She eyed him with caution. “But you don’t . . . not want it?”
He thrust his fingers into his hair. “Not want it?” The way he looked at her, as though she were short of a few marbles. “You know that I want it, most any man would. Do you want me to take you on this couch here, or on this chair? I can do that, easily. This, though”—he wagged his fingers back and forth between them—“is not that easy.”
Nothing ever was, with her. “Of course,” she said. “I’m aware.”
He glanced at the clock next to the door. It hadn’t shown the correct time in a while, with no one here to set it regularly, so he looked out the window where the sun stood high over Cadogan Park.
“For now, let’s not be hasty,” he said. “Let me fetch my luggage. Then we will have lunch.”
She nodded and took a step back, back into reality. “I’m afraid I must call on an acquaintance as soon as possible. It’s why I’m here.”
Once they slept together, it would probably rob her of her focus for her cause.
Elias’s brow furrowed. “You want to leave, now—without eating any food.”
“I’d rather be done with it right away.”
He was skeptical but he made a motion with his hand that seemed to say Do as you wish. She wasn’t hungry, in any case. The thought of doing it with him made her nerves jangle. The misdeed was taking shape outside of her head; a part of life she had written off seemed to become a reality for her after all, and her stomach spasmed with unintelligible sensations. If she didn’t calm herself, she would be numb before the evening. First things first: the visit to Lady Middleton.
She went to the yellow bedroom to change into a day dress. The room was on the first floor and the bay windows overlooked the small park across the street. After Elias had brought their luggage to the room, she methodically removed protective throws from bed and armchairs, fluffed pillows, checked for traces of mice. She pulled the curtains half-shut, though the risk of anyone seeing in from the park below was negligible.
When she came downstairs, Elias was in the corridor, wearing his hat and overcoat again, and her heart briefly stopped.
“Is there a market nearby?” he asked. “Or a grocer.”
She looked at the floor, disconcerted by the pang of panic she had just felt.
“There’s a grocer at the end of Cadogan Lane,” she said, “half a mile from here, I reckon. Why?”
“For the meals.” A mocking glint lit his eyes. “Look at me, you’re turning me into an errand boy. What else will you do to me, Catriona?”
He left through the kitchen door, the hat pulled low over his face.
Before setting out, she splashed her face and neck with cold water from the kitchen faucet. She was about to take a lover. Married women, country women, widows, they all did, but a woman in her position had to be mad to do it. The risks were enormous; a lady’s name was such a fragile commodity and her only bargaining chip. It still seemed impossible to veer off this course now, just as a train that had jumped tracks would inevitably derail. She had been headed toward this point for a long time. Ever since she had left girlhood behind, sometimes, when she sat in the bathtub, she felt a sudden, breathless rush of dread at the thought that no other human being had ever seen her fully naked. Touched, yes, seen exposed in parts, yes, but never all of her. Beneath layers of expensive fabric, her firm middle, her thighs, her breasts, would wither away over the years and her finely turned ankles would swell with age, until the current her was irretrievably gone. There would be no photograph, no one else’s memory, to preserve this version of her in time. It sickened her to even have this notion, that she did not really exist unless another person carried a lasting impression of her. The price a woman paid for her peace was oblivion, so to still crave space in another’s head felt greedy and indecisive, almost weak. Elias, however . . . He wasn’t just a random person. He had seen every inch of her, had broken down the barriers before he had even known her name.
She set the rustic oak table in the dining room, laid out cutlery, plates, and water glasses. There was no wine cellar, but in the kitchen cupboard next to the disused ice chest was the last bottle of Bordeaux. It did not compare to the wine Elias had brought from the Bekaa Valley, but it would have to do. The wineglasses were in the fine china cupboard back in the dining room. She arranged knives, forks, and plates until everything was aligned and evenly spaced. Now she felt settled enough to take on Lady Middleton. A note for Elias was left on the table, informing him that she would return in an hour, or perhaps two, depending on traffic.
* * *
—
During the cab ride to the Middletons’ town house, she rehearsed the ludicrous story she had invented to win Lady Middleton for the Cause: she was doing research, because she was writing a novel. On her lap, she held the silver case for her calling cards, and she was opening it and letting it snap shut again, and again. She had weeded out the cards in the bedchamber earlier; she had too many because she rarely called on people. Thus, her cards were unfashionable, a batch from seasons ago. She should have had larger, more elaborate ones printed to secure an invitation in London homes. Charlie’s mother was rather fond of more is more.
She ascended the once-familiar granite steps of the Middleton town house feeling sick. The last time she had stayed here for Charlie’s leaving do, she had sworn never to return. Yet here she was, in the opulent entrance hall with the red carpet snaking up the main staircase and the dusty smell of dried flowers cloying the air. The old calling card seemed to have worked, though: Lady Middleton would see her on the spot, in the green parlor. Catriona handed her coat to a maid and gave up her protective shawl, too. She followed the butler swiftly. A social call lasted twenty minutes at most, so her time to succeed was limited.
The first thing she saw when she entered the green parlor was the painting. It took up the wall above the fireplace with a life-sized Charlie. Charlie and his bride. He stood next to a chair, posture erect, chest thrust forward and his right arm by his side. His left hand rested on the back of the chair, behind his bride’s strawberry blond head. She was half in profile, adoringly gazing up at her husband-to-be, while Charlie stared straight ahead at the observer from under the familiar golden quiff. There was a barely perceptible tilt to his lips. Was he sneering? Smiling? Feeling constipated?
“A lovely pair, aren’t they,” said Lady Middleton. “We had it commissioned to celebrate their engagement.”