by Mary Balogh
“It was kind of them for Colin’s sake to put in an appearance,” Elizabeth’s mother had commented, reaching across the table to pat her hand. “And it was civil of Lady Elwood to walk with you, Lizzie, and of Sir Nelson to dance with you. Lady Hodges must have seen the announcement of your betrothal and encouraged them to go in person to acknowledge you and congratulate him. I can never quite forgive her for what she did to Wren, but perhaps she has redeeming qualities after all. People do change over the years, do they not?’’
Wren had kept her attention on her plate, and Elizabeth had not told them the truth of that surprise appearance of her future sister- and brother-in law. It was something she would deal with herself. However, she had been interrupted last evening when she had been talking with Wren, and what they had been talking about ought to be finished.
“Colin is hoping to establish some sort of civil relationship with his mother and Blanche,” she had said. “We want to invite them to our wedding. But . . . But there is you, Wren. I do not know what happened when you called on your mother last year after your wedding, but my guess is that it could not have been good. Will you find it distressing—”
“This is your wedding, Elizabeth,” Wren had said, interrupting her, “and Colin’s. The two of you must do what you wish to do about Mother and Blanche without worrying about me. But if you invite them to the wedding, then you must invite them to the wedding breakfast too.”
“Wren.” Alexander had been frowning.
“No,” she had said, holding up one hand. “I am not a fragile thing. I am certainly not going to force Colin and Elizabeth to choose between my mother and me. And this is not a matter for debate. Don’t look at me like that, Alexander. Or you, Elizabeth. Not another word.”
And not another word had been spoken on the subject.
When the carriage drew up outside the house on Curzon Street, Elizabeth was angry, though not in a way that was likely to erupt in uncontrolled fury. Only in a way that would carry her through the next half hour or so. It was past noon by then, but Lady Hodges was still not available to receive visitors. She would wait, Elizabeth informed the butler, stepping firmly over the doorstep to indicate to him that she was not to be trifled with.
“Kindly inform your mistress that Lady Overfield awaits her pleasure,” she said.
He must have recognized her name, for he ushered her up to the drawing room to wait instead of keeping her standing in the hall. She awaited the lady’s pleasure there for an hour. It was just after one by the ormolu clock on the mantel when the door finally opened.
Elizabeth had been directed to a love seat upon her arrival, but she had not remained in it after the first ten minutes. She had crossed first to a window to pull back one of the pink curtains. The light in the room was dim despite the bright sunshine outside, and it was distinctly pink hued. The butler had lit the candles in a gilded candleholder on the mantel next to the clock, but why see by candlelight when it was only just past noon and there was a world of daylight behind the curtains?
The curtains would not budge. Something held the two halves together, and something held them in place at the outer edges so they could not be moved. Extraordinary!
After that, Elizabeth had wandered about the room, noting that everything in it, from the carpet to the furnishings to the wallpaper, was either silver or gray or some shade of pink. There was a large number of chairs, sofas, and love seats in the room, enough to accommodate sizable gatherings. It was obvious, however, which chair belonged to Lady Hodges. It sat higher than all the others and was larger and more sumptuous. It dominated the room and looked more like a throne than a chair. The thought might have amused Elizabeth if she had been in the mood to feel amusement.
When the door opened at last, she was standing before the fireplace having a closer look at the clock, which was a magnificent piece. She turned.
Lady Hodges was alone. She looked like a fragile, hesitant girl, hovering in the doorway as though unsure whether she was permitted to enter. Like a girl, she was dressed in a white, high-waisted muslin dress with a low neckline and short sleeves, though Elizabeth could see that there was an inset bodice of fine gauze, which covered her bosom and ended in a small ruff about her throat. There were also sleeves of the same material covering her arms and shaped into frilled Vs over her hands. She was of medium height and very slender. Her blond hair had been curled and dressed with immaculate care. It was a remarkably realistic wig. The cosmetics on her face were easy to detect, but they had been skillfully applied to give the illusion of youth to a lady who must be sixty at the very least. She looked quite beautiful, but . . . Well, she looked more like a work of art than a real woman.
“Lady Overfield.” She stepped lightly into the room and an unseen hand closed the door behind her. “How extraordinarily delightful that you have come to call upon me only a day after your betrothal to my son was announced to the world. Let me have a look at you.” Her voice was that of a little girl. It made Elizabeth want to shiver.
She did not immediately take a look. First she crossed the room and ascended the two shallow steps to her chair. Seated on it, she seemed even slighter and more like a girl. It had been designed with that effect in mind, Elizabeth realized. Lady Hodges rested her arms along the velvet arms and turned her eyes upon Elizabeth, a slight smile upon her face. She took her time about looking her over from head to toe.
“My dearest Colin,” she said. “It is hard to realize he is no longer quite a boy, though he still looks very young. And remarkably handsome. And easily influenced, I have heard. He has some growing up still to do. But of course you will help him with that, being a mature woman yourself. How old did you say you are?”
“I did not,” Elizabeth said. “But you know very well how old I am, ma’am. You know a great deal more about me too than just that, and what you do not know you do not hesitate to invent. If you are aiming to embarrass me by looking me over and having me admit that I am significantly older than your son, you will not succeed. I do not embarrass easily when I have nothing for which to feel embarrassment.”
“Oh, my dear,” Lady Hodges said, picking up a monstrous peacock feather fan from the table beside her and slowly plying her face with it, “has someone been inventing stories about you? How very distressing for you. And how malicious of that someone. Perhaps it is untrue, then, that there are ten years between you and my son? Or nine years and five months, to be more precise. I do hope you were well received last evening. I sent Blanche and Nelson to lend you countenance and they informed me that you were very much enjoying yourself. I daresay any lady would who had such a young and handsome fiancé to show off to the ton, especially when she had stolen him from under the very noses of the young, inexperienced girls who were foolish enough to aspire to his hand. I was delighted to listen to Blanche’s report, though I was sorry to hear that Miss Dunmore was there to mar your pleasure just a little. She is exceedingly lovely, is she not? It is being said that her mama was so determined that she marry my son that she tried to force him into it by implying there was already an understanding between them. Some even say she tried sending a notice of their betrothal to the papers, but I cannot believe she is capable of such blatant trickery. She is not, however, a pleasant woman. I daresay you took no notice of either her or her daughter, who has been described as a diamond of the first water.”
There were several conversational starters that might have led Elizabeth off into comment and protestation and self-justification until she became like a dog chasing its tail.
“I have not come here to play games, Lady Hodges,” she said.
“I am happy to hear it,” the lady said. “Games bore me. I can never understand what is so amusing about charades and blindman’s buff and all the rest. Do come and sit on the love seat close to me, and I shall tell you how I plan to welcome you into my family with a summer-long house party at Roxingley. I already have the guest list d
rawn up—young, high-spirited people who enjoy having fun in the outdoors, and indoors too when the weather is inclement. You will like them. They will make you feel young again. I daresay you feel that your unfortunate first marriage robbed you of your youth and that now, so many years later, you are too old to recapture it. But it is never too late, Lady Overfield, and with your second marriage, you know, you are going to have to keep up or have Colin’s eyes stray to all the beauties with whom he will be constantly surrounded. Come. Sit.”
Elizabeth remained where she was. She felt a little as though she had been caught up in some sort of whirlwind, unable to extricate herself or make her point. Except that there was her anger, her point of calm at the center of the storm.
“I will not be seated, thank you,” she said. “I will not be staying long. You began your campaign against me, Lady Hodges, after my betrothal to Sir Geoffrey Codaire ended and you feared that I might convince Colin that the honorable thing to do was to offer for me. He did, in fact, offer, and I refused. You might have saved yourself the trouble. But the effect of your efforts was actually the opposite of what you intended. I did not either crumble or flee to the country, and Colin came back and persuaded me not only that I wished to marry him, but that he wished to marry me.”
“Someone has clearly been telling lies about me,” Lady Hodges said. “I—”
“I would be obliged if you would not interrupt,” Elizabeth said. “We will be marrying, Lady Hodges, whether you like it or not, whether you decide to continue with your campaign or not. I would rather you did not continue, but I am prepared to deal with it if you do. Though I would warn you that running away is no longer how I deal with adversity. I will be Lady Hodges after my marriage, while you will become the dowager. I will be mistress of Roxingley and intend to make a home of it for Colin and myself and any children with whom we may be blessed. You will be welcome to continue to make it your home. But there will be room for only one mistress there, and I will be she. If there is to be a house party during the summer, as there very well may be, it will be planned and organized by Colin and me. The guest list will be one compiled and approved by us. I daresay we will pay you the courtesy of asking if there are one or two special friends you will wish us to invite.”
“I wonder if my son will be so eager to marry an older woman, who, by the way, does not even have the saving grace of any remarkable beauty, when he learns that she has claws,” Lady Hodges said. “I shall be obliged to warn him, you know. He may not like the prospect of not being the man in his own home. He was a lovely boy, Lady Overfield. Sweet and innocent and the most beautiful of all my children, though all of them were lovely.”
“Except Wren, I have heard,” Elizabeth said.
“Well.” Lady Hodges made a dismissive gesture. “Rowena’s disfigurement was unfortunate and quite grotesque. Impossible to look upon. She was a judgment upon me, I daresay. Though I did handsomely for her. I gave her to Megan and her wealthy admirer, and he married her and allowed Rowena to live with them and left his fortune to her. She has much for which to thank me, though she has proved ungrateful so far. I have yet to hear a word of thanks from her.”
“I believe,” Elizabeth said, “you will have to wait a long time, ma’am. Though I have heard Wren express a great deal of heartfelt gratitude to her aunt and uncle for the love they showered upon her when her life before they adopted her had been so devoid of affection from her own parents.” But she did not wish to get drawn into open anger and spite. She would not give Lady Hodges the satisfaction of having discomposed her. “I shall bid you a good afternoon now. But before I do, I will add this. It is Colin’s dearest wish that he have a family of his own to love and be loved by, just as I have on both my mother’s and my father’s side. And his dearest wish will always be mine. I hope you will come to our wedding. We will send invitations to you and to Sir Nelson and Lady Elwood. I hope you will all spend time with us at Roxingley. I hope you will be part of our lives and contribute to our happiness as we hope to contribute to yours.”
Lady Hodges plied her fan and for once said nothing.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” Elizabeth inclined her head politely to her future mother-in-law and left the room. By the time she exited the house less than a minute later, her hands were tingling with pins and needles, her thoughts were spinning wildly in her head, and she felt short of breath. But she stood on the steps outside the house, pulling on her gloves and composing herself while she glanced across the pavement to where her carriage was awaiting her.
Except that it was not there. In its place was Colin’s carriage. The door was open and Colin himself was leaning against the frame, his arms folded over his chest, one booted foot crossed nonchalantly over the other.
* * *
• • •
Colin had decided during last night’s ball that the time had come to confront his mother. She had wreaked havoc in the lives of many people over the years, not least of whom were Wren and Justin and their father. He, Colin, had taken the path of least resistance after his father’s death and stayed away from her. It was understandable. He had been only eighteen. But he had been feeling uneasy about it more recently, certainly since his discovery of Wren, alive and thriving, when for almost twenty years he had thought her dead. He had planned to do something about the situation this year and had indeed been trying, with mixed results. But though one of the most brilliant results was his betrothal to Elizabeth, that brilliance was overshadowed by the viciousness of the attack his mother had mounted against her and by what she had tried to do last evening when she had sent Blanche and Nelson to the ball. Meanwhile she had doubtless caused additional damage to Miss Dunmore, an innocent young girl.
Enough was enough, he had decided during the night. Yes, she was his mother, and one ought to honor one’s parents and treat them with deference and respect. But there were limits to what one ought to overlook in exchange, and his mother had overstepped those limits long ago. Now she had gone after Elizabeth.
There was no point in calling upon her before noon, he knew, or even soon after. He went first to South Audley Street, where he asked for Wren and was shown up to the nursery, where she was bouncing the baby gently on her lap. Colin smoothed a hand over the child’s head and leaned across him to kiss his sister on the cheek.
“Was last evening horribly upsetting for you?” he asked.
“The ball?” She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, I suppose you mean Blanche’s appearance. What on earth was that all about, Colin? Disruption? I suppose our mother sent her to cause trouble. But poor Blanche was never of Mother’s caliber. No, I was not upset.”
“Elizabeth and I want to invite them to our wedding,” he said, “and to the wedding breakfast. But we will not do so if you would rather we did not. No—” He held up a hand as she drew breath to speak. “You do not need to say what I am sure you think you ought to say, Wren. Say what you want to say. I know Elizabeth will respect your feelings and put your wishes first, as I do.”
“She has already done so,” she told him. “She spoke to me about it at breakfast. This is your wedding, Colin, and it must be just as the two of you wish it to be. Your relationship to our mother is necessarily different from mine. I can ignore her. You cannot, not if you plan to make Roxingley your home and Elizabeth’s and exercise the full responsibilities of your position. Our mother is one of those responsibilities. You must by all means invite her to the wedding. But do you think she will come?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “Where is Elizabeth?”
“She has gone out,” she told him. “I daresay she will be home soon.”
“In the meantime,” he said, “may I hold my nephew? He does not look undernourished, does he? Just look at those cheeks.”
He left before Elizabeth returned home. He did not wish to be too late arriving at Curzon Street lest he find his mother’s drawing room filled with guests and hangers-on when he a
rrived. He got there at one o’clock, only to discover that the carriage in which Elizabeth and her mother usually traveled about town was standing outside the door. Their coachman informed him that Lady Overfield had entered the house at noon—and yes, she was alone.
Colin’s first instinct was to bound up the steps, hammer on the door, and dash upstairs to the drawing room to save his betrothed from being devoured whole by his mother. Fortunately, perhaps, he stopped to consider. She had come here quite deliberately, and she had come alone. And she was Elizabeth. He had assured her more than once that he trusted her to do her own living in her own way. He had told her—at least, he hoped he had made himself quite clear—that he would never play the heavy-handed husband and try to control her every move or rush to her rescue before she had appealed to him for help.
She was a woman with backbone and was perhaps—though not probably—even a match for his mother. She must be allowed to do what she had come to do, whether she succeeded or failed.
Sometimes it was not easy to be a man.
He flexed his hands at his sides, but there was no one to punch, except for two coachmen—hers and his own—who had done absolutely nothing to provoke him, and even if they had, he would have no excuse to resort to violence. So he resorted to waiting outside instead. After ten minutes he sent her carriage away. The coachman hesitated, but Colin raised his eyebrows, and the man, perhaps reading the desire to be provoked in his lordship’s eyes, decided it was in his best interests to obey. Colin waited inside his own carriage and then outside, his arms folded across his chest, his feet crossed at the ankle, his eyes focused upon the door lest she slip away while he was not looking.
It was the hardest thing in the world to trust when the instinct to protect warred with it. It was very possible that she was being devoured in there, and how could she appeal to him for help when she did not even know he was at hand?