Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy

CHAPTER 4

“Lyddie, I’m worried.” Eliza patted her upswept hair in the mirror as Lydia tightened her corset.

“Whatever for? You know that’s my job.”

“Do you suppose the men of Hampshire have heard the extent of Theodora’s fortune? Polly seems quite the gossip.”

“They’d only know about the estate, wouldn’t they?” Lydia cast an eye toward the worn furniture in Eliza’s room. “It’s apparent your aunt lived well below her means.”

“Yes, but we aren’t poor yet. Even without her bequest.” Eliza’s hand hovered over the necklace resting against her clavicle—three pear-shaped diamonds surrounded by pearls. It had been her mother’s wedding gift from her father—a sparkling remnant of a time when money had been of little concern.

“They’ll find out about the money eventually, won’t they, Liza? The right man would marry you even if you were penniless.”

“That’s just the thing. With all the other rich Americans coming over to snatch up the bachelors in recent years, we won’t make fast friends with the local girls. They’ll see us as dollar princesses.”

“Sarah seems genuine. At least she seemed to be at tea.”

“Sarah’s already married. We’re no rivals for her.” Eliza huffed as Lydia tightened the final laces of the longline formal corset she hadn’t had occasion to wear in years—a corset that was now two sizes too small for her burgeoning waist. Too much cream in her coffee and too little care to how her clothes fit. “Can you pull it tighter, sister? I’ve gained a few pounds.” Lydia placed her knee against Eliza’s back and tugged, drawing her waist in sharply and making the rounded tops of her pale bosom swell.

“I’m not so sure about Polly, though.” Lydia frowned. “Did you see the way she looked at me when she found out I went by a different surname? She nearly gave herself a headache trying to puzzle it out.”

“If people asking questions bothers you, I don’t see why you don’t take Papa’s name. He was your father too, and people wouldn’t know the difference.”

Lydia shook her head, the emeralds in her ears twinkling. “I don’t expect you’ll understand. The world looks different through your eyes. Just because I was raised for white doesn’t mean I am. And if I gave up my name, it would be like turning my back on Mimi Lisette’s memory and my own maman, wherever she is.”

Lydia had never known her maman—Justine, Mimi Lisette’s only daughter. They’d come to Anaquitas Farm to work after the long and bloody war, when Papa was more concerned with patching cannonball holes on the roof than finding a high-society wife. But marry he did—and a French Creole wife at that, with flaming red hair and the temper to match it. Helene DeSaulnier’s dowry came with the kind of money that turned the small but prosperous farm into a booming plantation. No one seemed to mind that Eliza had arrived four months sooner than the wedding date said she should have.

But even though Maman was ever swanning in the background of Eliza’s life, soft-voiced Mimi had been the one to soothe Eliza to sleep after her nightmares, while her own mother slept on, unaware of her childish fears. On the days Eliza was supposed to be sitting at her lessons under her surly French tutor, learning to be unefille de la noblesse, she would escape to the kitchens instead, where Mimi shared a special kind of magic—one wrought of spices and measurements, patience and time. Together, she and Lydia learned to spin sugar into sticky sweet pralines at Christmastime and took turns tending the gumbo pot as Mimi told them old Haitian stories in her lilting patois.

As for Justine, Eliza’s memories were as elusive as shifting light. She only remembered a young woman with balletic, long-limbed grace who moved across polished floors on gliding feet. When Eliza asked about Lydia’s mother, one afternoon in springtime when Lydia had stormed off in a fit of pique over Eliza’s new Easter dress, Mimi’s eyes had grown hard. Justine fell in a bad way with a white preacher. That man wanted her, but he didn’t want no child. After Lydia was born, my Justine run off. I never seen her since. At this, Mimi’s eyes spilled over, her dark brown irises clouding to black. Eliza learned not to ask about Justine again, because when Mimi cried, her tears brought sadness into the whole house.

But the truth had come years later, crashing like a rogue wave from behind. She would never forget the betrayal she felt as she sat next to Lydia in the attorney’s stifling office, her parents three days cold in the tomb. To my natural firstborn daughter, Elizabeth Marie-Claire Sullivan, I bequeath my land and property. And to my natural-born, undocumented daughter, Lydia Anne Tourant, I bequeath . . .

She hadn’t heard the rest of the will. She’d only heard Lydia’s sobbing.

The feckless preacher had been a lie to protect the reputation of the man—the father—Eliza had thought she’d known. The man who taught her how to read a green horse and gave her a roan stallion on her tenth birthday. The gentleman farmer who had walked with her over spring pastures and knelt in his fine clothes to show her the subtle differences between the sprouting alfalfa and fescue. A man built like a bulwark, with a ready laugh and a dimple in his chin, known for his work ethic and how well he treated his servants.

But her noble papa had been an invention, his honor forever altered by a single line of script. The man who had scorned others for taking improper liberties with their servants had been a hypocrite. While he’d been willing enough to provide for the child he’d gotten with Justine, he hadn’t had the decency to acknowledge Lydia as his trueborn daughter until death absolved him of facing his shame. Eliza was wrestling with it still. But at least they had one another. With Lydia, she’d never be alone in the world.

Eliza emerged from her broken memories with a shake of her head. As she fastened her pearl earrings, she caught and held Lydia’s gaze in the mirror. “You know, cher, I’ve grown fond of things the way they are. You and I, living a free life, without men telling us what to do. Between Theo’s will, and now this ball—I’m feeling backed into a corner.” She thought of Mr. Brainerd’s hound curling at her feet. “I think I’d rather have a dog than a husband. Their hearts are much more steadfast.”

Lydia laughed and shrugged into her dress—a burgundy Worth concoction shot through with gilt beads. It was her best color, meant to set the amber freckles in her eyes aflame. “Yes, but if you want to remain in England and construct this fantastic new life you’ve imagined, you’ll need to do as your aunt wished. We won’t have enough money to last forever, even with the sale of the farm—not the way you like to spend it,” Lydia chided. “Besides, being married wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I’d like to marry as soon as I find someone suitable. People are already starting to give me queer looks.”

Eliza gave a rueful snort. “Yes, sister. I know those looks well.”

“I was thinking of our old suitors the other day. Do you remember Eustace?”

“Poor Eustace. He tried his best at winning you, didn’t he?”

“He was hopeless. My toes are only now recovering from being stomped upon. I found out his poor wife is on her fifth child in as many years!” Lydia turned and lifted the cascade of ringlets from her graceful neck. “Do me up, would you?”

Eliza grew pensive again as she fastened Lydia’s buttons. “I didn’t care for any of the men in New Orleans. Except for Jacob. He wrote to me from Cuba. Twice. I never told you.”

“Oh?”

“He asked me to marry him.”

Lydia gave a sharp frown over her shoulder. “And did you answer him?”

“I did . . .”

“You turned him down, didn’t you?”

“Only because he deserved better, Lyddie.” Better than a stupid girl who hadn’t stood up for their love in the face of her mother’s rage. Better than a girl who had hidden herself in a dark house, full of shame at her own recklessness. Eliza struggled with Lydia’s final button, which stubbornly refused to be threaded through its loop. “He married a girl—a nurse—he met at the army hospital. Her name was Yolanda, I think.”

“Well, you can’t blame him for marrying someone else. You were being foolish. I don’t . . .” Lydia sighed. A crease etched between her brows. “There will be someone that catches your eye again, Liza. Someone who will make you just as happy as Jacob did. But you must give things a chance.”

“Yes, but three months is hardly enough time to be choosy . . . to even get to know someone. And what if no one fancies me? I am getting old, after all.”

“You may be old, but I’ve not seen a truly pretty girl since we’ve set foot in this town. I’ve a feeling your odds are quite good.”

“You are horrid!” Eliza said, laughing despite herself. “My eyes are much kinder than yours, cher.” She stepped into her layered, frothy petticoats, then into the gown of cornflower-blue silk. The dress had been made in Paris and cost more than most men made in a year, but it exaggerated her curves in a decidedly becoming fashion. Society balls were such a game—the fine clothing and dancing, the artful flirting. Tiring. All of it. Eliza checked her reflection in the mirror and pulled on her gloves, then gave a swift kiss to her sister’s cheek. “I suppose if I must marry, I’d hope to find a husband who respects my dreams as well as his own—and one who’ll cover me with passionate kisses, too.”

“Careful with that,” Lydia teased. “You may end up like poor Eustace’s wife.”

Lydia and Eliza stood on the terrace of the rambling Tudor mansion before them, waiting to be let inside. A glittering queue wound through the fragrant courtyard—a sea of unfamiliar faces wearing nodding feathers and silk top hats. It was a temperate night, but Eliza was growing dizzier and more flushed by the moment.

“Are you all right?” Lydia asked.

“Yes, only a bit overheated. My corset is bothering me.”

“It wouldn’t be so tight if you stopped eating so many sweets.”

The line advanced as footmen led the guests through the gabled doors. A maid took their cloaks and smoothed out their skirts before handing their calling cards to a haughty butler, who raised an eyebrow at Eliza before ushering them into the receiving room. An escort came forward and took her elbow, leading her over the threshold of a half-timbered drawing room blazing with electric chandeliers.

“Miss Elizabeth Sullivan, grandniece of the late Lady Sherbourne. From America,” the butler announced in a booming voice.

Eliza snapped her fan shut, took a deep breath, and stepped forward. Everyone seemed to stop what they were doing at once. Monocles were raised, men coughed, and women whispered to one another. Her heart fluttered like an insect trapped in a jar.

Remember to smile, you look so unpleasant when you do not. Her mother’s voice was a ghost in her head, harsh and cutting as the posture board she’d fashioned to the back of Eliza’s chair, knife points ready to dig into her shoulder blades if she slouched. Mon Dieu, cher! Keep your blessed back straight.

Liveried servants stood at attention all along the red-and-gold-carpeted floor, presenting trays of champagne. A quartet played atmospheric music at just the right volume to accompany conversation. Gardenias spilled from vases set upon plinths of marble, perfuming the air. The bouquet of colorful ball gowns streaming through the room was a decadent sight.

Eliza thanked her escort and made her way toward Polly Whitby, who was chattering away with a stunning woman dressed in violet shantung, her dark hair braided into a high crown over her valentine of a face. They turned as one. “Miss Sullivan.” Polly’s gaze raked over Eliza’s gown, pausing on the circlet of diamonds around her neck. “My, but you do show up well.”

Eliza inclined her head. “Miss Whitby. You look lovely yourself.” And she did, although Polly’s mauve concoction, with its exaggerated ballon sleeves and ruffled bodice, was decidedly four seasons outdated.

The dark-haired woman tilted her pointed chin to Eliza and offered her hand. “Una Moseley. Pleasure. Our men will be agog. Americans rarely come to Cheltenbridge.”

“Miss Moseley, you are too kind. But I assure you, American or not, I’m nothing extraordinary.”

Una’s brown eyes narrowed, though the crisply etched line of her pink mouth never wavered from a smile. “Indeed.”

Lydia was introduced and joined them, her escort placing a saucer of champagne in her gloved hand as he took his leave. Eliza noted the slight tremor as Lydia lifted her glass to her lips. She wrapped a comforting arm around her sister’s waist. Large gatherings among strangers always rattled Lydia.

“So, there’s two of you. Polly, you didn’t tell me that.” Una smirked, studying Lydia. “And this one’s even more exotic. What hope will the humble maidens of Hampshire have now?” Any pretense of friendliness had gone. There was nothing but icy disdain in Una’s voice. Eliza’s arm tightened protectively around her sister.

“Miss Sullivan! Miss Tourant!” It was Sarah, bustling up in penny-bright silk to save the treacherous conversation. “Getting acquainted, I see.” Her gaze lingered on Eliza’s hoisted bosom as she took her hand in greeting. “My goodness. Your gown certainly flatters your . . . eyes. I just knew you and your sister would get all the attention tonight! People are positively abuzz. Let’s introduce you to Grandmama. She’s been anxious to meet you both. Come along now, let’s show you off.” Sarah crooked her arm through Eliza’s elbow, her grasp firm as she pulled her away from Una. “A pit viper in silk, that one,” she whispered. “Do be careful what you say around her. Both of them, rather. Polly has a gentle heart, but she can be swept away by envy and forget herself.”

They trailed to the end of the long room, the eyes of the mingling guests falling on them as they passed. In a recessed alcove, an elderly woman with gaunt features sat upon a carpeted dais, surrounded by small dogs that resembled miniature prancing lions. She was dressed in full mourning, a dark crepe bonnet shadowing her wrinkled face, though her eyes were lively and keen, and they lit up when she saw Sarah. “Ah, granddaughter. Look at your gown. So exquisite. I see you took my advice and finally saw my seamstress.”

Sarah gave a tight smile and dropped a curtsy. “Grandmama. You’re sharp as ever. This is Elizabeth Sullivan and her sister, Lydia Tourant, from New Orleans. Remember, I told you all about them. Eliza has inherited Lady Sherbourne’s estate.”

“Oh, yes.” Countess Gregory assessed Eliza and Lydia, an inscrutable expression playing over her face. “Lovely. Your gowns are from Worth?”

“Yes, my lady. We are honored to make your acquaintance.” Eliza gave the deep curtsy she’d been taught at cotillion, her knees nearly folding to the floor.

Lady Gregory erupted in a gale of high-pitched laughter. The tiny dogs echoed with shrill barks. “Easy, child. Save your court curtsy for the queen. I’m not that important.” The dowager shifted in her seat, leaning forward. “Bertie loves girls like you—saucy, decadent Americans with your new money.” The dogs growled. “Oh, I know. I shouldn’t call him Bertie. He’s going to be our king soon, God save us.” She sighed and sat back. One of the dogs hiked its leg and pissed on the countess’s hem. Eliza bit her lip to stifle her grin.

“Eliza’s mother was French,” Sarah said. “Descended from Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

“I know all about Theodora’s French relatives and their supposed aristocratic ties, Sarah. It’s not at all unique or special.” Lady Gregory’s lips hardened into a line across her face as she turned to address Eliza. “You have a fine country house now, Miss Sullivan, and you and your Creole sister may very well marry noble husbands as your kind seek to do, but I’m sorry. You’ll never be one of us.”

Eliza’s shoulders stiffened and her smile faded. She glanced at Lydia. Her eyes glistened at their corners, her round cheeks flushing as burgundy as her ball gown.

“Grandmama!” Sarah admonished. “You promised.”

Lady Gregory batted her fan. “Child, at my age, I’ll speak my mind. These American chits are ever crossing the pond to snatch up our bachelors. And the scandals they bring!”

“My lady,” Eliza said, her ears burning, “with all due respect, I did not come to Hampshire to seek a husband, but to collect my fortune. I am a businesswoman, not a debutante.”

Lady Gregory gave a condescending smile. “Ah, an entrepreneur. Agriculture? Mining?”

“Horses, ma’am. Fast ones.”

Lady Gregory laughed sharply. “Appropriate.”

“Ma’am.” Eliza bit the inside of her cheek and backed away. “I’m honored to have made your acquaintance.”

Once they were out of earshot, Lydia grasped Eliza’s hand. “I had no idea a member of polite society could be so rude.”

“I’m stupefied,” Eliza whispered. “The way she looked at us! Like we were common slatterns.”

“We don’t belong here, Liza. I want to go home.”

Sarah caught up to them, white-faced and breathless. “Goodness. I’m so very sorry. My grandmother is old guard, and with that comes a hefty dose of prejudice. It’s atrocious. I promise, I do not feel the way she does. Please, darlings, let’s make merry. Your evening is not lost. You’ll find the other ladies most agreeable.”

While Eliza had her doubts, Sarah’s garrulous manner couldn’t help but put her at ease. She showed them to the refreshment room, babbling the whole way, where they had a light supper of kippers and cheese at the buffet. Even Lydia’s mood improved after two tumblers of champagne punch. A bugle sounded, and Sarah and Polly led the way to the ballroom, where the orchestras were warming up on opposite ends of the room. Two lines began to form in the middle of the dance floor—on one side the ladies, on the other, the men.

“Come, let’s have a turn!” said Sarah, grasping Eliza’s hand and pulling her into the quadrille. As the men and women circled one another, there were very few faces that stood out to Eliza. Still, she met her would-be suitors, young and old alike, with courtesy as they sped through the steps of the dance. They were making their final pass through the room when she glimpsed a man standing at the top of the staircase. He was strikingly tall, dressed in well-cut white tie with a glimmering emerald peeking out from the folds of his lapel. He met her gaze and smiled. Eliza’s stomach did a somersault.

“There’s Viscount Havenwood,” Sarah whispered as they passed each other down the line. “Malcolm.”

She lost the dance as she followed Lord Havenwood with her eyes, standing up on tiptoes to see over the throng of revelers. Too late, she realized she hadn’t taken a breath for some time. Black fringes clouded her vision and a distant ringing sang in her ears. As it had been threatening all evening, heat and ice enveloped her at the same time, the floor tilted at a mad angle, and all the air went out of the room. When she came to, the acrid smell of ammonia in her nostrils, she was lying on a divan in a narrow hallway. Her mouth felt as if someone had stuffed it full of mattress ticking.

Lydia was there, swabbing at her face with a cool cloth while a man with a blond moustache and spectacles leaned over her. “Ah. She’s coming around. Hello, Miss Sullivan. I’m Dr. Fawcett—Clarence—the one what caught you. I’m only in medical school, but I can fetch Dr. Gilmore in a moment to have a proper look at you. I don’t believe he saw you faint.”

“No, no. I’m fine, really. I am.” Eliza pushed up onto her elbows, her head swimming. “I’ve only laced my corset tighter than I should have.”

“Are you quite sure you’re all right?” Clarence asked, blinking. His spectacles made his gray eyes owlish and comically large for his face. “You may faint again if you exert yourself.”

“I’ll be careful, Doctor. I promise.”

“Right.” The doctor turned to Lydia, his mouth twitching beneath his moustache. “After your sister is recovered, I should like a place on your dance card, Miss Tourant, if you’d do me the honor.”

Lydia beamed. “Of course! I’d be delighted.”

He nodded. “Very good, very good. Do take your time getting up, Miss Sullivan. Have some water instead of champagne. And for goodness’ sake, don’t lace your corsets so tightly. Women’s fashions can be such a danger in their frivolity.”

Lydia helped Eliza loosen her stays in the washroom, going on about Dr. Fawcett’s chivalry and strong arms as they made their way back to the outskirts of the ballroom. Thanks to Sarah, their dance cards were soon filled, and Eliza was kept busy turning waltzes in the arms of eligible men from all over the countryside. As for the mysterious Lord Havenwood, he’d disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived, much to Eliza’s disappointment.

The orchestra struck up a boisterous polka, her least favorite dance. She thanked her partner and excused herself from the dance floor. As she made her way through the swirling skirts and feathered headdresses toward the refreshment room and its gloriously heaving dessert table, someone suddenly grasped her elbow—too firmly—and spun her around. She found herself face-to-cravat with a man. She lifted her eyes to a finely sculpted chin, a sandy flop of wavy hair, and a pair of sapphire-blue eyes. He was certainly a fine specimen of masculine charm, although a bit too bold in his advances for her tastes. As if sensing her discomfort, he released her elbow and gave a lopsided grin. “Miss Sullivan. Beg pardon. I was only coming to claim my spot on your dance card.” He bowed stiffly. “Charles Lancashire, sixth Earl of Eastleigh.”

Ah, the bachelor earl Mr. Brainerd had mentioned. Eliza quirked an eyebrow. “I don’t recollect seeing your request on my card, Lord Eastleigh.”

“Perhaps Lady Gregory didn’t deign to tell you.” He extended his hand. “We arranged it during your fainting spell. Shall we? The polka is my best dance.”

She truly doubted that Lady Gregory would suddenly turn so solicitous, but who was she to spurn an earl? Especially with the clock ticking on a fortune that she might very well lose if she remained too reticent. With a resigned sigh, Eliza allowed herself to be led back to the dance floor. She soon regretted it.

Lord Eastleigh put her through the paces of the dance so quickly, and lifted her off her feet so many times, that breathing, much less conversation, proved nearly impossible. Infernally hot and hemmed in by strange faces, Eliza felt the need for air, or else she would faint again, just as Dr. Fawcett had warned. With a hasty apology, she broke away from Lord Eastleigh and rushed to the French doors lining the ballroom, relieved to see they led to an exterior balcony.

Alone and thankful for the quiet, she rested against the stone railing. The soft strains of a Brahms waltz floated through the closed doors. Eliza counted its steady three-four rhythm to control her breathing. Once her head had ceased its frantic spinning, she lifted her eyes and gazed out over the formal, manicured landscape below. A fog had begun to settle in the low places, the wild spikes of evergreens punctuating the mists beyond the gardens. It was lovely and cool, as far removed from the overcrowded ballroom as she could get at the moment.

“I saw you swoon. I do hope Fawcett was attentive to your needs. Our young doctor always seems to be at hand when the most attractive ladies need catching.”

Eliza startled at the deep voice and turned from the railing, her heartbeat quickening. It was the viscount—Lord Havenwood. He strode into the yellow swatch of light filtering from the ballroom, tucking a long-stemmed smoking pipe into his waistcoat. He joined her at the balustrade, the earthy musk of saddle leather accompanying him. Up close, his features were lean and fine-boned, with high cheekbones and a well-cut jawline, surrounded by an abundance of curling, dark hair. He offered a smile, which thinned out his lips and gave him a wolfish demeanor. “You look frightened. Have I said something to alarm you?”

“Not at all, Lord Havenwood. I only thought I was alone.”

“As did I,” he said, his voice lifting. “I do hope I’m not a disappointment.”

“Quite the contrary.” She pulled in a deep breath and turned to face him, her hip pressing against the railing. “I was just taking in the view. We don’t have landscapes like this where I’m from.”

“New Orleans, isn’t that right?”

“Yes. I suppose you’ve already heard all sorts of things about me.”

“I daresay your arrival has been the favored talk of Cheltenbridge.” He gave another teasing smile. “And if I may, Miss Sullivan, it appears I’ve been the subject of some prior conversation as well—we’ve yet to be formally introduced, though you’ve greeted me by name as if we had been.”

“You’ve caught me off my manners. I fear my nerves have gotten the better of me tonight.” She laughed, too brightly. “Sarah Nelson told me who you were when you came in.”

“It’s all right. I’m used to being talked about and your lack of guile is charming. I’d imagine it’s quite tedious to be the shining new fish in a muddy, small pond.”

“Yes, more than I expected. I’m not used to this kind of attention.”

“Indeed. We’re rather fond of American girls at the moment,” he said. “You’re so fresh, witty, and, well—rich. We’ve been conquered by our own beautiful traitors, it seems.”

“I’m not so sure about the traitorous part, my lord,” Eliza said coyly. “A certain river battle with cannons made it quite clear Louisiana would never become your colony.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He lifted a brow. “Should we be enemies, then?”

“As we’re neighbors, I’d rather not be.” There was a heavy pause as the boldness of her words lingered between them. Eliza felt those marvelous eyes falling over her again—first on her hands, then on the pulsing hollow of her throat.

“I saw you on the night you arrived, you know.”

“Oh?”

“At your window, before the storm. I’d heard a sound like a pistol shot and looked over my shoulder. The wind was blowing your nightgown about. I couldn’t help but notice.”

The sly innuendo in his voice met its mark. A flushing heat climbed from Eliza’s bosom to her neck. Unbidden attraction danced within her anxiety—a swell of carnal tension that frightened as well as thrilled her. She suddenly wished she had a cigarette—anything to distract herself from the florid green of his eyes. He’d captured her attention as surely as if she’d been caught in a snare. “I . . . I saw you as well,” she stammered. “You sit handsomely on your horse, Lord Havenwood.”

“I do enjoy night rides. They bring me out of the dank air of Havenwood Manor. Do you ride, Miss Sullivan?”

“I grew up on a farm with stables. Thoroughbreds. I’ve been in the saddle since I was a girl.”

“Perhaps we’ll ride, then. When I come to call.”

Eliza’s mind swirled as she grasped for a response. Mon Dieu, where was her head? She closed her eyes and reopened them. “Yes, I’d . . .”

But her words had gone unheard. Where he’d been but a moment before, there were now only shadows.