Three
DALTON PLACE, LONDON - FEBRUARY 10, 1814
JULIET
Was that a hole?Had I actually worn a hole in the carpet? I bent down, inspecting further—no it was father’s cigar burn from a few years ago. Still, the pacing must stop, the formerly crimson rug was threadbare as it was; it did not require my assistance.
It was a wonder I had not worn the carpet down to strings these last days. Pacing, tapping, fluttering about; I did it all. With my stomach flipping, sinking, tossing every which way, and my heart stopping, pounding, and rushing, I was all but useless. If only I had a name for the pangs of guilt and unease, a cause. But there was nothing.
Three days ago, I blamed the jitters on the anticipation of my entry into society. But that was still weeks away, and there was no reason to expect it would be an eventful presentation. I would attract some notice as the daughter of an earl, of course. There were always title hunters. But I was just short of the label of spinster at two and twenty, which would certainly give some members of the ton pause. I was pretty enough. I would even go so far as to say my eyes were a striking shade of blue, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary. My dowry was certain to attract no notice at all. And, of course, there was the other concern… No, I mustn’t think on that.
Worse still, whatever inexplicable disquiet had overcome me seemed to have spread to the entire household. Our footmen perpetually hovered just out of sight, straightening uniforms. Hannah, our maid, scrubbed the unused silver twice in a week. It was as though we were circus performers on one of those tight ropes, desperate to maintain the balance. My unease, my restless dread, was contagious—I was one misstep away from sending us all plummeting to our doom.
I was not a stranger to the feeling, but it had rarely been this extreme. The unnamed sense of dread, a twisted combination of sourceless guilt and uncertainty, called my periphery home. It may have been my oldest companion. I could not recall a time when I was without it. But this, this was beyond reason or convention. Something was coming. Soon.
My father made himself scarce throughout my turmoil. The only evidence of his existence were the missing tumblers each morning, presumably locked in his office. An ungenerous part of me laid the blame at his feet. But his presence was usually required to extract a price this high.
Day and night, I fought for some useful occupation. For months, I spent hours each day updating my late stepmother’s gowns to fit and suit. When father balked at my request for a line of credit at the modiste, I took matters into my own hands. I began letting out hems and pulling in busts. It was a substantial undertaking as Sophie’s gowns were suited to a married woman. They were darker in color and heavier in fabric than is appropriate for a debutant. Also, her lengthy confinement and subsequent illness meant they had all seen several seasons. But with this never-ending agitation, even the simplest of hems resulted in frustration, blood, and an uneven line. For every stitch I made, I had to rip two out and begin again. I was actively losing ground.
Even with all my fretting and vigilance, I was unprepared when the inevitable happened. A tentative knock at my sitting room door startled me, and I pricked my finger with the needle. Hannah poked her head around the open entry. “Your father is looking for you. He’s in the study, my lady.”
And I knew.
Blood ripped from my extremities, leaving them chilled and tremulous. My heart stopped before resuming its pounding with a vengeance. Air trapped in my lungs as they hitched, and my chest tightened with the pressure. I couldn’t breathe! My vision blackened to a pinhole. Sound drowned in the rushing of my ears. Desperately, I fought to remember Sophie’s words. Sophie. Remember….
Count! Sophie said to count breaths. One, two, three, four, five on inhale. Five, four, three, two, one on exhale. It took two attempts before my vision cleared. The rushing in my ears shifted to a more manageable ringing. Five, four, three, two—exhale. Three more counts before my lungs obeyed of their own volition. My chest was still hot and tight but leaving father waiting would do more harm than good.
* * *
How many hourshad passed staring at this door over the course of my life? Carved and chipping slightly at the edges, it remained perpetually closed and typically locked. It served as one final opportunity to count my breaths before knocking. Hands still unsteady, I managed to gather the will to knock.
“Enter,” Father said. His tone was lighter than I anticipated. It was incongruous with the turmoil inside me and, if possible, made my agitation worse.
With a final, fortifying breath, I turned the cool metal handle and stepped inside the study as he commanded. “You asked for me, Father?”
The room was familiar, though I spent little time here. It was heavy with deep midnight purple fabrics, dark woods with ostentatious golden accents, and an overwrought fireplace. As usual, father was flipping distractedly through the day’s paper, feet propped on the clean desk—he must have had Hannah remove the glasses before summoning me. His workspace was always clear. For a study, there were always remarkably few documents, ledgers, or books. What father lacked in paperwork, he more than compensated for in liquor. The shelf behind him to the left of the fireplace was well stocked with all the drink a gentleman of leisure might require (and quite a bit more).
The racing results clearly held more interest than whatever he had summoned me to discuss. Without permission to sit, I was left to hover in silence between the door and the desk.
Drat! Must not pick at fingernails. I never knew what to do with my hands when he left me to stand. The perfectly ordinary limbs suddenly became ungainly and unruly in his presence. They developed a mind of their own, battling against one another, drawing blood.
Father found such displays of unease unladylike, and torn and bitten cuticles were repulsive and symptomatic of ill-breeding. Agh! They had moved together once more, nails catching on the callus of my ring finger where my embroidery needle always landed, digging, scraping.
I moved to clasp both hands behind my back, striving to keep the movement slow and purposeful to avoid unwanted attention. His paper lowered slowly with a rustle—not as subtle as I had hoped then.
He eyed me warily, as though searching for whatever misdeed he had sensed. Finding nothing obvious from his slow appraisal, he set the pages aside. “We are to dine with a friend of mine tonight.”
I kept my face carefully blank, determined that my eyes would betray none of my shock. I had never been invited to a dinner with him. He continued, “His Grace, Alexander Hasket, the Duke of Rosehill.”
Oh. The puzzle pieces clicked into place with a sickening snap. My chest tightened once more, and I fought to keep my expression unchanged.
I mulled over my words for several seconds, but a weak “I see…” was all I could summon. I was, however, able to get a significant grip on the callous, tugging with more force.
Dark eyes, yellowed at the edges, squinted beneath wire-rimmed glasses, scrutinizing me once more, “Do you see?”
“I believe so, sir.” As I picked at a bit of skin, I laced my fingers together behind me, trapping them against one another.
“He is seeking a wife this season. This dinner is to see if you suit his needs.”
