She had risen from the sofa to greet Catriona. A broad streak of white wound through her neat coiffure, but she was still as nimble and sharply angled as when Catriona had last seen her, during the night of Charlie’s ball. Her style of dress seemed to have reversed, however, had mellowed from stiff fabrics to lace and pastel. The interior of the room, too, was decidedly frothier than before.
“Indeed,” Catriona said, belatedly. “It’s a lovely painting.”
Her forehead was already aching.
With a small, efficient gesture, Lady Middleton invited her to sit.
“You aren’t married, are you?” she asked, her green eyes on Catriona while pouring tea.
“No.”
“I thought not. I would have heard. Engaged, then.”
“I’m not engaged, either.”
“I expected as much. You never were the marrying sort, that was obvious before you were a debutante. Wester Ross is quite patient with you, considering.”
Considering that she was the last in the line of her Campbell branch. She was here under false pretenses, so the false smile came easily, like part of a play.
“I’m just terribly pleased for Charles, ma’am,” she said.
“Lady Sophie is a lovely gal,” Lady Middleton replied, and placed saucer and cup before her. “Are you acquainted? No, I would not think so, she came out years after you made your debut. In any case, between Charles’s and my consistent guidance, one hopes that she will eventually rise to the demands of her position as mistress of Middleton House.”
Catriona’s gaze crept back to the painting. What if it were her, on the chair, in the flowing white gown, looking up at him. Awaiting his consistent guidance. She felt empty at the thought. Not numb, empty. Charlie looked pleasant enough, but, disturbingly, he also looked just like any other young gentleman she might pass on the streets of London.
Lady Middleton leaned forward. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
On the other wall, the pendulum clock said she had twelve minutes left.
“Wester Ross and Lord Middleton are currently doing business together—”
Lady Middleton stiffened. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I don’t concern myself with Lord Middleton’s affairs these days.” She gave Catriona a cool little smile. “It’s quite refreshing.”
“Ah. Congratulations.”
That gained her an odd look.
“The truth is,” Catriona said, “I was hoping you could advise me precisely on that matter.”
“On what matter, dear?”
“The matter of separation . . . I’m wondering whether you could recommend me to a few ladies who live separately from their husbands.”
Lady Middleton’s expression became exceedingly bland. “Whatever for, I wonder?”
“It’s a matter of . . .” Her tongue tied. It was too bad that words like women’s rights and justice made most decent people terribly uncooperative.
“. . . it’s a matter of research.”
“Research?”
“For my novel. I’m writing . . . a novel.”
“A novel. Oh. Well, you always were scribbling away at something.”
Yes, at your son’s term papers.
“It’s a romantic novel,” she lied with reluctance, “where the heroine and her husband separate, and then she tries to bring him back home with absolutely all means possible.”
Lady Middleton drew back slightly. “I say,” she said. “That sounds quite tawdry.”
“No, on the contrary. The heroine, you see, she is trying to order him back with the help of a Writ for Restitution of Conjugal Rights.”
Lady Middleton looked aghast. “That’s bold—mark my words, it shan’t rekindle her husband’s tender feelings.”
“It doesn’t,” Catriona said, sweat breaking over her brow. “She . . . she learns the error of her ways.”
Lady Middleton’s thin brows were still arching high. “I thought it was a romantic novel.”
“It’s quite . . . French, in its atmosphere”—she was rambling now—“and to make her story feel as authentic as possible, I must speak to ladies who would consider such legal actions, or a lady who might have felt passionately enough to do so at some point.”
“I see.” Lady Middleton rapidly stirred her tea with a tiny silver spoon. “I do meet a group of ladies in my position once a week. We have a literary salon. It is very pleasant. Intellectually stimulating.”
“How wonderful.”
“None of them would dream of acting like your heroine; I’m afraid there isn’t a French lady among us.”
“I suppose not,” Catriona said, trying to think of something sensible to say while she was speaking. Charlie was smirking at her from above. The long arm of the pendulum clock ticked onward loud as a gong. Seven minutes left. Inside her gloves, her palms were sweaty.
“Wait,” Lady Middleton said, and held up her hand. “There’s one woman.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m thinking of a certain Mrs. Weldon,” she said. “She isn’t a regular member, she usually only attends the séances. Her husband left years ago, but I daresay she remains obsessed with him.”
Obsessed sounded promising. Nothing less would make a woman risk her reputation. She would know.
“Why do you believe she is obsessed?” she asked.
Lady Middleton gave her a pointed look. “Not a meeting passes without a Captain Weldon this or Captain Weldon that . . .”
Captain Weldon? A giddiness gripped Catriona. There was her man of influence. This was too good to be true. Praise her stubbornly complacent face, because inside she was grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“. . . even during the séances, it’s him she asks about,” Lady Middleton continued, “where he is, whether he plans to visit her. It’s unfortunate, quite embarrassing. She has a lovely house in Acton, for which her husband pays in full, and I gather he pays her five hundred pounds a year, too. Captain Weldon would provide anything for her, anything at all. Some women are simply never satisfied.”
“He seems dutiful,” Catriona said. “Perhaps that’s why she still regrets the separation.”
“He keeps a fancy girl somewhere,” Lady Middleton said curtly. “They all do. They always do. No, I believe she would feel less ireful if he cared nothing at all—in that case, a woman may blame the abandonment on his dishonorable character, whereas when he generously fulfills his obligations, then it must be a fault in her that caused the separation.”
Perhaps neither party need be at fault at all; a bad match of temperaments was possible, too, but it was not her place to suggest this. With an eye on her swiftly disappearing minutes, she asked Lady Middleton for a written recommendation that she could present to Mrs. Weldon for an introduction. Lady Middleton obliged her, although her lips were pursed with disapproval while she wrote.
She presented the introductory card with a sniff. “Here you are. I shall find out Mrs. Weldon’s address in Acton and send you a note.”
Catriona slipped the card into her skirt pocket. “I so appreciate it.”