“I don’t care what I look like?—”
“Well, I do!” Her mother’s eyes flashed. “Margaret, draw a bath. Immediately. And find something decent for her to wear. That pink gown with the rosettes will do.”
“Please, Mother. I’m in no state to entertain guests. I beg you,” Eliza said, her voice breaking as tears welled behind her hazel eyes.
“I don’t care what mood you’re in. You will bathe, you will dress, and you will come downstairs. This ridiculous display ends now,” her mother ordered.
Something inside Eliza cracked.
“Ridiculous? My best friend is dead! She’sdead, and you want me to sit through dinner as though nothing’s happened? You know nothing of grief! You don’t care about anything except your reputation and?—”
Crack.
The slap came fast and hard, snapping Eliza’s head to the side. Her cheek burned, hot with pain and shame.
“How dare you,” Lady Ramersby said, her voice dangerously quiet. “How dare you speak to me that way, you ungrateful chit! I have tolerated your hysterics for long enough. If you are not downstairs in two hours, presentable and polite, I will make you regret it. Do I make myself clear?”
Eliza’s eyes stung with the tears she had tried to hold back. She said nothing.
Lady Ramersby turned to Margaret, who stood frozen by the doorway.
“Prepare the water. Make her presentable.”
Then she swept from the room, leaving the door wide open like a violation.
The garish pink gown felt more like a costume fit for the theatre than dinner. Eliza stood in front of her mirror, barely recognizing herself. Margaret had done her best, pinning her dark blonde hair into a simple yet elegant style, applying white powder to hide the redness around her eyes, fastening the ridiculous rosettes that cascaded down the bodice with precision. But nothing could hide the hollow look in her gaze.
“You look lovely, my lady,” Margaret said softly, adjusting a final curl with a pin.
Eliza met her maid’s eyes in the reflection. Margaret was only a few years older than her, and they had always been closer to friends than servant and master. Her expression held genuine sympathy, for which Eliza was grateful.
“Thank you, Margaret,” Eliza whispered. “For trying.”
“I know it’s difficult, my lady. I cannot imagine how it must feel… What happened to Lady Whitfield… it’s a tragedy. You’re allowed to grieve.”
Lady Whitfield.
The title sent a chill through Eliza. Abigail had only been married six months. Six months of what Eliza suspected had been quiet suffering.
Eliza descended the stairs slowly, each step a walk to the gallows. Voices drifted from the drawing room. She noted her father’s nervous laugh, her mother’s bright, artificial chatter, and another voice. Male. Smooth and cultured.
She froze in the doorway.
It cannot be!
Lord Whitfield sat in her father’s favorite chair, a glass of brandy in hand, looking as fresh and composed as ever. As if he hadn’t buried his wife less than a week ago. His dark hair was perfectly groomed, his cravat immaculate. No shadows under his eyes. No grief etched into his handsome features.
Nothing like a man in mourning.
“Ah, there she is!” Lord Ramersby said, his voice too loud, too cheerful. “Eliza, my dear, come in. Lord Whitfield has been waiting.”
Eliza’s feet wouldn’t move. She stared at Whitfield, and he gazed back with an expression of mild interest, as though she were a painting he was considering purchasing.
Abigail had feared him. Eliza had seen it in her friend’s eyes during those last few months, the way she flinched whenever he entered a room, the bruises she hid under her sleeves, the tremor in her voice when she spoke his name. Eliza knew it with every fiber of her being, given the mysterious deaths of not one, but two previous wives.
He killed her.
“Eliza,” her mother said sharply. “Don’t just stand there. Come sit.”
