“And you yours, Your Grace.”
He left, and the room felt colder for his absence.
Eliza sank back into her chair and stared at the cooling tea in her cup. She had married August out of necessity and had promised herself she would not become entangled. She would not let her heart become involved.
And yet here she was, sitting in a breakfast, wishing he had stayed a little longer.
Twenty-One
“What a charming sitting room,” Lady Wilhampton said, sweeping through the door before the butler had quite finished announcing her. “I do hope I am not intruding, Your Grace. I was passing through the neighborhood and simply could not resist calling on you.”
Eliza set down her embroidery hoop which she had been pretending to work on for the past hour. “Lady Wilhampton, what a surprise.”
“I know, I know. I ought to have sent word ahead, but I am dreadfully impulsive.” She settled herself on the sofa without waiting for an invitation. “I have been thinking of you constantly since the funeral. You looked so composed, so strong. I said to myself, that poor girl must be exhausted from holding everyone else together.”
The observation was so accurate it caught Eliza off guard. She had spent the better part of a week managing the household,directing the servants, ensuring Dorothy did not collapse from grief, and making certain the parade of mourners did not overstay their welcome. She had been composed. She had been strong. And she was, in fact, exhausted.
“You are very kind,” Eliza said, resuming her seat and folding her hands in her lap.
“Not kind at all. Merely observant.” Lady Wilhampton leaned forward, her expression softening into something that looked almost genuine. “I lost my own husband two years ago, you know. Not to illness but to his own excess. Still, the aftermath is much the same. The visitors who come to gawk, the relatives who descend like vultures, the expectation that one must perform grief in just the right measure. Too little, and you are heartless. Too much, and you are histrionic.”
Eliza found herself nodding before she could stop herself. “It is rather like walking a tightrope.”
“Precisely! And all the while, your own feelings are entirely beside the point.” She reached across and patted Eliza’s hand. The gesture was brief, but it carried a warmth Eliza had not expected. “How are you truly faring? And do not tell me you are well. No one is well after such a trial.”
The question should have raised every defense Eliza possessed. This was Lady Wilhampton after all. The woman who had made her jealousy known at the Irondale ball. The woman who had clung to August’s arm at the funeral and tried to spirit him away.
And yet.
There was something in her manner now that seemed almost… sincere. As though she genuinely cared about the answer.
“I am quite well,” Eliza said which was not quite a lie but not quite the truth either.
“That is what we all say, is it not? ‘I am managing.’ As though we are estates to be administered rather than people with actual hearts.” Lady Wilhampton rose and moved to the window, gazing out at the gardens beyond. “You know, I think a walk might do you good. The weather is quite fine, and you cannot have had much opportunity to leave the house these past days.”
Eliza glanced at the embroidery hoop then at the stack of condolence letters she had been avoiding. A walk did sound appealing. More than appealing if she was honest. The walls of Wildmoore Hall had begun to feel like a cage.
“I suppose a turn about the gardens would not go amiss,” she said.
“Wonderful!” Lady Wilhampton spun back to her with a smile that lit her whole face. “I promise to be very good company. Or at least, not actively terrible.”
They collected their bonnets and shawls, and within minutes, they were strolling down the gravel path that led to the rosegarden. The afternoon sun was warm without being oppressive, and the air carried the scent of early blooms.
“I must confess,” Lady Wilhampton said as they walked, “I have been wanting to speak with you privately for some time now. There are so few women in our circle who possess any real intelligence. Most of them are concerned only with the cut of their dresses and the size of their pearls.”
“I imagine intelligence is not highly prized in a society that values ornament above all else.”
“Oh, how right you are!” She laughed, and it sounded genuine enough that Eliza felt some of her wariness begin to dissolve. “But you are different. I could see it the moment we met. You have a mind, and you are not afraid to use it. That is exceedingly rare.”
They turned down a smaller path, one that wound between hedges of lavender. Eliza found herself relaxing into the rhythm of their steps, the companionable silence punctuated by occasional observations about the garden or the weather.
“May I speak frankly?” Lady Wilhampton asked after a while.
“I would prefer it to anything else.”
“Good. Because I find that most conversations in society are nothing but elaborate performances. Everyone saying what they think they ought to say rather than what they actually mean.”She paused, bending to examine a cluster of primroses. “I want you to know that if you ever need someone to talk to, someone who understands the peculiar burden of being married to a man of consequence, I am here.”
The offer hung in the air between them. Eliza turned it over in her mind, searching for the trap, but Lady Wilhampton’s expression remained open, her eyes clear and direct.