“Oh, of course—I ought to express my sympathies,” Melville said.
Eliza was not yet sure how to respond to such condolences. To make a parade of loss, when her grief so differed from society’s expectation, felt crass—and yet to make no display at all would be considered unseemly.
“Thank you,” Eliza said after a pause. “And where are you bound, my lord?”
“Oh, hither and thither,” he said. “Today, of course, it has been more thither than I should like—you are an artist, then, my lady?”
Eliza did not immediately comprehend the change in subject, until she followed the direction of his gaze to her portfolio.
“I should not describe myself in such lofty terms,” she said.
“Whyever not?” he said. “You clearly have talent.”
“However do you suppose that?” Eliza asked, surprised.
“The book was open,” Melville said. “I could not help but see. You capture the likeness of . . . ?”
He paused, a questioning lilt in his voice, and Eliza realized with a jolt of mortification that they had not introduced themselves.
“My apologies!” she said, her cheeks reddening. “I am Lady Somerset, and this is my cousin, Miss Balfour.”
Melville inclined his head.
“You capture Miss Balfour’s likeness very well,” he said.
Eliza did not know what to say to this, so opted instead to change the subject.
“We admire your poetry very much, my lord,” she said.
It must be the thousandth time he had been told such a thing, but Eliza was not literary enough to think up a more insightful compliment.
“How marvelous of you to say so,” Melville said courteously.
“We are most impatient to read your new work,” Margaret added, a cajoling note in her voice. “Do you know when . . . ?”
Melville had published Persephone in ’17 and Psyche in ’18—both romantic retellings of ancient texts—and all were on tenterhooks for his next publication.
“It appears your flattery was simply a ploy to incite me into a revelation,” Melville said. “I am afraid my answer will not please you: I have not written anything new.”
“Why not?” Eliza asked before she could prevent herself—an impertinence she immediately regretted, for Melville’s brow was now raised.
“Inspiration eludes me,” he said briefly.
“Perhaps you might be inspired by today’s adventure,” Margaret suggested slyly. “And we will find that your next volume begins with a carriage crash—or a chariot crash, I suppose.”
Eliza shot Margaret a remonstrative look. Could she not see that Melville wished the conversation at an end? But Melville appeared more comfortable with Margaret’s line of questioning than Eliza’s.
“Oh, even a chariot crash should be too pedestrian for my heroines,” he said, amused. “Perhaps after the chariot crash they might be rescued from a murderous mob by an erstwhile warrior? If my fair lady will forgive the artistic license?”
He looked toward Eliza, lips curled and eyebrows raised in playful inquiry. Eliza stared. Was he flirting with her? Surely not. Regardless, he seemed to expect a reply, waiting expectantly as if he thought Eliza about to pull a suitably amusing, or coy—or even interesting—remark out of thin air, but alas . . .
“I am not fair,” she said.
“So you are not,” Melville agreed. “Though you will forgive me for not being able to tell, under such—ah—magnificent headwear.”
He gestured toward Eliza’s hat. Beneath it, she flushed, feeling dowdier than ever.
A thump on the roof of the carriage had them all looking up.
“It appears we are drawing into Peaseton,” Melville said.
“You have our thanks for the aid,” Eliza said, in a concluding sort of way.
“Oh, you shan’t be rid of me so easily, my lady,” Melville said. “I shall escort you inside to see you settled, while your man sees about this wheelwright.”
They drew to a final stop and Melville made as if to leap out.
“No, no,” Eliza said hastily, for as much as she truly had appreciated the rescue, she still did not think it wise that they be glimpsed by the whole village in the company of an unmarried man—and certainly not one with such a storied reputation.
“No, we shall not delay you any longer. We are perfectly capable of arranging matters ourselves,” she said.
Melville looked consideringly at Eliza for a moment.
“Very well,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “If that is what you would prefer.”
Margaret opened the door, and a postboy sprang forward to assist them down.
“I hope,” Eliza added, as Margaret and Pardle climbed down from the carriage, “I hope we may count upon your . . . discretion regarding today’s events.”
Melville’s eyebrows flew upward again.
“Do you think me likely to gossip?” he asked gently and Eliza felt abruptly sure she had offended him, now.
“N-no—it is just that,” Eliza stammered.
“I assure you, my lady,” he said. “If I am to appear in the gossip rags this week, it shall not be for so dull a reason as this.”
Eliza’s face flushed at the edge in his tone and she hurriedly accepted the postboy’s arm. Melville pulled the door shut behind her.
“Good day,” he said out of the window. “And safe travels.”
His driver set the horses off, before Eliza could respond.
“Goodness,” she said, feeling stunned.
“I shall write to my sister as soon as we arrive in Bath,” Margaret said, gleeful. “And you ought to write to Lady Selwyn—doesn’t she fancy herself a patron of the arts? She will be positively green with jealously.”
“I will certainly not be writing to Lady Selwyn!” Eliza exclaimed, coming back to herself and turning toward the inn. “We ought not tell anyone. Recollect the conditions of my fortune, Margaret, and his shocking character: my reputation is not a currency we can afford to spend.”
“What is the point of exciting events occurring to one, if one cannot boast about it?” Margaret grumbled.
* * *
• • •
A warming fire, an excellent repast and the news that the carriage would be repaired in only a matter of hours did much to alleviate Eliza’s unsettled nerves, and they arrived in Bath only a few hours delayed. As it was by this point dusk, they could not see much of the city as they drew through its streets, but as Eliza walked into the terraced house on Camden Place, their new home, she was overcome by relief. Perkins had selected lodgings that were so exactly suited to Eliza’s tastes that she could almost believe they had been built and furnished exactly for her use: with a dining room, drawing room, parlor, three bedchambers and servants quarters set across four floors, the house was comfortably elegant, light and airy, and as far from the austere grandeur of Harefield as was possible.