Lady Rascomb also maintained that Ophelia’s flaxen hair—which was the same shade as her mother’s and her siblings—looked best in candlelight, as it brought out the warm golden glow. But tonight, in this candlelight, she was not with her siblings or her mother. She was not even with a good friend. Good Lord, she missed Justine.
Lord Fairport was monologuing. Not that Ophelia minded all that much. She found it harder and harder to speak these days. The blow from earlier today had robbed her of it entirely. Dinner was agonizing. She did not want to hear others speak either. Words were too much, the noise of the silver forks clattering on the porcelain plates, the sound of chewing from every quarter—it was more than she could bear.
Had it been any other night, she would have excused herself. But she knew that tonight she could not. There was too much at stake. Instead, Ophelia tuned it all out. She heard not a word spoken, nor did she utter a word. It was the safest way to proceed, curled and tucked inside of herself for safety.
But now her family had conveniently left her in the drawing room alone with Lord Fairport. The opportunity for him to make his formal proposal, despite everyone acknowledging that marital contract negotiations had been dragging on for three months. Partly because during the holidays, the Rascombs absconded to a familial estate for most of a month, and while Arthur offered to return to London periodically to hasten the proceedings, Ophelia adamantly said she preferred to spend her last holiday as a Bridewell amongst other Bridewells.
But now it was nearly February. And it was cold and damp outside, and that same weather had made its home inside Ophelia’s heart. All of her girlish hopes and dreams were dashed on cobblestones, evaporating in such an onslaught. She imagined the incorporeal on the trafficked streets of Holborn, dashed to pieces by horse hooves and carriage wheels. Disintegrating.
“...and while I know that’s not a reason to begin courting, I found that once I started dancing with you, I rather enjoyed myself.” Lord Fairport looked at her expectantly.
Oh dear, she should have been paying attention. She made a noncommittal hum and nodded for him to go on.
“Many have told me this is foolish, but I say, dash it all. I said to myself, ‘I quite like Miss Ophelia Bridewell, and so if she will have me, I shall have her.’”
Ophelia blinked. Was this the proposal part? She swallowed, hoping it would help her speak. Her lips parted, but no words came.
“I see you are overcome. Am I too bold?” Lord Fairport came closer to her.
He smelled of milk. How? There was no cream on the table at dinner. But still, he smelled like a child.
Instead, Ophelia shook her head. He was not too bold. Bold was arriving at a man’s hotel room in the middle of the night. Bold was confessing her attraction—and her feelings—to a man a decade her senior. Bold was crying herself to sleep after his betrayal. It was awful. Bold hurt.
“Then Miss Ophelia Bridewell, would you consent to be my wife?” Lord Fairport asked, taking one of her hands.
She meant to speak—she honestly did. But no words could be spoken. Her body wouldn’t allow it. Instead she nodded her head.
“Wonderful!” Lord Fairport said, standing, looking as pleased with himself as a boy who had just built himself a fort. “We shall inform your family straightaway.”
Ophelia tried to be excited. Tried to speak again, but still nothing could escape her mouth. So she sat there as Fairport called her family in, as a round of champagne was opened, and congratulations were called. Eventually, after shoulder squeezes and hand holds, Fairport nudged himself into the settee beside her. His warm milk scent wafted over. It wasn’t unpleasant. But then, it wasn’t pleasant, either. It just was. And that’s how she would be, too, as his wife. Merely existing, without purpose, without effort. A bit of flotsam set out in a warm sea, carried by the tide this way and that, until finally disintegrating and falling to the bottom.
