Mark finished his drink before rising from his seat. Standing to his full height, he loomed over the Duke of Bodlington in their dim, quiet corner of the antechamber. “I shall bid you good evening, Your Grace.”
The gentleman waved him away. “And I’ll bid you good luck, Sir Mark, if you intend to welcome that bastard girl into a society populated by my wife and children.”
Mark’s sense of honor urged him to avenge the woman he loved, yet reason cautioned him to remain calm. No good would come of striking a nobleman. He and Eliza would gain nothing by making enemies of the duke and duchess.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The following afternoon, Eliza sat in the sun-drenched garden. She stretched out in the soft, striped canvas seat, feeling stronger, healthier, and better than ever. Nearly a month’s worth of good food, plenty of sleep, and a sense of security had erased all traces of her earlier attack. Her bruises had healed completely, and the blooming color in her usually sallow skin improved her looks beautifully.
Eliza ought to make plans to leave Green Street, but she was happy here. She treasured her blue bedroom overlooking Mayfair and the comfortable drawing room perched above the pavements. She adored Jenny, the housemaid, and Ann Cooper, her friend. Most of all, she loved Sir Mark van Bergen.
She cherished the life that she’d stumbled into, but if she stayed, she’d become Mark’s dollymop, and end up no better off than her mother—a kept woman at the mercy of the whims and pleasures of some man.
Unlike Mother, however, Eliza possessed fifteen hundred pounds stashed away for a rainy day. If Mark ever grew tired of her, or if she grew tired of him, Eliza was capable of supporting herself independently. She did not need Sir Mark van Bergen.
Shewantedhim.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a shadow that fell across the lawn. Eliza turned in her deck chair to see Miss Hilda Prevost descending the steps from the rear of the house. The young lady wore a lingerie dress of flimsy whitework hidden beneath a broad-brimmed cartwheel hat. She looked like aFloradoragirl and grinned at the obvious comparison.
“It’s the newest creation from my dressmaker,” said Miss Prevost, swishing her lacy skirts while humming the chorus of“Tell Me Pretty Maiden”. “You ought to get your modiste to fashion such a frock for you. What a picture we’d make promenading in the park!”
“My modiste is a cockney parlour-maid,” Eliza replied, laughing, “and all my clothes are second-hand.”
Hilda Prevost sank into a canvas seat beside her. “Then your maid is in the wrong business, and you’d better snap her up before I do!”
She motioned to the pitcher of lemonade on the nearby tea trolley. “Fancy anything to drink?”
“No, thanks,” said Hilda happily. “I shan’t stay long. I’ve only come to thank you for rescuing my birthday bracelet.”
“How did you find me here?”
“I didn’t. You see, I called in the hopes of learning your address from the servants, yet I was shown into the garden.” She glanced around the space with a keen eye for detail. “This is a lovely place to paint. What are you up to?”
“Reading and composing a letter. Neither comes easily to me, but I’ve got something to say.”
“Oh?”
Eliza produced the latest editions of her weekly periodicals. She explained to Miss Prevost her hobby for writing public-spirited letters to the editors of all the gentlemen’s periodicals under the name of Mr. Ellis Smith.
“Anom de plume, how poetic! And impersonating a man—sneaking in amongst the old guard, right under their hidebound noses—how defiant! You’ve the soul of an artist, Miss Summersby. I hope to be your friend and confidante. Do you think that writing opinion pieces will make any difference to the war?”
“For most of my life, I was too poor to afford pens and ink, stationery and stamps, to even write a letter. I had no voice, and there are millions of Londoners exactly like me. They don’t want to fight the Boers. They want to feed their families. Their enemies are here at home—poverty, starvation, sickness—not far away on some foreign shore. Who are we as an empire to conquer the world when we cannot support our neighbors?”
Hilda considered that for a moment. “Your argument has merit, though I still think you’re shouting into the void.”
“At least I’m shouting.”
Both women smiled, for too often they felt silenced.
Hilda fussed with the brim of her hat. The sun had shifted behind the treetops to bathe the garden in cool, dappled light. The change was as refreshing as a cold drink on a heated day.
After a moment, the girl asked, “Won’t you sign your name to your letters?”
Eliza shook her head. “I can’t. It would get Mark into trouble at the Bank.”
The Bank of England raised funds for the treasury. The treasury funded the war. Mark was so firmly embedded into the establishment that his peers would balk at any relationship with an objector. They turned their back on those who didn’t toe the line.
Hilda knew this all too well. “Alas, bankers are rarely revolutionaries…”
