Chapter 32

Chapter Thirty-Two

L ady Stanton was very, very intent on enjoying the fruits of her labour. As far as she was concerned, she alone was responsible for her daughter's engagement, and the resulting uptick in their standing. With that in mind, it was only natural to her to accept the congratulatory gifts and notes that arrived almost daily as her due. It did not matter if they were addressed to Eva; Lady Stanton considered herself indebted to, and she would collect accordingly.

It was difficult for her to imagine that it was only a matter of weeks ago that she had been at the very lowest point of her life: She had been forced to pawn, in secret, the last of her jewels, including Eva's beloved sun pendant. She knew that Eva was missing it, had seen her reach up to touch it as was her custom, but she'd yet to say anything about it. Truthfully, she'd yet to say anything about…well, anything, really.

Eva had the gall to leave the engagement party somehow more melancholy than when she had arrived. Her dark eyes seemed permanently misty and distant, and she refused to look at her mother.

"Honestly Eva, one would think that you were awaiting a burial shroud instead of a bridal veil with the way that you are carrying on," Lady Stanton had admonished her. "This is a moment of triumph for us, and you are ruining it with your morose behaviour. It's positively ghoulish."

Eva had said nothing. She didn't even rise to the occasion of arguing with her mother, which was most unusual. There was no light, no spark within her, and that only served to irritate and frustrate Lady Stanton further.

"Eva, look at me," Lady Stanton commanded. Eva obeyed, as she always did these days, and Lady Stanton found herself half-wishing that she hadn't. It was as if a grey cloud floated in Eva's eyes, which had a far-away, almost dreamy aspect. Neither spoke as the borrowed carriage rattled down the street for several minutes. "You might be a little grateful, is all," Lady Stanton had said finally. Eva merely turned to gaze out the window again.

That was days ago, nearly a week, and there had been no change. Lady Stanton could scarcely countenance it. What could the girl possibly be objecting to? That she had been saved from a life of misery and poverty? That she had found a handsome and kind gentleman? It was the height of absurdity, as far as she was concerned.

The truly strange thing was that Lady Stanton could not shake the feeling that she was being blamed for something, that she had committed some terrible offense. It was easy enough to chalk the staring, disapproving eyes of the ton up to jealousy, or irritation that Lady Stanton had managed to claw her way back up to their ranks. It wasn't as if it was the first time she had done this: Her family was old and respected, with titles and honours dating back to the Normans, but she had gone and married new money, and her husband had Spanish blood, two strikes against him. He'd earned a title in his own right, but that was not quite the same.

But it wasn't only the ton who were glaring at her with reproach; it was even her acquaintances, like Miss Kitty Johnson, who had only ever been sweetness to her. It was even in the shockingly impertinent eyes of her servants. Though the girl was mute, Lady Stanton could see it even in the maid, Sally's eyes. It was farcical, to think that a servant could not only look so baldly at their mistress, but to look with such judgement, such condemnation! It was like the whole world was going mad.

Well, they're easily enough sorted, Lady Stanton thought confidently. I shan't have to resort to hiring the dregs anymore, but real, qualified staff. The thought of having a proper lady's maid again was nearly enough to bring tears to her eyes. Her next goal was to convince Mr. Cluett that they should make the Stanton home their new marital home, and then he would be forced to bring it up to snuff…

But she was getting ahead of herself. It was imperative that she focus on the here and now, which required all of her attention and cunning. There was an unfortunate chill of fear that crept into her subconscious every now and again, some unnamed worry that Eva would do something to ruin all of her careful work.

What needed the greater part of her attention at this very moment, more than even a moping daughter and rebellious staff, was that she had received an invitation from the Duchess of Carnegie. She was not a dowager, exactly, but most people referred to her as such. Though she had been long absent from society, she still had such sway with the ton that upon her return, she had been treated as a kind of messiah of taste and standards. Though Lady Stanton had been receiving all sorts of invitations of late, this was wholly unprecedented.

She accepted without delay, of course. The duchess had even sent a carriage for her, which Lady Stanton was tempted to be insulted by, but as it was an exceptionally luxurious barouche, she was mollified. It carried the Carnegie crest on the door, which made more than a few people stop and stare, wondering who this person was that could be important enough to be summoned by the duchess and given a seat in her private coach.

Lady Stanton couldn't help but goggle a little when she arrived at the Carnegie London home. To call it a townhouse was akin to calling Carlton House a cottage; from the very moment that she arrived, Lady Stanton was keenly aware of the opulent surroundings that she found herself in, from the marbled-floored entrance hall to the gilt moulding along the doors and ceilings. A fleet of footmen and maids waited to attend to her every need and comfort, all of them handsome and well-heeled.

She was shown into a sitting room that was large enough to play badminton in, the duchess sitting on a straight-backed chair as if it were a throne and she were a queen. The dowager duchess still wore black, as was her custom, looking like a crow among dandelions in the cheerful sitting room. Lady Stanton was not one to be cowed by anyone, but even she found that her mouth had gone a little dry as she made her bow in deference of the dowager's rank.

"Dear Lady Stanton," the duchess said, rising and holding out her hands as if they were old friends, "let us not stand on ceremony. I have invited you here so that we might be better friends."

"Friends?" Lady Stanton repeated, sitting carefully on the sofa that the dowager indicated.

"Certainly so," the dowager said, signalling to a hovering footman. "We're both veterans of society; we've been moving in the same circles for…well, it certainly shan't make either of us feel better to recount how long we've been out in society, will it?" The duchess laughed to herself, acting for all the world as if they were truly jolly companions.

Lady Stanton said nothing, wondering idly if this was some sort of ambush. Lady Stanton could vaguely remember coming out around the same time as the dowager did, but it wasn't as if they had ever been true intimates.

A trio of footmen and a maid returned, carrying the necessaries for tea, including a selection of moulded puddings that Lady Stanton could smell from her seat. Her mouth watered, and she found herself accepting a slice of each.

They spent a friendly half an hour sipping and eating, comparing stories of their youth and genteel gossip. It put Lady Stanton quite at ease, settling back a little in her seat and sighing wistfully about days gone by. It also helped that Lady Stanton very much wanted to be in her good graces, and was inclined to agree with everyone the duchess said.

"It seems like a whole different world compared to when we were making our debut, does it not?" the dowager asked, looking a little distant.

"Oh, to be sure," Lady Stanton agreed. "The way the young people dress and speak, it's wholly incomprehensible to me. And the way they dance! I thought to educate my own daughter to it, but I cannot countenance it."

The dowager nodded sympathetically. "It is a trial to find the correct balance, isn't it? On the one hand, you do not wish for daughters to be too old-fashioned, or they have no hope of landing husbands; on the other hand, it is so easy to seem as if all standards are slipping."

"Too true, too true," Lady Stanton agreed, eyeing a vanilla pudding with raspberry meringues. "I have been struggling with this very thing with my Eva."

"Well, this is why I wished to speak to you," the dowager said, delicately dabbing at her mouth with a fine napkin. "Gertrude —may I call you Gertrude?—it has come to my attention that your daughter is recently engaged to be married."

"That is so," Lady Stanton replied, lifting her chin proudly. "It is a good match, one that shall be for the benefit of both of them, I'm sure."

"Are you?" the dowager asked, arching one eyebrow aristocratically. "If you are sure , then that is all that need be said."

"What are you implying?" Lady Stanton demanded, though somewhat underscored by the fact that she was preparing to bite into a raspberry meringue.

The duchess raised her hands. "Now, don't come over all spiky now, my dear. We are friends, yes? And please remember that I have two daughters myself, so I know better than most what it is you are going through."

"But there was no question of them making brilliant marriages," Lady Stanton argued bitterly. "There was never any doubt that they would marry well."

"Perhaps that was true for Patience, but for Annabella… Well, her story could have turned out very differently, no? As you are no doubt well aware," the duchess said pointedly, pinning Lady Stanton to her seat with a significant look.

Lady Stanton could feel her cheeks warming, a blush threatening. It was not exactly a secret that she had been in the camp of those who felt that the new Duchess of Brandon was…well, not exactly one of the ton, no matter who her parents were. It wasn't inconceivable that the dowager had heard this gossip, and that Lady Stanton was a part of it; in fact, it was downright likely.

"What I mean is this," the dowager said, leaning forward a little. "There isn't a mother alive worthy of the name who would not want the best for her daughter. I am sympathetic to your situation—it is a hard thing to be widowed young, left without a son to carry on for you. This pain can manifest in different ways," she continued, pouring herself more tea. "For me, it was a fear of letting my second daughter, the only one I thought left to me, out into the world. I thought I kept her safe; in reality, I was smothering her with a pillow made of love."

"If anything, Eva has had too much freedom," Lady Stanton grumbled.

"Perhaps," the duchess nodded. "From what I have heard, she is a precocious young thing."

"Then you understand why she must be taken harshly in hand," Lady Stanton said, also leaning forward. "She is far too headstrong and likely to do something foolish."

"Foolish for whom , though?" the duchess asked quietly but firmly.

"For herself! She'd run off to marry a Parisian poet in a heartbeat if she thought it might spite me!"

"Mm," the duchess said, nodding sagely and leaning back. "I see. You are afraid that she will leave you behind, then?"

"I—what? No, that's not—I'm afraid she'll end up some poor man's tart!" Lady Stanton spluttered.

"Would you rather her be a rich man's tart?" the duchess asked archly.

"That's hardly the same thing!" Lady Stanton forced herself to take a deep breath, well aware that she was in great danger of becoming overwrought. "I have secured her a good marriage. This is the best thing for everyone."

"Is it?" the dowager asked, sipping her tea calmly. "Has Eva told you that she is happy to be married in this way?"

"Of course not, she wouldn't care to admit that I had done the correct thing," Lady Stanton scoffed.

"Has her manner changed at all? Perhaps she has become quiet, withdrawn, even? I hear that she is looking pale, which though fashionable, can be a sign of something worse," the dowager said, once again staring Lady Stanton down with penetrating blue eyes.

It was clearly useless to lie; the duchess clearly had her spies everywhere, feeding her information. "Every bride is nervous before her wedding day," Lady Stanton replied, not exactly answering the question. She waved away any residual concern.

"Perhaps so," the dowager agreed. "I simply ask you to consider what it is that you really want for your daughter. Is it worth a handsome carriage to see her wither away and become someone you do not recognise?"

Lady Stanton did not answer. It was a preposterous question, one that she should not even have to answer. What is this world really coming to? she asked herself on the journey back to her own, smaller, darker, townhouse. Now the Duchess has become a romantic, sentimental fool.

It was easy to dismiss her words as the sentimental drivel of a widow with nothing to lose, with a daughter securely married. Of course it was easy for her to give high-handed advice; she was not in danger of living beneath a bridge. These were the things that Lady Stanton said to herself, again and again, throughout the day.

It was only when she laid down at night that she could not push the interfering old woman's words away any longer. As she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her feet gone cold and her head wrapped tightly to keep her chin from sagging anymore, she felt the strangest twinge, as if she might have done something she would come to regret.