“A great deal earlier if you do it properly.” Lady Hartwell rose, her wrapper swishing as she crossed to the sideboard. “Sit. If youstand, I shall have to as well, and we will both expire from the effort.”
Eliza obeyed, sinking into the creaking settee. She studied the room as a battlefield—every chair, every shadow an obstacle to be negotiated. The windows were unshuttered, gray light washing over the battered furniture, the battered woman at its command post.
Lady Hartwell poured from a silver pot. “Shouldn’t you be off being serenaded by your new husband instead of suffering my tea?”
“August is already gone for the day.” Eliza accepted the cup. “He manages to avoid serenading.”
A snort. “If he ever attempts it, I beg you to intervene on behalf of the musical arts.”
Eliza smiled into her tea. “I will do what I must.”
Lady Hartwell settled beside her. “So. Is it everything you dreamed?”
“If by ‘everything’ you mean the relentless gaze of staff and the certainty that my every move will be catalogued in the gossip sheets, then yes.”
“Ha! That is the proper spirit.” Lady Hartwell sipped her own tea, eyes darting over Eliza’s face. “You do not look ruined. I suppose we must mark that as a victory.”
Eliza said, “I have survived worse than a marriage to a man I never intended to marry.”
The Baroness’ gaze narrowed. “If you ever decide to share the details, I promise to refrain from judgment for at least five minutes.”
Eliza shook her head, unwilling to cede the advantage. “Your self-restraint is legendary.”
A rare smile broke Lady Hartwell’s mask. “It is, in fact, the secret to a successful marriage. That and separate bedchambers which I hope you have already secured.”
“I had not considered it,” Eliza said, “but I am open to recommendations.”
“Selective hearing is another requirement. A lady who listens too closely to her husband’s opinions is soon driven to madness.”
Eliza set down her cup. “Do you speak from experience or as an interested observer?”
Lady Hartwell’s eyes drifted to the window. “Both. And neither. I was fortunate in that Lord Hartwell preferred the company of his books to the sound of his own voice.” She returned herattention to Eliza, all sharpness restored. “But do not mistake me. You may yet enjoy some measure of peace, even as a marchioness.”
“I doubt I shall ever find peace. Not in London and not at Wildmoore.”
The Baroness made a dismissive gesture. “Peace is overrated. Satisfaction is preferable, and far more attainable.”
Eliza considered this. “I do not even know what would satisfy me. I feel like a stranger in my own life.”
Lady Hartwell stilled. For a moment, the air in the room shifted, the defenses lowered. “Everyone feels that way, eventually,” she said quietly. “But most people pretend otherwise until they perish from the effort.”
A silence, filled only by the tap of rain against the windows.
“I do not wish to pretend,” Eliza said.
“Then don’t.” Lady Hartwell reached over, her hand a claw of comfort, and patted Eliza’s fingers. “You are stronger than the entire Vestiere line combined. It is why they married you. No one else would have survived the triplets.”
This time, Eliza’s smile was real. “Thank you.”
“If you require further guidance,” the Baroness continued, releasing her hand, “I recommend an afternoon of strategic inactivity. Let the world come to you. You are a marchioness now. There is nothing more subversive than refusing to run after anyone.”
Eliza drank this in, along with the last dregs of her tea. “I will try.”
“See that you do.” Lady Hartwell gathered her quill again, twirling it like a weapon. “Now go, before I am forced to give you advice about marital relations. You would not survive the embarrassment.”
Eliza rose, smoothing her skirt. “I will leave you to your correspondence.”
She was at the door when Lady Hartwell’s voice, softer now, caught her.