A sharp bolt of disappointment briefly closed her throat. “But . . . why not?” Oh, good lord, she sounded the veriest schoolgirl. “That is, I’ve planned a very fine menu, and I was . . . I was very much looking forward to it.”
“As was I,” he said somberly. “In fact, I was . . .” He cleared his throat and glanced away. “Well,” he said. “You understand.”
No, she did not understand in the least. His manner seemed so changed. She followed his gaze and found it directed toward Jane, who in her white dress looked radiant with youthful good health. The expanse of her bared bosom had raised several sticklers’ brows over the course of the last hours . . . and provoked more than one man’s red-faced interest.
Jane gave them a sunny smile, then lifted her brows in a question. What keeps you over there?
“She is very lovely,” Liza heard herself say.
“What? Oh, yes.” Mr. Grey sounded distracted. “A guest of yours, I take it?”
“Indeed.” Suddenly Liza felt ancient, and acutely aware of her own modest attire—a plain gray silk dress, with a neckline that might have done proud a matron of sixty. But, heavens’ sakes, it was a charity bazaar. She always made a point of dressing modestly for such occasions, the better to ensure the townspeople’s comfort with her. “I expect some pressing engagement has presented itself?”
If those last words had a waspish edge, she would not regret it. A pressing engagement at ten o’clock in the evening, in bucolic little Bosbrea?
“I fear so.” He frowned a little as he met her eye, then shifted his weight like a guilty schoolboy. “Of course, I do wish . . .”
Her lips twisted to keep back the words that sprang to them. You wish you had chosen a different lady to kiss. A younger one, perhaps.
Her mother’s voice rang through her head. Beauty fades, Liza. What will you have then?
She stepped back from him. Good God. Had that time already come? If so . . .
No. She had looked in the mirror today. She knew very well that he had no cause for complaint. As she exhaled, her uncertainty turned into a temper. Who was he? A country doctor. Nobody. “Very well,” she said. “I wish you a good evening, Mr. Grey. I believe a few doilies yet remain, if you would like to support our little parish.”
Turning on her heel, she stalked past Jane to the footman. The bottle of champagne was still half full. Until she got home, it would do.
• • •
“It’s very poor form on Mr. Grey’s part.”
“I don’t wish to speak about it.” Liza sat on the terrace, Jane lounging to her right, Mather awkwardly perched to her left. Overhead, the moon cut a bright path through the bruised clouds in the night sky. The breeze seemed to whisper secrets through the leaves of the trees.
“Very well,” said Jane after a moment. “But I think it quite ungrateful. To be invited to dinner was a great honor to him!”
Mather’s voice was as prim as a schoolteacher’s. “Perhaps someone has taken ill. We mustn’t judge without the proper information.”
Jane snorted. “I believe I shall judge as I please! And I’m certain Liza agrees with me.”
Liza had no such intention. Mather and Jane had taken a very entertaining dislike to each other, and she would not dream of discouraging it: heaven knew the rustic life offered few other diversions.
She reached for her glass, taking a long swallow of brandy. The burn felt like summer in her throat, a burning summer in a savage climate. “I should have traveled this season,” she said. “The moment the last ball was held . . .” No—long before that. A year ago. The very moment Mama had died. “I should have boarded a ship to the farthest place in the world.” A time-tested way to save money, too. Everywhere was cheaper than England.
“But that would have been impossible.” Mather reached for the lamp on the little table. As she turned it up, her spectacles reflected the light, two dancing flames in place of her eyes. “Don’t you recall? There were so many arrangements to be made—”
“Would that be China?” asked Jane idly as she lifted her hand to examine by lamplight the state of her pearlescent nails. “China seems very far away.”
“I don’t know.” Liza mulled it for a moment. China did not quite catch her fancy; it seemed too straitlaced. “I’ve read that they are devoted to order in China,” she said. “They have a mathematical system that guides even the placement of their beds.”
Jane giggled. “How peculiar. Must one consult a mathematician before one turns over to snore?”
Liza mustered a smile, because Jane was attempting to amuse her. That was the proper task for a guest, and such efforts must be rewarded, even if they failed. Besides, it was not precisely Jane’s fault that her mood was so black.
The breeze strengthened, fluttering their shawls. “Ma’am,” said Mather, batting her own away from her chin, “I do wish you would come inside with me. This air cannot be healthy—”
“What an old woman your secretary is,” Jane said.
“Not so much older than you,” Mather muttered.
“Tell me, Liza, have you ever known her to frolic on a moonlit night? Or is it always too cold for her?”
Liza, sliding a glance toward Mather, repressed a sigh. At work, the girl excelled, but it was true that she lacked a talent for whimsy. Liza did not blame her for it, precisely—for she suspected, from Mather’s rare hints, that the girl’s history did not lend itself to a merry temperament. Nevertheless, she was paid very handsomely now. Surely she could spend a bit of her salary on grooming?
But perhaps the prospect overwhelmed her, for there was so much in need of redress. The lamplight highlighted stray wisps of red hair that frizzed around Mather’s square, pale face. Her glasses were atrocious. And her costume—an ill-fitting jacket, given structure by a belt that bore an overlarge buckle in the shape of a parrot—might have featured in a pantomime about suffragettes. Her jaw, meanwhile, telegraphed stubbornness: she had no intention of answering Jane’s challenge.
“Well?” Liza asked. “Do you frolic, Mather?”
Her secretary frowned at her. Liza took an idle sip of brandy and waited.
“I suppose I did frolic as a child.” The tartness in Mather’s voice seemed promising. “But after sixteen hours of labor to promote a charity bazaar—no, I cannot say I have done!”
Ah. Liza shook her head. Such a disappointing retreat into moral superiority.
“Well!” Jane sat up, tossing her Indian shawl over her shoulder with practiced drama. “If the implication is that I was not of use today, I will most strongly object. I caught that child who was stealing doilies, didn’t I? I believe that counts for something!”
Good heavens, it seemed sanctimoniousness was contagious. “Dear ladies,” Liza said. Perhaps it was too much to expect them to keep her entertained. Jane had been here only a few weeks now, but it felt like ages. How on earth were they to rub along together for the rest of the summer? So soon after Mr. Grey’s loss of interest, the prospect of remaining cloistered here troubled her. Beauty fades. She could not afford to waste any time.
She bolted the remainder of her brandy and reached for the bell to ring for more.
That’s enough, Elizabeth.
Her mother had never been so annoying while alive. She toyed with the handle of the bell. “Perhaps I should invite friends to visit.”
“A very fine idea,” said Mather.
“Yes, isn’t it?” She would put together a list, among them several eligible bachelors. Of course, she would need to lure them, for Cornwall lay in the opposite direction of most summer itineraries, which invariably concluded in the north for the August hunts.
Bah! She did not want to think of the north right now. She rang the bell.
“Who will you invite?” asked Jane. “Will I know them?”
“No, darling.” But it would advance her prospects considerably to befriend them—befriend being the operative verb. Liza made a mental note to include several men not known to prefer b
londes. Jane would have her chance, but being so young, she could afford to pursue it more leisurely. “We’ll have a house party—a proper one, with a theme. A week at the least, to make it worth their while.”
“A . . . week?” asked Mather. “That length of time would require a great deal of preparation—”
“Perhaps a fortnight,” Liza said. A footman appeared. “More brandy,” she said.
“Goodness!” Even Jane sounded doubtful. “Do you think anyone would want to stay so long?”
“Of course they would.” Liza let a measured amount of asperity show in her voice as she looked between the two women. “I am the hostess, am I not? Besides, I shall guarantee their interest is held.”
Mather took a deep breath, then nodded, shoulders squaring. “With six or seven weeks’ notice—”
“No. A month at the most.” August always left her terribly freckled. Best to do it before then.
“What theme shall you choose?” asked Jane.
The inspiration was so simple, yet so brilliant, that for a moment Liza was sure it had been sent from above. “I was reading a book on mysticism recently—something the Viscountess Sanburne recommended in her last letter. I believe we’ll have a spiritual theme. All manner of experts. Demonstrations, experiments, lectures—and at the end of the party, we shall gather together and decide which practice is most credible!”
Jane wrinkled her nose. “A bunch of preachers! Have you gone mad?”
Liza burst into laughter. “Dear Jane, how put out you look! No, darling, I don’t mean men of God, I mean mystics—clairvoyants and mediums and such.”
“Such arrangements may take more than a month,” muttered Mather.
“Oh, but how clever of you!” Jane bounced in her seat. “And Mr. Nelson will be mad with jealousy, simply green to be excluded!”
It took Liza a moment to follow Jane’s meaning. Nello was the last thing on her mind at present. How curious. She tested herself, the way one might tongue a sore tooth. The ache was still there, but much diminished.
She supposed boorish northerners were good for something, after all.
“Mr. Nelson’s feelings do not concern me,” she said. Much as her worries had not concerned him, save to provoke him to drop her like a brick. “Mather, we must start on this at once.” Telegrams must be sent; rooms must be aired; the staff must go up to London to make use of the telephones.
“Yes, ma’am.” Mather bent down and produced, from the voluminous folds of her execrable skirt, a small notebook and pencil. “I suppose you’ll want to hire a table rapper as well . . . and perhaps a Gypsy to read the cards—”
“A spirit writer,” Jane suggested. “Oh, I saw a very chilling demonstration of that gift while wintering at Bath two years ago! I promise you, Liza, the man could not have known the things he wrote!”
“In short,” Mather said repressively, “the usual variety of shills and rogues.”
“Spiritualists,” Liza corrected. “The rogues, my dears, will be strictly confined to the guest list.”
CHAPTER SIX
The letter arrived in the midst of crisis. Liza was standing in the ballroom, overseeing the hanging of the velvet drapes she’d ordered from London. Twice now she’d rejected the shipment; lengthy notes and telegrams had flown to and fro; and now the footmen uncrated the boxes to reveal—burgundy. Burgundy velvet.
Jane gasped. “The horror!”
“It looks red to me,” Mather observed.
“Red! You call that red!”
“I call that idiocy,” Liza said coolly. “Must we hold a public lecture on the precise definition of the various colors?”
“I think we should hold a wake for Madame Huse!” Jane stamped a foot. “Scarlet, you said—scarlet or crimson, like the fresh spill of blood! Not bordello red! It looks . . .”
“Lurid,” Liza finished. The red had too distinct an undertone of purple. But there was no time now to demand another exchange, so the lighting would have to be adjusted. “French lamps and candelabra, then. I will not be using Madam in the future.” She had only used Madam because her usual draper was sending the most aggressive demands for payment.
“Oh . . .” Jane frowned, looking around the room. “French lamps might work, but in a space this size . . .”
Liza took her meaning. This room was large enough to hold two hundred people without a single foot being stepped on. If she required the footmen to trim the lamps as often as it would take to prevent a single one from guttering, they would never have a spare moment to breathe, much less to fetch new rounds of champagne. Also, wasn’t it time she began to economize?
“Gas jets, then,” she said with a sigh. “But I’m afraid it won’t be nearly as atmospheric.”
That decided, she opened the letter Ronson had brought her.
Had she foreseen its contents, she would have read it in private.
The blood drained from her head in one dizzying moment. She groped blindly for Mather’s arm, unable to wrest her eyes from the page.
“What is it?” Jane seized her other elbow. Liza could not say how grateful she was for the doubled support, which seemed suddenly to be the only thing holding her upright.
“Mr. Nelson has announced his engagement.” She cleared her throat. He must have proposed the moment he’d returned to town. Or . . . perhaps he’d already proposed before his visit here, in which case . . . he’d been planning to jilt her all along. Her financial troubles had nothing to do with it. He simply hadn’t wanted her.
“Oh!” Jane drew her into a hug, but suddenly the scent of rose water and lavender seemed smothering, unbearable.
Heedless of the rudeness of it, Liza pushed her friend away. “I can’t—forgive me, I must be alone for a bit.” Crushing the letter against her chest, she dashed through the ballroom, past a pair of footmen unwinding yet another bolt of the horrid burgundy cloth, out through the gallery and the open double doors into the gray afternoon.
The slight humidity of the fresh, mild air acted like a slap to bring her to her senses. She slowed from her mad dash, her steps uncertain on the crunching gravel of the long drive. A deep breath brought the taste and scent of the sea, the sharp salt and the sour brine of aquatic creatures. For all the cloud cover, the day was bright, a cool glowing sort of brightness that might have been the cause for the tears abruptly pricking her eyes.
She dragged in a breath through her clogged throat, unfolded the note, and read the lines again:
I must share the news of Mr. Nelson’s engagement to Miss Lister. Will you not take it terribly amiss if I admit I am relieved? He never recognized your worth, Lizzie, nor deserved a moment of your attention. To wish Miss Lister joy would be like wishing for the moon to wear on a chain, for I know it can never be. The poor girl! I am so thankful that you never were trapped by marriage to him.
Miss Lister. Liza held that name in her mind the same way she might test her thumb against a thorn. It does not matter. She did not want Nello! Nobody should want such a deceitful, cowardly bully! Forever quarrelsome, always unsatisfied . . .
She turned and took one step toward the house, the wild idea in her mind to write the girl, to warn her: He will never love you. If he could not love me after all the forbearance with which I greeted his bad behavior, all the many times I forgave him for his rude treatment of me, all the tolerance I showed upon learning of his betrayals, then he will never, ever love you.
But what a cruel message! Worse yet—what if it were not true? What if Nello had fallen in love with this girl? What if he could be an honorable, honest, loving man—to someone else?
What if you simply can’t be loved?
She crumpled the note again and walked blindly down the drive, the crushed oysters and gravel underfoot jabbing through the thin soles of her house slippers. The pain suited her. She stomped harder to feel it all the more sharply. Some people called her the most beautiful woman in England. She called herself the stupidest. What were words without actions to match them? Why
had she ever gambled her heart on the strength of his words?
She lifted her head to stare down the drive toward the lake, shrouded from view by trees. A breeze ruffled through the tops of the branches, lifting them toward the sky, and she felt, with a sudden strange shock, the largeness of the world: the ocean like a vast yawning mouth, some ten miles to the east; and the endless impossible distance of the sky overhead, bridging land and sea as it wrapped around the earth; and the empty space beyond it, an alien void sparsely scattered with stars.
How small she was, standing here. No more than a speck. All the turmoil in her breast was tantamount to the tap of the next pebble scattered by her step.
What was love, anyway? Soundless and ephemeral as a breath. This scene around her, which had witnessed her parents’ contentment for their brief span of life—it would outlast everyone she knew, and their children, and their children’s grandchildren. Why cling to love? It was a handhold amid the torrent, but everyone eventually fell into the river. Swept away, they were forgotten.
Why drive oneself to anguish, longing for such a handhold? Why bother? Better to look for comfort than gamble on a dream for which suffering was the more likely reward. Handholds were useless. And she would not find one anyway.
She took a deep breath. Very well. Practicality would be her aim from now on. She would never be stupid again. She vowed it: she was done with love.
She crumpled the letter. It was not even worth the burning.
• • •
Standing in the dusty road outside the postal office, Michael read the words again.
Lord Marwick’s secretary had no official comment, but confirmed that an interim director had been appointed to implement an unspecific program of reform at the Duchess of Marwick Hospital. Of the former director, his grace’s brother, no news is heard . . .
Michael took a deep breath. The newspaper was half a day old, sent from London by the morning train. God knew what tidings tomorrow’s delivery would carry. He could not imagine why Peter Halsted, his right-hand man at the hospital, had not written in warning. Halsted alone knew where he was. Until now, he’d made a very steady correspondent, full of reassurances. But yesterday he’d not written at all.