“My most sincere apologies for your loss,” he said. His words were civil, his tone neutral. His expression could only be described as polite.
“Th-thank you,” Eliza said. “I hope your journey was pleasant?”
The pleasantries tripped off Eliza’s tongue without thinking, which was a good thing indeed, because at this moment she was not capable of thought.
“As much as could be, with such weather as we have had,” he said. There was no evidence, in his manner or deportment or tone, that he was sharing in any of the turmoil churning through Eliza’s mind. He appeared, in fact, totally unaffected by seeing her. As if they had never met before.
As if he had not, once, asked her to marry him.
“Yes . . .” Eliza heard herself say, as if from a great distance. “The rain . . . has been most vicious.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, with a smile—except it was not a smile she had ever seen directed at herself before. Polite. Formal. Insincere.
“Good to see you, old boy, good to see you indeed.” Selwyn had come forward, hand outstretched, and Somerset reciprocated the handshake with a smile that was suddenly warm again. He moved toward the middle of the room, away from the Balfours—leaving Eliza blinking after him.
Was that it? After all their years apart, all the time Eliza had spent wondering over his whereabouts, his happiness, poring over every memory of their time together, of all the hours spent regretting every single one of the events that had conspired to keep them apart—this was to be their reunion? A single, short exchange of commonplaces?
Eliza shivered. The January chill had pervaded the air all morning—her late husband’s diktat that fires remain unlit until nightfall had outlived him—but now it seemed to Eliza veritably icy. A whole decade of existing literally oceans apart and yet Oliver—Somerset—had never felt more distant to Eliza than in this moment.
“Shall we begin?” Selwyn prompted. Even before Selwyn had married the late earl’s niece, the two gentlemen had been close friends, for their lands shared a border—but for the same reason their relationship had also been temperamental. Indeed, their last business meeting before the old earl’s death had deteriorated into a quarrel loud enough to deafen the whole household—and yet, from the eagerness in Selwyn’s face, he was clearly expectant of a great bequeathment today.
Nodding, Mr. Walcot spread out the papers in front of him, and the Balfours, Selwyns and Courtenays watched from their respective sides of the room, wolfish and hungry. The scene would make for a dramatic tableau. Oils, in high color, perhaps. Eliza’s fingers twitched for a paintbrush.
“This is the last will and testament of Julius Edward Courtenay, tenth Earl of Somerset . . .”
Eliza’s attention faded as Mr. Walcot began to list the many ways in which the new earl was about to become very, very rich. Mrs. Courtenay looked about to cry in delight, Lady Selwyn was biting back a smile, but Somerset was frowning. Was he daunted at the vastness of the hoard, perhaps even surprised? He should not be. Even despite the late earl’s austerity, Harefield Hall was still a veritable shrine to the family’s affluence: from its walls of horns, hides and hunting trophies to its exquisite porcelain tea sets, from the parade of Persian helmets and Indian swords along the great staircase to the oil landscapes displaying sugar plantations they had once owned, Harefield wore its loot proudly. And in the work of a few short sentences, this new Somerset owned it all. He was now one of the richest and most eligible men in England. From this moment on, every unattached lady in England would be falling at his feet.
Whereas Eliza . . . After today, she could remain at Harefield, to act as the new earl’s hostess until he married, remove to the Dower House on the edge of the estate, or return to her childhood home. None of these options was particularly thrilling. To return to Balfour to live under her parents’ watchful eye once more would be ghastly, but to remain here, in such close proximity to a man who clearly felt nothing for her, while she had spent a decade yearning for him? It would be its own kind of torture.
“To Eliza Eunice Courtenay, the Right Honorable Countess of Somerset . . .”
Eliza did not even focus her attention at the sound of her name—but from the way Mr. Balfour had leaned back in his seat, whiskers relaxing, it was clear that everything Mr. Walcot had reported was in line with the marriage settlement. Her future—such as it was—was secured. In her mind’s eye, the years stretched out ahead of her, grey and uninteresting.
“In addition, and in respect to her duty and obedience . . .”
How depressing, to be described in such terms, as one might a faithful hound, but her mother visibly perked up, eyes brightening with greed, clearly hopeful that the old lord had bequeathed Eliza something additional—an expensive jewel from his collection, perhaps.
“. . . and conditional upon her bringing no dishonor to the Somerset name . . .”
How like him to attach a morality clause to whatever small bequeathment he had thought appropriate—ungenerous to the very last.
“All my estates at Chepstow, Chawley and Highbridge, for her use absolutely.”
Eliza’s mind came to sudden attention. What had Mr. Walcot just said?
All at once, a room that had been quiet and still became very loud.
“Repeat that last, would you, Walcot? Must have misheard!” Selwyn boomed, taking a step forward.
“Yes, Mr. Walcot, I’m not sure that can have been right!” Mrs. Courtenay’s voice was high and piercing as she raised herself from her chair. Mr. Balfour stood, too, hand reaching out as if about to demand to read the document himself.
“To Eliza Eunice Courtenay,” Mr. Walcot repeated obediently, “in respect to her loyalty and obedience—and conditional upon her bringing no dishonor to the Somerset name—I bequeath all my estates at Chepstow, Chawley and Highbridge for her use absolutely.”
“Preposterous!” Selwyn was having none of it. “Julius was to bequeath those lands to our younger son, Tarquin.”
“He told me so, too!” Lady Selwyn insisted. “He promised me.”
“Lady Somerset’s jointure was agreed at the marriage settlement, was it not?” Mrs. Courtenay added. “There was no mention of this, then!”
“Are the Somerset lands not all entailed on the title?” Margaret said, puzzled, only to be loudly shushed by Mrs. Balfour.
“If that is the late earl’s bequest, if it is in the will, then you can have no issue with it!” Mr. Balfour insisted to the room in general.
They seemed to have entirely forgotten Eliza was there.
“The estates at Chepstow, Chawley and Highbridge were inherited by the earl through his mother’s line, and therefore were his to do with as he wished,” Mr. Walcot said calmly.