Eight
Charles had been very wrong about tomorrow. Itdidcome. It also became today in the process, as Charles had said it would, but it was very different from yesterday’s today.
Oh goodness, she was beginning to think like him, in a head-spinning way. Suffice it to say that today—now, this morning—was very different from yesterday, last evening. Then she had been caught up in the magic of Vauxhall Gardens and all things had seemed possible. It had been the most wonderful evening of her life. It had culminated in fireworks and in a journey home in a darkened vehicle, their hands clasped upon his thigh. It had ended with a warm kiss as the carriage drew to a halt outside her door. And the unspoken promise of happily-ever-after.
This morning she was Matilda Westcott again, a little pale and droopy eyed because she was not accustomed to late nights or to dancing and kissing handsome gentlemen and agreeing to marry them. She was not used to laughing and even giggling a time or two. Oh dear, had she really behaved in such an unseemly manner, as though she were agirl? Whatever must everyone have thought? Today the idea of marrying Charles seemed utterly absurd. He couldnothave been serious, or, if he had been, today he would be feeling a certain horror at what he had said on the impulse of the moment.
This morning she was feeling elderly and frumpish and mortally depressed and irritable and not at all herself. She wanted to be herself again. Instead she felt like weeping.
“Your evening out,” her mother said, setting down the letter she had been reading and regarding her daughter across the breakfast table, “must not have been a great success.”
“I would have been happier if I had stayed at home,” Matilda said. “I worried about you being alone.” With a rush of guilt she realized she had spared her mother scarcely a thought all evening. And now she had lied and made herself feel worse.
“I was alone with a houseful of servants and a library full of books,” her mother said. “Matilda, I do notneedyou.”
Well, there. She had been justly punished for her lie.
“I only love you,” her mother added.
Her mothernevertalked like this. Matilda frowned and looked down at her plate. She was rather surprised to see half a slice of toast spread with marmalade there. She could not remember eating the other half, or anything else for that matter.
“It was a pleasant enough evening,” she said. “Vauxhall is always worth a visit. Mrs. Dewhurst appeared to enjoy her birthday. Everyone was very amiable and kind.”
I waltzed. I laughed. He kissed me—and I kissed him back. I accepted his marriage proposal.
“And Viscount Dirkson?” her mother asked.
“He was amiable and kind too,” Matilda said, getting to her feet. “Mama, let me get you a fresh cup of coffee. That one has grown cold while you have been reading your letter.”
“I do not need a fresh cup,” her mother said with a flash of her old irritability. “Don’t fuss, Matilda. I am sorry if the evening was not everything you hoped it might be. I am … sorry.”
“I had no expectations,” Matilda said. “And it really was very pleasant.”
But her mother was on her feet and making her way toward the door. It was time for one of her meetings with the housekeeper to discuss the meals for the coming days and other household matters. She had never allowed Matilda to take over those responsibilities from her. Neither had she ever offered to share them.
Matilda went to the morning room to write letters to her nieces, Camille in Bath and Abigail somewhere in Gloucestershire in her country cottage, which she shared with Gil and Katy. Charles’s son and granddaughter. There was no getting away from him, was there?
But did she want to? Had she not accepted a marriage offer from him last evening? Had he not held her hand all the way home in the carriage and kissed her before his coachman opened the door and set down the steps? He had not said anything about seeing her again, though. But surely he meant to. It would be most peculiar if he did not, even if he had changed his mind.
As he surely must.
Oh, he had been wrong about tomorrow. Tomorrow definitely came, and it was not the same as yesterday. But what happened totodaywhile one made the contrast betweenyesterdayandtomorrow? Strange thoughts.
He could notpossiblylove her.
There was no way on earth he could really want to marry her.
Justlookat her.
The first visitors arrived early in the afternoon. It was not unusual for Matilda’s sisters to call, as they were attentive to their mother and knew she enjoyed hearing the latest on-dits that had not yet found their way into the morning papers. It was unusual for them to come together, however, as they did today, and for Louise to bring her daughter, Jessica, and Anna, Duchess of Netherby, her stepdaughter-in-law, with her. And no sooner had the four of them arrived and exchanged greetings and weather reports and seated themselves than Viola, Marchioness of Dorchester, Matilda’s former sister-in-law, was ushered into the room too.
“It seems we all had the same idea this afternoon,” she said, and kissed cheeks, asked after the dowager’s health, and commented upon the fact that it would be a lovely day if the wind were not so cutting. “I knew you at least were here, Louise. Your carriage is outside the door.”
“Thomas came home from White’s Club this morning,” Mildred said, “with word that you were seen at Vauxhall last evening, Matilda, in company with Viscount Dirkson. You were strolling along the main avenue with him, apparently without even your maid for company. I thought whoever told Thomas that must have been mistaken, but when I called upon Louise, she informed me that Jessica danced with young Bertrand Lamarr last evening, and he told her when she asked about Estelle that she had gone with Mr. Sawyer and one of his sisters for a birthday party at Vauxhall Gardens. And Mr. Sawyer told Bertrand while they were waiting for Estelle to finish getting ready that his father had invitedyouto accompany him, Matilda.”
“I was charmed, Aunt Matilda,” Jessica said.
“Yes, I was there,” Matilda said. “It was a pleasant evening.”
