“That’s true enough.” Mark dropped her hand to cup her bruised chin in his palm. For a moment, she believed that he might kiss her, yet he let her go. “Enjoy your evening. I shall do my best to enjoy mine.”
With that, he descended the staircase and soon disappeared. Eliza was left on the landing wondering what she’d do without him—tonight, tomorrow, and for the rest of her days.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Candlelight gleamed against a great lot of gilding—the walls, the art, the furnishings, the fixtures. The china and cutlery, and even the wineglasses were edged in gold leaf. Mark had never noticed the extravagance of his fellow directors, nor would he have cared to judge them for it, but he thought of Eliza as he forked through his plate of Dover Sole. He toasted her, secretly, as he drank champagne, and wished that she might’ve accompanied him tonight.
How they would’ve laughed at Lord Aldenham, whose beard was dribbled with sauce! She would have made wry remarks about Gladstone, Hambro, Prevost, and Cunliffe, who were as ignorant, pompous, and prejudiced as the rest of the Bank’s court. Truly, Mark was surrounded by overbearing men of a bygone generation who served no master but themselves.
Their wives, however, were lovely—as were their daughters, granddaughters, and wards. He glanced around the dining room, which was twice as large as his own. Seated between the gentlemen, elegantly dressed ladies in shimmering silks and diamond baubles smiled and simpered through the meal. These women were attractive, attentive, and yet unobtrusive. They prettied up the table like a vase of hot-house roses, but added nothing of substance to the conversation.
No doubt, they had learned from girlhood not to speak over a man or offer their opinions too freely. In return for their acquiescence, they’d never begged for their bread or stolen to keep a roof over their head. They would look down their noses at Eliza, he knew, but they might learn something from her, as well.
Surely, a modern man wished for awife, not window-dressing.
Mark turned to his neighbor at the table, Miss Prevost. She was a vibrant, dark-haired beauty, and also a talented watercolorist. Her father was next in line to become Governor of the Bank of England, and her dowry was rumored to be astronomical. Little wonder why she was seated beside the youngest and only bachelor in the court.
“Tell me,” said Mark, “of your sketching tour through Italy. It must have been a lovely winter along the Riviera.”
She smiled. “Oh, yes, the weather was simply deevee!”
“And the art? The architecture?” He prodded, “I wager you saw many divine things to tempt your paintbrush.”
“I spent entire afternoons wandering the Promenade of Sanremo and sketching beneath the palms.” Miss Prevost took a long and fortifying sip from her wine glass. “It was thrilling to watch the trains chug by! They passed so near that one could almost reach out and touch the hands of the passengers!”
His brows lifted. “Train-spotting is a daring hobby for a debutante.”
“That’s what Papa said, but in Italy, I was not a debutante. I was a tourist like everyone else.”
“Then that begs the question of where one finds oneself happiest,” he gestured to the general grandeur of their surroundings, “in London…or in Italy.”
“Not both?” she asked.
“It is my experience that neither man nor woman can live comfortably in two spheres. You cannot have one leg in Italy and another in London without one side suffering a cramp.” He teased, “You’re either in or out, Miss Prevost. So, will you be an artist sunning yourself in Sanremo or a debutante amid the lights of London?”
She considered her answer for a moment before her father spoke for her.
“Don’t ask the girl questions that will only confuse her. I was against those damned watercolor lessons from the start, but a young lady must have an accomplishment, you know!” Prevost snorted. “In my day, it was unseemly for a girl to walk the halls of the British Museum without a husband to shield her. Now they demand trips to Italy and holidays in France! Girls ought to keep at home until their honeymoon, I say, but I shouldn’t wish my Hilda to feel disadvantaged against the other girls this Season.”
The other fathers grunted in agreement.
Lord Revelstoke, their host, warned from the head of the table, “Matrimony is a tricky business, Sir Mark, but fatherhood is a quagmire. Mind you watch your step!”
Mark’s peers ribbed him for being the only unmarried gentleman among their number. Yet he knew—as did the ladies—that his bachelorhood was his greatest asset. He was wealthy, well-connected, and ambitious. With another twenty years in the Court of Directors,hemight become Governor someday. What woman wouldn’t wish to become Lady van Bergen and reign supreme as mistress of the Bank of England?
“Speaking of matrimony,” said Mr. Sandeman with mischief in his eyes. “What’s this I hear of you dashing about in the middle of a workday to bail some young damsel in distress out of gaol?”
He was not surprised that the other directors had learned of Eliza’s dilemma. The halls of the Bank might be hallowed but they weren’t silent. “Unfortunately, a friend of mine ran into a spot of trouble in Seven Dials,” Mark explained. “She was set upon and robbed over a Fortnum’s hamper.”
The ladies gasped. Mrs. Cunliffe clutched her ample bosom and asked, “Was she on a charitable errand? I cannot imagine any other reason for a woman to venture into danger if not for the welfare of others.” Her large eyes implored him. “Sir Mark, is she a crusader?”
Eliza’s journey to Seven Dials had not been undertaken beneath the flaming sword of social consciousness. She had gone to share her meat and bread with others because it was the right thing to do.
“She’s a fighter, certainly,” he replied. “I can report that my dear friend escaped with only a slight bruising, yet the lads in question shall think twice before tangling with her.”
The group uttered their displeasure.
“Something must be done,” cried Mr. Hambro, “about the criminal element in this country!”
