by Amy Lake
Lord Winthrop, flushed, had said little since they had left the garden bench. Elizabeth had thought to apologize, but he cut her short.
“’Tis of no account, my dear,” Geoff had said. “I am at your service.” He bowed to Elizabeth, and she curtseyed in return. Lizzie joined her friends, while Lord Winthrop went off in search of Marybeth Toliver. The petite, fair-haired Miss Toliver had promised him the Parson’s Farewell, a country dance of which he was particularly fond.
’Twould be a few minutes before the next set. Penny gave her a look, but the others seemed too engrossed in conversation to notice anything unusual—was she flushed, perhaps?—in her appearance.
“I see Geoffrey has found himself another blonde,” remarked Lady Helen, nodding to one side of the room. Elizabeth turned to see Geoffrey and Miss Toliver laughing together. The girl hardly came to his shoulder.
“He does seem to prefer them,” she remarked.
Penny gave her another look.
“What?”
“Nothing,” said Penelope.
Elizabeth saw her partner-to-be approaching, the handsome and well-dressed Archibald Markham, a newly-minted baron from Surrey. The young women of London society knew him as a pleasant conversationalist, an excellent dancer, and second only to Lord Hertford in the tightness of his breeches.
“Ooh,” said Susannah.
“Lizzie,” asked Helen, “is that yours?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Yes. A fine figure, is he not?”
Penny sputtered. “A figure? That, my dear, is an Adonis. Can I have him next?”
Lord Markham was skilled, pleasant, and undemanding; exactly the type of partner that Lizzie most enjoyed. They chatted easily as they danced down the set of the longways, between the other couples, who clapped and laughed as they waited their turn. He had an elegant posture and a light step, and Lizzie’s skirts spread out in a soft cloud of silk as she turned neatly on his arm.
The man in her dream had disappeared, and Geoffrey now occupied Elizabeth’s thoughts. Had he always been so passionate? Lizzie could not recall a similar occasion between the two of them, but she had heard stories about other couples.
Susannah Ware and Aiden Dunlop, for example. Susannah, pert and plump, had a wide-eyed, angelic face that deceived everyone, including the most eagle-eyed and suspicious of the older ladies. They had overlooked her extended forays with Lord Dunlop into the various terraces, gardens, and half-hidden nooks of the London ton, and Susannah had told her friends—
Oh, dear, thought Lizzie, remembering Susannah’s description of her rendezvous with Lord Dunlop only this past week, his frantic efforts and passionate entreaties. Helen Wexcomb had gone quite red in the face, and had called herself horrified, while hanging on every word. So Lizzie supposed that she could not fault Lord Winthrop. She was to blame herself. It was wrong of her to follow him out into the garden, and allow Geoff’s kisses and his embrace and pretend that—
Pretend?
Lord Markham caught her arm, returning her attention to the dance.
“A complete crush,” she commented to his lordship. “We must be twenty-five couples in the longways.”
“People do love a ball,” he replied. “And why not?”
“The Lincolnshire’s orchestra is known for its country dances.”
“Indeed.”
They passed Susannah and her current partner, who both smiled at Lizzie as she curtseyed in return.
Why doesn’t he simply offer for me? Elizabeth asked herself, knowing the answer. Geoffrey would not presume. Geoffrey would always wait, as long as Miss Asherwood made it clear to him that she was not ready.
She and Lord Markham finished a final turn and twirl, and took their places at the bottom of the line; Lord Winthrop and Miss Toliver followed several couples later. Marybeth clutched his arm, and Elizabeth noticed the girl’s heightened color as the two engaged in a laughing, animated conversation.
’Tis as if, thought Elizabeth, she is smitten with him.
Her Lord Winthrop.
The thought shocked her, both by its unexpectedness and the fact that she felt nothing.
What is wrong with me tonight? thought Elizabeth.
Indeed. She was back in lively society, which she had missed, despite the grief of her father’s death. She had acquaintances and good friends, and a suitor who was eager to marry her the moment she chose. She was content with her life and had no reason to suspect that she would ever feel otherwise.
Lizzie had little patience for well-born females who complained of minutiae. Enough, she told herself.
“My lady?” Lord Markham smiled down at her, his hand outstretched for the first steps of the cast up.
“Oh! I beg your pardon, I was woolgathering.”
Elizabeth renewed her efforts in attending to her partner, and to the longways, and finished out the dance in good humor. She smiled and curtseyed to Lord Markham, eager to join Penelope and learn of any additions to the evening’s news.
“Clarence Lafferty told Lord Smythe that the announcement for his engagement has already been sent to The Times.”
“Poor Miss Stephens.”
Penny and Elizabeth had both begged off the next dance, a short Mad Robin, and were taking the air on the duke’s terrace, still well within sight of anything worth gossiping about on the ballroom floor.
“Poor Miss Stephens? Poor Miss Campersdown, I should say.”
“Speaking of marriage,” said Penelope.
“Hmm?” Elizabeth knew what was coming.
“Our young Lord Winthrop looks ready to pop out of his breeches.”
“Penny!”
“He seems quite happy with you, despite some supposed preference for small blondes. How much longer will you put him off?”
“I’m not . . . I’m not putting him off.”
“What do you call it, then?” asked Penelope.
Elizabeth hesitated. “Prudence,” she said, finally.
Penelope burst out laughing. “Oh, yes, that describes you well!”
“The time doesn’t seem right, somehow. I know I’m going to marry him, but—” Lizzie broke off, and shrugged. “It just doesn’t seem right.”
“Pah. Aren’t you dying to see what all the fuss is about?” asked Penny.
Lizzie grinned at her. “The fuss?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, yes.”
“Lady Sanscreive says the pain is like red hot daggers thrust into one’s nethers,” said Penny, eyes fluttering and the back of one hand pressed dramatically against her forehead.
Elizabeth snorted. “Yes, but didn’t we hear Adelaide Caldwell talking the other day? She said it was like heaven, only somewhat shorter.”
More laughter. Strictly speaking, two girls of their age should not have been privy to the conversation of someone like Mrs. Caldwell, but in the back corridors and retiring rooms of large society homes, things were overheard.
“Penelope—”
“Hmm?” Penny’s attention had been drawn to something in the crowd of young men milling about the Lincolnshire’s punchbowl.
“What is it?” asked Elizabeth. “Is Sir Andrew in his cups again?” A ballroom punchbowl was so heavily laced with surreptitious additions of spirits by this hour that only the strongest heads took more than a sip, but Sir Andrew Triggs seemed to learn this only by slow, painful degrees.
“Not yet.
“Penny—”
Penelope turned to face Elizabeth. “Out with it. You’ve been dithering over something for the past hour.”
“Could you . . . I mean, suppose you were married to a man you didn’t love . . . do you think . . .”
Penelope stared at her. “Ah. Could I bed with him?”
Lizzie nodded.
“Well, I wouldn’t have a choice, would I?”
“But if you did.”
Her friend pursed her lips. “I suppose it depends.”
“On what?”
“I do not think th
at love would be a requirement,” answered Penny, after another moment’s thought. “But there must be respect.”
“On whose part? Yours, or his?”
“Both, certainement.”
Elizabeth considered this. Did she respect Lord Winthrop? Of course she did. He was well-spoken, an excellent son and brother, elegantly dressed, a decent whip, and . . .
Penny eyed her curiously. “Don’t tell me,” she said.
Elizabeth could feel her cheeks reddening. “What?” she said. “Don’t tell you what?”
“Are you saying—and in a roundabout way, which isn’t like you, Lizzie, I’m becoming worried—that you don’t love Lord Winthrop?”
“Well—” Lizzie bit her lip. “No.”
“Oh, for the—” Penny rolled her eyes. “‘No’ you don’t love him, or ‘no’ you’re not saying you don’t love him?”
“I’m confused.”
“If you don’t love him,” said Penelope, “don’t marry him.”
Not marry Geoffrey? The idea had never before crossed Elizabeth’s mind.
“I do love him. Truly. I’m just not sure—” She hesitated. “I’m not sure I feel that way about him.”
“Ah,” said Penelope. “The light dawns. What were you doing out in the duke’s garden, if not that?”
Lizzie could think of no response. “Do you suppose it’s necessary?” she asked Penny, who somehow knew exactly what she meant.
“Physical passion? For a happy marriage, you mean?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Yes,” said Penelope. “Don’t you?”
The music grew louder, and the two girls stood for several minutes without speaking as the Mad Robin wound to its end. The fashion this year was for softer fabrics in subdued shades, and so a ball had not quite the extremes of color that one had seen in the past, when an emerald taffeta might appear next to a bright yellow, or a deep ruby silk. Still, it was a beautiful sight, thought Elizabeth. The gentlemen wore knee-breeches and buckled shoes, with coats of superfine wool in deep tones. The ladies’ gowns stood out by contrast as the women curtseyed and glided past their partners. Seeing the flashes of cream and ivory, soft rose with silver trimmings, and cloth of gold, Lizzie was again satisfied with her own ensemble for the night. It had been over a year, but a good head for fashion had not deserted her.
She thought of Penelope’s question, and her answer, of marriage and lovemaking and passion. And wondered if she understood anything. She tried to imagine herself in bed with Geoffrey, but the image remained indistinct. Not at all like the memory of her dream.
Elizabeth gave up her musings. She would think about all that later, after the engagement.
“I heard Lord Glastonbury claim that two hundred people were guillotined just this past week in Paris,” she said, finally.
“So,” replied Penelope, dryly, “are we changing the subject? And what in heaven’s name does his lordship consider proper conversation at a ball?”
“He says that the Committee has passed a new law, that one is either acquitted or—or sentenced to death. Nothing else.”
Penelope sighed. “Yes. I know. It is terrible. Lady Bostryth told me that they fear for her second cousin, you remember Jacques Cheviot—”
“Jacques? That delightful young man?” Elizabeth’s friends had all been quite taken with Monsieur Cheviot, who visited London each Season. He adored all women, was free with compliments, and had proved a dab hand at piquet.
“Yes,” said Penny. “Lizzie, he is missing.”
“Good heavens.” Elizabeth turned to her friend. “I am truly sorry for Lady Bostryth’s family. I hope—” She broke off, knowing there was very little to hope in the circumstances.
“Are you concerned for Marguerite?”
“Do you know, I am a little.” Lizzie bit her lip. “The news from France seems to get worse every day. Lord Glastonbury said that the unrest has spread outside Paris.”
“Where does the comtesse live?”
“In Picardy. The chateau is outside Doullens.”
Penelope thought for a moment. “I will ask my cousin,” she said finally.
“Lord Carlow?”
“Yes. He’s proving quite the up-and-comer in the Foreign Office, you know. Perhaps he has more information about the provinces.”
Something in Lizzie eased, a tension so slight that she hadn’t known it was present. Surely a man would have better information than she and Penelope. And Penny’s cousin, highly placed in government—surely he would know better than even Lord Glastonbury.
Lord Carlow would be able to assist them, Elizabeth was certain of it. She nodded. “Thank you,” she told Penny.
“Of course. Now, what do you say to a quick spot of punch?”
* * *
Chapter 4
The Comtesse du Merveille
Elizabeth let herself into Aisling House—’twas an imposing, but comfortable home, in a fashionable corner of Mayfair—and quietly closed the door. She had always insisted that the household servants go to bed at their accustomed hour rather than remain awake to greet her after a ball; she was quite capable, she thought, of walking up a flight of stairs on her own. A candle guttered in a wall sconce and she lit another, adding a small, cheerful flame to the silent gloom of the front hallway. Marble gleamed in the flickering light; Lizzie kicked off her ball slippers with a sigh of relief and felt the cool stone underfoot. Aisling House buzzed with people and activity during the day, but she loved these peaceful, dark hours with no-one about, when she could open the windows of her bedroom and hear nothing of the London streets.
Miss Asherwood enjoyed society. But town could be overwhelming, especially in the months of the Season, with one ball or soiree after another until you could find no rest. The Asherwood properties included a small country estate of perhaps a hundred acres in Surrey; Elizabeth had visited Camberley often while her father was still alive, a lovely manor situated near Leith Hill, and occasionally contemplated living there again for part of the year.
Still, without Penny or her other friends, with no company for weeks on end—Miss Asherwood could not honestly think she would be content. And she did not think Pivens—her butler—or the housekeeper Mrs. Talliaferro would wish the isolation, either. They had lives in London as much as she had.
“Niau?”
Mr. Peppers, the cook’s tabbie, padded across the marble and did a cat stretch in front of Lizzie, tail twitching. He burrowed under her gown and rubbed against her ankles. Loud purring arose from among the folds of cambric.
“I have nothing for you,” said Lizzie, raising her skirts and nudging him away. “Paté of old fish head is not served at a ball.” She stripped off her gloves and tossed them onto the side table. As she sorted quickly through the letters which had arrived in the late post, she saw a heavy vellum envelope with a French marque postale.
The address was written in a familiar hand, and Elizabeth gave a small cry of pleasure. “Look!” she told Mr. Peppers. “here is news from Marguerite.”
The tabbie’s indifference was clear. Annoyed that she had offered him no tidbit, of fish or otherwise, Mr. Peppers stalked off toward the backstairs and the pantry. Elizabeth looked again through the other envelopes, more carefully this time, and extracted a few that would require her attention the next day. Letters in hand, she climbed the oak staircase to her bedroom on the second floor.
“Lizzie?” came a voice, soft and wavering.
Elizabeth stopped in surprise, peering down the carpeted hallway at the doorway to her cousin’s bedroom. Philippa Cavendish was an elderly maiden lady, a distant relation of Lizzie’s mother and always called ‘aunt’ in respect of her age. It was now three in the morning, and Miss Cavendish was rarely awake past nine. But there she was, standing in an ancient frilled dressing gown, a lighted taper in one hand.
“Are you home, my child?” she asked.
Lizzie smiled. “I am, Aunt Philippa.”
The woman nodded. “ ’Tis late.
”
“Indeed. Let me help you back to bed—”
“No, child, I’m quite fine.” The old woman’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “I hope that young man of yours has not been importunate.”
Elizabeth was astonished. She had no idea that Aunt Philippa even knew of Geoffrey’s existence. And as for importunate—
“Oh, no, aunt. Lord Winthrop is quite, ah . . . well-mannered.”
“Very well, then. Don’t forget there are many other gentlemen.”
Good heavens, thought Elizabeth. “Yes, of course,” she replied.
“Goodnight, my dear.”
“Goodnight, Aunt Philippa.”
The door shut softly. Lizzie stared at it for a moment, then continued on to her own bedroom. Miss Cavendish had come to live with them during the last months of her father’s life. She had slipped into the routine of the house without a murmur, asking for little and now, as Elizabeth’s erstwhile chaperone, requiring nothing.
Her aunt remained nearly the whole of the day in her rooms. In the beginning Lizzie had often paid her visits, thinking she must be lonely or bored, but it was soon clear that the old woman relished solitude. She read books, wrote long letters to an extensive list of friends, and fed Mr. Peppers bits of crumb cake, which he adored.
She had never before spoken a word to Miss Asherwood about the young woman’s personal interests or behavior.
With her own bedroom door shut behind her, Elizabeth lit a candle and, opening a window, she stood for several minutes in the chill air, gazing out into the hush of the London sky. Upper Grosvenor Street opened below her, the houses of white stone dimly seen in the fading moonlight. They were similar in form and construction to her own, each with a small garden in front, surrounded by a low fence. The street was dark, but Elizabeth made out a faint suggestion of candlelight in several windows, and wondered if their inhabitants, too, were spending a few quiet moments after returning from a ball.
Miss Asherwood was of lively character; London society had occupied many of her evenings from her seventeenth year on, and after the first few months of grief for Sir Terence’s death, the year of mourning had been more difficult without it. She enjoyed dancing. She enjoyed her life.
