She brushed the dress one more time, shook it, and went to hang it on a hook on the wall. That was when she saw the package on the rickety desk, laid down before Michael’s photograph like an offering.
The package was wrapped in brown paper and tied in brown twine. She undid the twine, peeled back the paper, and looked upon an oil painting that was no bigger than her two hands put together.
It was a still life of someone’s midday meal. On a silver platter atop a still-creased white tablecloth, a helping of pink, caper-sprinkled salmon beckoned. A plate of lemons—one whole, one half-peeled—had been helpfully provided. There was also a ramekin of olives, golden wine in thick-bottomed glasses, a knife only the ebony handle of which could be seen, a salt shaker, and to the side, a large pewter jug so beautifully polished it gleamed like black pearls.
Rich details teemed on the tiny canvas: the light caught and held by an individual caper; the long, dapper curl of bright yellow lemon peel hanging off the side of a plate; the presence of a half-eaten olive that she imagined had been the long-dead painter’s appetite getting the better of his artistic patience.
A present from Mr. Somerset. Or was it an apology? Highly—no, hugely—improper. Not only in the present itself, but also in the manner of the giving—he had stepped inside her room while she was at the soup kitchen, her valise wide open, her washing drying on the chair.
She wished he hadn’t: Not because she was ashamed that he’d seen her old drawers and her not-so-new stockings, but because the too beautiful painting set her heart soaring, like Icarus high in the sky.
The world hadn’t changed, nor had their places in it. If they were to allow something beautiful to come to be, then it would only make the inevitable that much harder, that much more unbearable.
Don’t, she thought. He is to be married.
Don’t.
But she knew, as surely as Icarus had been doomed to plunge and tumble from the beginning, that she would ignore her own excellent advice. And that she, too, would risk flying as close to the sun as her wings of wax could lift her.
“Do you have anyone specific next to whom you wish to seat the Arlingtons?” asked Mr. Marsden.
Lizzy was sick of seating charts. Or rather, she had trouble concentrating on them. Instead, she couldn’t stop looking at him. He had on a real cravat in blue silk, beautifully knotted, such as she hadn’t seen in ages—most valets couldn’t manage anything more complicated than an octagon tie these days.
“Seat them next to whomever you please,” she said, reckless. “I want a reprieve from seating people. Tell me about music hall.”
He dropped his pen.
He picked it up and blotted the droplets of ink that had splattered onto the seating chart. “It’s an amusing way to spend an evening.”
“You know what I mean,” she insisted.
He flashed her a smile that was as bright as a theatrical footlight. “Music hall is an actionable offense in this country. I’ll need an inducement to expound upon it.”
She glanced at him from underneath her lashes. “What inducement?”
“Symphonic concerts.”
Her heart bounded high enough to knock against her palate. “I beg your pardon?”
He looked at her steadily and the air around her thickened into pudding. At last he said, “I want to hear about your experience at symphonic concerts. Did you like it?”
She dragged the Debrett’s from across the desk and opened it to a random page. They hadn’t had to use it. He seemed to know everyone’s pedigree and precedence by heart. “What would you say if I said I did?”
“I’ve been asking myself that very same thing,” he said. “I decided that I hoped you liked it.”
“Why?”
“Because you could have been ruined over it, you stupid woman. At least you should have enjoyed it while you were at it.”
No one had ever called her a stupid woman. But he said it with such resigned tenderness that she couldn’t even begin to protest. It was almost as if he’d called her his sweetheart.
He tilted his head. “Well, did you?”
“I thought I did,” she said, finally admitting her transgressions. “But the memories offend me now.”
“Henry Franklin is a remarkable ass,” he said firmly. “I’m glad you didn’t marry him.”
She smiled a little. It was, of course, very childish and unsophisticated of her that she should feel this deep sense of kinship upon his unsparing denouncement of Henry. Ah, but what a splendid feeling.
“Are you still displeased that I’m marrying Mr. Somerset?” she asked, not sure she wasn’t flirting at least a little.
He capped his fountain pen. “Displeased is not the right word.”
“What is, then?”
“Mr. Somerset regards you as a favorite young cousin, a dearly loved niece even. And as such he is apt to be very, very indulgent of you. While he’s busy working for the betterment of the common man, you’ll be free to do whatever you wish.”