Never Too Late (6 page)

And from that moment, Lady Devin continually amazed her with pronouncements and observations and revelations that were at once intensely personal and brilliantly cosmic in scope. It was impossible not to feel like the lady of the house was one’s closest friend. Fleetingly, she thought Lady Devin must have been quite the source of drama in her time—presumably the heart-seizing belle of her season, universally sought by the most prized bachelors and just as universally despised by her competition. And yet, from just their short acquaintance, she knew without doubt that no one could do anything but adore Lady Devin, such was her consummate charm and disarming intensity.

So there was Lady Devin. And then there was the dress.

When Honoria had first entered the house and saw the gilded mirrors and lacquered furniture, she felt so completely out of her element. Surreptitiously eyeing Lady Devin’s gown of burgundy satin, she realized her wool jacket and skirt were sadly inappropriate for the occasion. Nothing could be done about that, though. She didn’t own any gowns or finery. Minnie took sewing jobs to supplement her income, but it wasn’t fair to add to her workload by asking for frivolities. These pragmatic wools and cottons were all she needed in her daily life—not to mention, all she could reasonably afford. But then Lady Devin did the most extraordinary thing.

As they made their way to the drawing room, she grew increasingly self-conscious about her banal appearance. She was dressed for work, hair in a tidy bun, and when other guests arrived, she would stand out as dross amid flax. She fingered her high collar, feeling constricted. Even the luxurious settee on which she found herself seated made her stand out in stark unpleasant relief.

“Mrs. Duchamp . . .” Lady Devin leaned toward her, which struck her as exceedingly unusual.

“Yes, Lady Devin?”

“Do you have siblings?” What an odd question, such a non sequitur.

“No, my lady, I was an only child.”

Lady Devin nodded and said, “I had a younger sister, Melina. We were very close. She passed away ten years ago, and yet sometimes I feel her loss as if it were yesterday.”

“I’m so sorry,” Honoria responded. She well knew the keen, and sometimes, shockingly sudden stab of grief—the imagined comment or look, the thought that said loved one would have so enjoyed this joke or that novelty or a fleeting moment. The momentary forgetfulness sometimes made it seem as if said loved one would be right around the corner.

“From one grieving widow to another”—Lady Devin tilted even closer, laid her hand on Honoria’s arm, and whispered—“would you be willing to indulge my fancy just a bit?”

She startled, curious but wary.

“If it is in my power, I would be happy to consider it.”

“When we were girls, my sister and I adored dressing up in our mother’s finest frocks, and she gave us free rein, even setting aside gowns that were practically new for our amusement. We spent so many afternoons giggling and preening together, pretending we were princesses. I miss her giggling terribly.”

Honoria nodded, wishing just a little that she had a taste of such a lifestyle. Not just a sister to play with, not just the gowns for playthings—she wished briefly for the life of leisure and luxury that made such play possible.

“And so, here is my request . . . and I hope you perceive its sincerity: Would you indulge me in an evening of dress-up?”

So there was Lady Devin, who managed to convince her that borrowing a dress was not an act of charity from the hostess but rather an indulgent favor
to
the hostess.

Honoria hesitated. She schooled her face to mask her ambivalence—on one hand, she should be offended by the offer of charity and the insult to her appearance. On the other hand, she really wasn’t dressed properly . . . and it didn’t really feel like the offer was made out of charity. And, if she were being completely honest, she really, really wanted to know what it felt like to be dressed befitting the London ton. She was fairly sure it must feel heavenly.

And then, again, there was the dress.

“I feel a bit like Cinderella, all done up by her fairy godmother, even though I’d be better cast in the godmother role,” she whispered to her hostess before Lady Devin went to greet other guests. Not for the first time in the past hour, Honoria puzzled over how she’d ended up here. In Lady Devin’s guest room. Being dressed up like a china doll. Not that she’d had a serious chance to say no. Her proud yet futile resistance of the offer was ignored and finally subsumed by this remarkably gorgeous gray silk, the color of storm clouds. She chided herself for being so easily swayed, but really it was the most extravagantly lovely fabric she’d ever encountered. The full, bell-shaped skirt flowed like cool water through her fingers. The dress shimmered like fine rain and made her feel, even with all the layers of crinoline and petticoats, as though she floated. She felt so exposed, though. The neckline of this gown, according to current fashion, was much lower than her usual serviceable attire with collars up to her chin, more befitting a widowed bookseller. And she was laced in so much more tightly than she would choose; she was sure she’d crack a rib if she tried to take a deep breath. The corset added significantly to the sensation that her bosom could pop right out of the top of the dress. When one of the maids went to powder her shoulders, it felt embarrassingly intimate. She wrapped her shawl tightly around herself and proceeded to join the party.

By this time, several of the guests had arrived and had overflowed from the drawing room into the main hall. Honoria descended the stairs slowly, growing more uncomfortable and ungainly with each step. As she neared the bottom, she was startled by the sudden appearance of Lord Devin at the foot of the stairs, facing away as he spoke with a stately older couple. And, of course, startled, she would have to get tangled up in the skirts of her borrowed gown and trip halfway down the stairs. As she pitched forward, she thought,
Ah, yes, this is how it is. Greeting London’s literati by pitching myself headlong into their midst. Can I not hope for one unabashed evening?
But then the oddest thing happened. For the second time in their very brief acquaintance, as she braced to slam into the floor, Lord Devin caught her. It was not nearly as spectacular or intimate as his first rescue. He simply turned and extended his hand to her as if their movements had been choreographed; it was all she needed to anchor herself. In fact, quite possibly all anyone else saw was that, with her hand in Lord Devin’s, she lightly danced down the stairs.

Safely on the ground floor, she greeted him cordially, trying to level her breathing.

“Good evening, Mrs. Duchamp. What an honor for you to grace us with your presence,” he said, ever dryly. Then he kissed her gloved hand before blessedly releasing it. The electric tension was still there, transferring even through their gloves. The sensation immediately brought to mind their last encounter, and she had to school her face as she tamped down the little zings shooting through her. He continued. “It is a pleasure to see you looking well. May I introduce you to Lord Tennyson and his wife?”

Lady Devin, the dress, and now Lord Devin himself... with a dash of literati sprinkled into the mix. Any woman would be swept off her feet, even one who prided herself on being too old for such stuff and nonsense.

And so began a lively evening of sparkling conversation and wit, such as Honoria had never experienced before. It was difficult to avoid feeling like a sycophant in the presence of such literary luminaries. Lord Tennyson turned out to be every bit the erudite gentleman and attentive husband he was rumored to be. He and his wife exchanged frequent glances, and she wished she could interpret them, at once sad and intimate and encouraging.

Until they were all seated at the table, she had trouble keeping track of who was who. She’d observed carefully how the assemblage followed a delicate order of rank as they entered the dining room. Only when they were all together was she able to get a sense of each individual character. The only person with whom she was already acquainted was John Chapman, publisher and fellow bookseller. They maintained cordial acquaintance as his offerings were more specialized than hers. He’d told her excitedly at dinner that he was starting a new venture, a periodical called the
Westminster Review
. Astutely, Lady Devin seated him near essayists, including Mr. Thomas Carlyle.

Honoria was impressed by Lady Devin’s choice of seating arrangements overall. Clearly, she’d planned with an eye toward lively, thoughtful conversation. Essayists were seated around Chapman near one end of the table, poets claimed the center on both sides of the table, and she found herself flanked by novelists and poets on the other end of the table. She ended up seated between Lord Tennyson and novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton, who began a swiftly moving discussion about the purpose of literature. This was clearly an ongoing and potentially heated debate between them. She noticed Lady Devin had judiciously placed Lord Tennyson and Mr. Browning a reasonable distance apart and remembered, as everyone else there likely knew too, that Mrs. Browning had been considered the favorite for poet laureate the previous year, but Lord Tennyson had been named Wordsworth’s successor instead. It would have been such a crowning achievement for Browning, not only because her work deserved such honor but because it was exceedingly rare for the title to go to women. Of course, as gentlemen, no sign of animosity or discomfiture showed between them. Still, distance made sense. Honoria wondered if Tennyson’s presence was the reason for Mrs. Browning’s absence.

She could feel Lord Devin’s eyes on her. Silly and juvenile as it seemed, she was fairly certain it wasn’t her imagination. At first, when she felt the occasional prickles on her skin, she glanced at him surreptitiously and noticed swift movement of his head in other directions. Then she avoided looking at him, but her skin tingled every so often. Her lips remembered the soft touch of his; every forkful of food became an unbearably sensual exercise. Periodically, the hair on the back of her neck stood and sent a slight shiver through her. Eventually, she noticed Lady Devin was watching him not very subtly, as were the few pairs of young feminine eyes arrayed around the table. It was easy to interpret the interest of the young misses, but she was afraid of what Lady Devin might see.

When the poets around her turned to the subject of love, she felt telltale warmth wash over her skin and struggled to keep from looking in his direction.

“Surely love for one’s wife, if indeed it is a love match, is far different from love for one’s friends, even bosom friends,” said Mr. Browning. It was easy to see how smitten he still was with his wife.

“All relationships are unique, to be sure. But there are some friends with whom one shares perhaps a deeper affection than marital love,” Lord Tennyson replied quietly. The murmurs and nods suggested that everyone at the table was as familiar as Honoria with his masterpiece
In Memoriam
, written in honor of his dear friend Arthur Henry Hallam. The two had been close, and anyone present could see how deeply the loss still affected the great poet. “And there is a difference between fresh, naïve love and love that has been tested by fire and blight and been strengthened like steel.” Here he looked conspicuously at his wife, who seemed to be fighting back tears.

“I think we can agree there are those, whether lovers or friends, who we simply cannot live without,” Tennyson continued. “There are those who make our world. Oh, the world exists before them and possibly long after them, but their love gives us life and meaning and wholeness.”

Honoria felt painfully choked by this barrage of sentiments. Who talked like this at dinner? What struck her keenly was the quiet awareness that she had no such person, whether lover or friend. She knew her work held meaning, but could she truly say she
lived
? When her hand stole up instinctively to worry the button and lace that normally covered her neck, she was surprised to feel only bare skin. That notch, that warm, soft hollow at the base of her throat, reminded her sharply of the gown’s low neckline.

Again, she felt a warm flush spread along her face and shoulders, along with a prickling sensation of being observed. Feigning casualness, she looked in the direction of Lord Devin, intending to focus just past him, at the doorway. Instead, she found herself caught in his dark, open gaze. He made no pretense of accidental or fleeting eye contact. Instead, the intensity of his expression deepened into an almost elemental entitlement. His eyes seemed focused on her hand, on the spot where her fingers touched her throat. She froze under that riveting stare, momentarily unable to breathe, unable to see anything in the room but him, unaware of anything or anyone else. When she recollected herself, she quickly moved her hand back down to the table. His eyes briefly tracked the motion and then lingered again at her neck before meeting her eyes. Something about him reminded her of Jupiter—the way the tabby would crouch, belly nearly brushing the floor, body contracted, just before springing on his prey, whether it was a hapless intruding mouse or a ball of dust. She was shaken and tried hard to mask her tumultuous emotions, but, from across a crowded table, he’d somehow established a commanding intimacy without even touching her. She knew she ought to feel offended by his presumptuousness, but that didn’t help to quiet the hot licks of some undefined emotion skittering across her skin, particularly in areas caught by his eyes.

“Mrs. Duchamp, perhaps you can shed some light on the female perspective.” Lady Devin cut into her thoughts. The lady’s kind eyes begged her to speak up. “The gentlemen here seem quite sentimental this evening, do they not? Do you think love is a necessity in marriage ?”

She felt thirty pairs of eyes on her then and wished she could faint dead away instead of responding. No such luck.

“In deference to my fellow guests,” she replied as she looked around the room, “I certainly see the appeal of a love match. It makes marriage so much more tolerable, I’m sure. So much more meaningful, as Lord Tennyson has said. Yet I suspect the ideal of star-crossed lovers drawn inexorably to each other, despite all obstacles, despite all reason, is fundamentally dangerous.”