"Itispathetic. I am two-and-twenty years old, Helena. I should have outgrown this foolishness years ago. I should have accepted that Martin does not want me and continued with my life. Instead, I have been…" She laughed bitterly, the sound harsh in the quiet room. "I have been writing letters of the heart to a man who probably cannot even remember what color my eyes are."
"He knows what color your eyes are."
"How could you possibly know that?"
"Because I have seen the way he looks at you." Helena held up a hand to forestall Vanessa's protest. "I know you do not believe me. I know you have convinced yourself that Martin feels nothing for you. But I have watched you together, Vanessa. At balls, at dinners, at every social gathering where your paths cross. And I have seen things that make me wonder if you are quite as hopeless as you believe."
"What things?"
"The way his eyes follow you across a room, even when he is supposed to be engaged in conversation with someone else. The way his expression changes when you laugh,as though your laughter is the most fascinating sound he has ever heard. The way he always,alwaysfinds an excuse to speak with you, to dance with you, to be near you." Helena's gaze was steady, certain. "Those are not the behaviors of a man who is indifferent."
"You are seeing what you want to see. Martin flirts with everyone. It is simply his nature. He cannot help being charming any more than the sun can help shining."
"He does not look at everyone the way he looks at you."
"Helena…"
"And he does not dance the supper waltz with everyone. That is the most intimate dance of the evening, Vanessa. He could dance it with any woman in London, Lady CatherinePrice, who has, for two successive Seasons, distinguished him with such unremitting and public preference; Miss Beaumont, whose mother has practically offered a dowry just to secure an introduction; any of the dozen other young ladies who would sell their souls for a single dance with the Duke of Montehood." Helena's voice was firm, insistent. "He chooses to dance it with you every time…without fail.
Vanessa pulled her hand away, wrapping her arms around herself as though she could physically hold herself together. "That means nothing. He dances with me because he has known me forever. Because it would be strange if he did not. Because Edward would ask questions if Martin suddenly started avoiding me."
"Or because he wants an excuse to hold you," Helena said quietly. "Because the supper waltz is the only socially acceptable opportunity he has to put his arms around you, and he takes it every single time."
The words struck somewhere deep, somewhere Vanessa had been carefully avoiding. She thought of the last waltz, Martin’s hand at her waist, his breath warm against her hair, the way he had held her just slightly closer than propriety demanded. The way his thumb had brushed against her side, so lightly it might have been accidental. The way his eyes had darkened when she askedsomeone like you, I suppose?
You deserve someone who matches you. Someone who challenges you, infuriates you, makes you feel something other than comfortable contentment.
She shook her head, banishing the memory. "Even if what you say is true and I do not believe it is, I cannot face him. Not now. Not knowing what he knows." She pressed her palms against her eyes, as though she could block out the world. "I need time, Helena. Time to compose myself. Time to find asolution to how to exist in the same city as a man who has read my diary."
"How much time do you believe you need?"
"I do not know…a week, perhaps a month…possibly the rest of my natural life." She laughed, though there was no humor in it. "I have considered moving to the Americas. I understand opportunities abound for women willing to work."
"You would make a terrible pioneer."
"I would make an excellent pioneer. I am stubborn and resourceful and entirely too proud to ask for help."
"Those are not the qualities of a pioneer. Those are the qualities of someone who would die of exposure within the first week because she refused to admit she did not know how to build a fire."
Despite everything, Vanessa felt her lips twitch. "You may have a point."
"I usually do." Helena squeezed her hand. "Promise me you will not do anything impetuous. Promise me you will give yourself time to think before you decide the Americas are your only option."
"I promise nothing."
Helena sighed, but she did not press further. She stayed for another hour, talking of lighter things, of Edward's apparent interest in her, which made her blush and stammer adorably; of the upcoming Season and the events they might attend; of anything and everything except the catastrophe that hung over Vanessa's head like a sword.
When she finally left, Vanessa felt a little bit better, though not entirely. At least she was not alone in this. At least she had one person who knew the truth and did not think her pathetic for it.
She lay back against her pillows and stared at the ceiling, resuming her contemplation of a life lived in permanent seclusion.
Perhaps she would take up watercolors. Recluses were always painting watercolors. Or needlework…she could become one of those women who produced endless samplers with inspirational phrases stitched in careful letters.Blessed are the meek.Home is where the heart is.I once wrote letters of affection to a duke and now I cannot show my face in public.
The thought startled a laugh out of her…bitter, yes, but still a laugh. Perhaps she was not entirely broken after all.
She thought about what Helena had said. About the way Martin looked at her. About the supper waltz and the excuses to be near her. She had dismissed it all as vain expectations, but now, alone in the quiet of her room, she allowed herself to consider the possibility.
What if Helena was right?
