing accentuated his well-proportioned physique, but there was no excuse for coarseness. Had they no shame?
With the formalities over, the audience moved to admire the exhibits ranged around the perimeter of the room. The effect was well-conceived, for Mr. Burnell’s painted plaster constructions were compellingly authentic. With the afternoon light fast fading and the electric bulbs adding their pale glow, one almost felt one might be entering the sacred halls of a temple of Palekmul.
“Oh, this one’s stained inside.” Blanche peered into a wide-brimmed chalice. “Might it be blood? They were rather bloodthirsty, I’ve heard. All those human sacrifices; dreadfully gruesome!”
Cornelia adjusted her spectacles. “A ceremonial vessel for drinking chocolate, I’d say. Montezuma is said to have indulged in more than fifty cups daily. Health benefits, you know, and a sign of prestige. The temples are filled with carvings and stucco paintings which indicate its ceremonial use—at weddings, for instance, and as an offering to the gods. Cups filled with the drink were placed with the dead, too, providing nourishment for their journey to the afterlife.”
“Are you sure that’s all, dear?” Blanche looked distinctly disappointed. “Might they have made the virgins drink it, perhaps, before they sacrificed them?”
A muffled cough came from behind and a low, husky drawling voice spoke over Cornelia’s shoulder. “The lady is correct. In fact, t
he beans often formed part of a woman’s dowry. The bride would have to make the chocolate drink with exactly the right amount of froth, to prove her worthiness to marry. This particular vessel was among the first I unearthed from inside one of the temple’s inner chambers. The stain inside is cacao residue.”
Blanche spun about, clasping her hands before her. “Oh, Mr. Burnell. What a pleasure it is to meet you again after all this time. This is all so fascinating. We were hanging on every word, weren’t we Eustacia.”
“Oh yes!” Eustacia placed her hand on Mr. Burnell’s arm. “A wonderful surprise. Cornelia often tells us about her work here but I always find it deadly dull.”
Cornelia fought the urge the scream. Much as she loved her aunts, they were incorrigible. If she didn’t steer them away, they’d start asking the most awkward questions—about Palekmul consummation rituals on the wedding night, or some other highly inappropriate nonsense.
However, Blanche was already extending her hand. “I hope you won’t think us too forward, Mr. Burnell, in writing to you. It was some twenty years ago and we weren’t at all sure you’d remember us, although we have kept in touch with your dear sister.”
“Charmed, Miss Everly.” He touched his lips to her aunt’s glove. “Indeed, I do recall you both. My mother and Rosamund appreciated your kindness and companionship that summer.”
“Oh my!” Blanche wasn’t usually one to giggle but appeared unable to control herself. “It was our pleasure of course, to extend the hand of friendship.
“We were so sad to hear of your mother's unexpected passing later that summer," added Eustacia. "Most difficult for you both, and a terrible shock for your father."
The Lady's Guide to Scandal Page 3
