Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open. “You deliberately damaged your gown? I’ll make sure not to fall into your sights.”
“Oh, no?” Mrs. Merriweather clucked. “I seem to remember being dropped off at my house first where a certain young couple could have a few minutes alone.”
Elizabeth wagged her finger, sat down, and then poured tea. “You are a schemer.”
“When two people truly belong together, I become part of the universe that conspires to make it happen.”
Chen returned to the brocade sofa where he sat silent, unable to speak. He was not afraid of anything. He could stare down the Comanche. Survive a mountain collapsing on him, survive the years of rigor with Shaolin monks. Fearful he was of Anhe. How did he talk to her?
He drew a breath and then released it. Anything to bring back the years of discipline that controlled his racing heart.
Anhe sat in the corner. A veil of light enthroned her. Chen had a distinct view of her whole figure and countenance. She was slender and barely into womanhood, presenting a pleasing form that Chen, a self-confirmed bachelor, had the pleasure to behold. She had long, black hair that shone like obsidian, hanging loose on her delicate neck, almond eyes, agreeable in expression that were irresistible for his suddenly susceptible heart, and the only sentiment that it evinced hovered between scorn and a kind of desperation. His Buddhist training forbade touching a woman and suddenly he wanted to touch her and keep on touching her.
With one stroke you entered my soul, not a thing of metal or gold, yet a sensation of love that comes through the light in your eyes, steady breaths and sweet words.
We are so different, you and I. Yet together are balance. As yin and yang, both beauty, both strength, a perfect match, a perfect bond.
She lifted her head and smiled. Had she heard his words?
Buddha would not approve of his fear. The words stuck in his throat.
Anhe bowed her head and returned to her stitching.
A maid came in with a tray, served them tea and scones. “It is so quiet in here. Someone must say something, or the air will crack in half from the silence.” She laughed and left the two of them alone.
Chen translated the maid’s words for Anhe.
“Why don’t you talk to me? Am I not pleasing?”
How painful his silence was to her. Never would he allow her unhappiness. His mouth went dry. His fingers tingled as he absently tapped his knees. How he struggled to summon the courage to speak, to sweep away the hurt he caused her. Senses heightened, he centered on her entire being. Closed his eyes. Breathe. Opened his eyes. His voice cracked. “You are so luminous and beautiful that the moon would disappear, embarrassed to show its face.”
Chapter Thirty-One
In the late afternoon light, Elizabeth sat in one of the many drawing rooms of the Spencer home, the atmosphere rising, stifling and repressive. When her mother wasn’t looking, she tugged her itchy lace collar from her throat to breathe.
Against a background of brass-colored damask walls, the Duke of Westerly reclined on one of the vulgarly gilt and needlepoint Napoleonic love seats. From a garishly ornate table in marquetry of purpleheart and mother-of-pearl inlays, a servant poured cups of tea for the many women of notable society arranged like so many drooping flowers. Beneath the electric light of a crystal chandelier, her mother enthroned herself on a plump sofa. Alva had waved her glorious hand in the décor but had failed in every way possible, paving the assertion the city drunk must have given birth to the sad oppressive scheme.
The duke possessed a moon face and exceptionally white skin, the sort some women spent considerable money and time trying to achieve. A mouse of a mustache wriggled beneath his long nose. She cringed when he stroked the few strands of hair left to him into position across a mostly bald pate and then repeated the question she hadn’t answered.
What were they talking about? Weather? Books? Fashion? The Queen of England? His long heritage? From years of strict training Elizabeth spoke some inane pleasantry.
Like a rooster with an ear infection, the duke cocked his head to one side, then the other, as if studying her from different angles.
Her mother and her select friends along with the duke’s aunts occupied the other sofas. Their tittering and the duke’s scrutiny annoyed her. Instead, Elizabeth became mesmerized with an older woman’s silver rolls of hair that bobbed at her temple in an iambic pentameter rhythm beneath her little bonnet.
All the meaningless chatter, the smiling masks, the expectation to impress–oh, how she needed to escape the hot, crowded room to breathe the fresh invigorating air off the Hudson River. She wanted to talk to someone who listened with mindfulness. And listen to someone who spoke from the heart.
Framed by the brocade drapes of apple green, her mother looked brittle, as delicate and antique as the garlands of Georgian plasterwork that adorned the ceiling and mantelpiece.
Elizabeth’s mind was faraway thinking of Zachary. How with miraculous powers he had appeared and saved her from a riot and then vanished from her life. Were their fates not entwined?
He’d never want someone like her. Someone with a foul past. Despite Zachary declaring her disgrace as trivial, the reality was that men rose sanctimonious when it came to their wives. They insisted on high moral value for the women they would marry. She dared to unbutton the first button of her collar. At least they could be friends, couldn’t they?
Her mother rose, leaned over to Elizabeth. “You will not see him again,” she whispered brusquely, presenting a fake tear. And then producing a handkerchief, she patted her cheeks. Thegrand finale of her performance was swept to the center of the room.
Nor will I ever marry the duke.
“I understand,” said the duke’s mother, “that your daughter entertains orphans?”
