Nothing But Scandal (11 page)

Elizabeth straightened her skirts, less because they needed it than to give her nervous hands something to do.

She was tired of living in hiding. There’d been no word from Harold Wetherby in the months she’d been gone, or Charity would have found a way to tell her. Likely he wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Thank heaven for small things.

Going home would not be pleasant, but at least it wouldn’t be dangerous.

Nor did it have to be permanent, Elizabeth told herself as she stepped from her hiding place. As soon as she found respectable employment, she could be on her own again.

She walked slowly into the salon, interrupting the tense conversation. “It’s all right, Bea. You needn’t make excuses for me any longer. I’ll go home.”

It was strange. Before “the scandal,” Elizabeth was always on the receiving end of endless lectures about her responsibilities and her mother’s expectations for her. Now, though she’d moved back into her old room, no one seemed to know what to do with her. Clearly, she was doomed to spinsterhood, but no one spoke about it. Uncle George hadn’t offered to support her—not that she wanted him to. Nor had anyone suggested she seek employment. With Bea’s assistance, she’d arranged to interview for a seamstress’s position next week, but she’d no intention of telling her family before she knew the outcome.

Besides Charity, there was hardly anyone to talk to. Many of the servants, aware of the Medford family’s impending financial doom, had left to seek employment elsewhere. Emma, once as much friend as servant, was among those who’d left. So was the butler, who’d been replaced by a surly man who acted far loftier than merited, for a man willing to settle for the limited wages the family could pay.

All in all, it was a quiet, strained household.

On Tuesday morning after her return home, she sat in the salon, pretending to work at her needlecraft, while the rest of the household pretended she wasn’t there.

Elizabeth sighed and stared out the window, embroidery forgotten. She
had
to think of something. She was willing to admit she’d acted foolishly in falling for Alex, but if she didn’t cobble her life back together soon, she’d spend the rest of it under her uncle’s thumb.

The door opened and Charity clomped in, then flung herself dramatically on the settee. “Ugh. Mother’s got to stop. I can’t blame you for leaving, E. I might do the same.”

“No! Charity, what are you talking about?” Her lovely sister really did appear disgruntled.

“She’s trying to make me a match. I haven’t even had a Season, but she says that won’t matter to certain gentlemen. Her only qualification seems to be that the gentleman is wealthy enough not to care whether I have a dowry.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said dryly. “I’m aware of that qualification. Though I was unaware she’d set her new hopes on you.”

“I don’t see why we can’t all just retire to the country. Uncle George’s home is not so very small, nor do I require as much upkeep as he seems to believe.”

“Don’t you want to marry eventually?”

Charity sat up. “Perhaps. But not like this. Do you know what she told me today? Lord Hetterton expressed possible interest. Whatever ‘possible’ means, she did not say, but do you know how old that man is?”

Elizabeth tried to dredge a face from her memory. “Hetterton? Oh! Yes. Why, he must be approaching fifty. Where did you encounter him?”

“A tea I attended with Mother. He spent nearly an hour telling me of his spinster sister’s fondness for small dogs.”

“Ugh. How dismal.”

“Well, thankfully he’s not knocking at the door yet. Though, honestly, I don’t think Mother or Uncle are in the mood to listen to my preferences in finding a suitor.”

Guilt gnawed Elizabeth. “This whole debacle is my fault. You shouldn’t be in this situation.” All her life Elizabeth had been the responsible one—at least until the past few months. And while she didn’t mind her own reputation being smeared, it bothered her that, ultimately, her sister would be the one to pay the price.

Charity shrugged. “As I said, I don’t blame you for running. I encouraged it, right? Wetherby was vile. You just
couldn’t
marry him.” She wrinkled her nose. “Hetterton isn’t vile, or even a complete toad. Dull, but not unkind. I just never imagined marrying so soon, or someone so old.”

Her sister’s plight stayed with Elizabeth the remainder of the afternoon, and she was still dwelling on it when her uncle summoned her shortly before dinner.

“Elizabeth, I have excellent news.”

She eyed her uncle. Their definitions of excellent were considerably different.

“Harold Wetherby will be joining us for dinner. He’s been traveling, and, with luck, may not have heard of all your escapades. I urge you to behave well toward him. He may consider renewing his suit.”

“He’s hardly likely to forget I disappeared just before our engagement was announced.”

Uncle George folded his arms across his sizeable middle. “You were distraught. You were very close to your father, and his death had an impact on your already delicate sensibilities.” His lips twisted nastily around the words, making it clear he didn’t buy a word of what he was saying.

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. Too bad her uncle hadn’t considered her “delicate sensibilities” when he’d castigated her and threatened to beat some sense into her upon her return.

“Uncle—” she began.

“Young lady, do not argue with me. Harold doesn’t move in the higher circles of the ton, so he may not be privy to the gossip concerning yourself and Beaufort. You do not deserve another chance, but you may get one. It would ease the family circumstances if you did not waste it.”

Ah, guilt. He was trying to shame her into being nice to Harold. Well, it might ease
her uncle’s
circumstances if she married Harold, but Elizabeth failed to see how it would ease her own. Although, there was Charity to consider. A renewal of Harold’s suit would take the pressure off her sister. If Elizabeth could stomach it.

“Comb your hair and put on a fresh gown. You must do your absolute best to appeal to the man. And do not think you can fool me with anything less. You’re attractive enough. Make him notice your charms.”

Harold was the last person she wanted noticing any charms she might possess. And what was wrong with the gown she was wearing?

She sighed inwardly. As the “ruined” ward of the family, she’d no position from which to argue. All the more reason to find a way to support herself—and soon. She gave a thin smile. “I’ll see what I can do, Uncle.”

He narrowed his eyes. “See that you do. And be prompt about it. I want you ready the moment he arrives. He mustn’t think you one of those vain, tardy women who deem it acceptable to keep a man waiting.”

Elizabeth grumbled but went to make herself presentable. She didn’t put any particular effort into it, but her uncle would find no fault with her pale gray silk gown, or the matching ribbon wound through the nest of hair gathered at her nape.

She drifted listlessly back down to the salon. The hour was yet early; it was unlikely Harold would arrive for some time. Her embroidery sat abandoned near the chaise. She eyed it distastefully. Who cared if there were rosebuds at the hem of her sleeves? Still, she picked it up, if for no other reason than to avoid an “idle hands” comment should her mother walk by.

She gazed vacantly at the fireplace, vaguely registering that the Limoges vase that used to sit on the mantle was gone. And the roses of the wallpaper were less faded in one square area where a painting had been removed.

Sold. A last, desperate attempt to slow the family’s descent into genteel poverty.

She swallowed. The lack of pretty things didn’t bother her nearly as much as the feeling she was trapped.

“There you are!” Charity entered, carrying a plateful of scones, which she thrust in Elizabeth’s direction. “I thought you might like some of these.”

The fact that her sister carried the tray—there were too few servants left—was another reminder of the changes.

“Thank you. Has Harold arrived yet?” Elizabeth asked.

“No. I just heard from Uncle that he was coming.”

The two young women stared at each other, each one’s misery mirrored on the other’s face. It pained Elizabeth to see her normally irrepressible sister so dispirited.

“I hate Father,” Elizabeth declared.

“Elizabeth!” Charity glanced around as if expecting a lightning strike or vengeful ghost. “You do not. ’Tis ill to speak so of the deceased.” She set down the tray and handed her sister a buttered scone.

Elizabeth sighed. “I’m sorry. I did love him. He laughed with me, took me on outings, and never scolded my lack of grace the way Mother always did at my lessons. But I hate that he put us, me, in this position.”

“I know.”

“He acted as though everything was perfect, and I could marry whomever I pleased, whenever I pleased. I would have much preferred he be honest about our circumstances.”

“Perhaps he truly thought his misfortune temporary, and that he’d recover without anyone knowing. After all, it would be a hard thing for a man to come to his family and tell them he’s let them down.”

“He wouldn’t be the first,” Elizabeth pointed out.

“True, but that doesn’t necessarily make it easier.”

“I know.” Elizabeth sighed and bit into her scone. “These are very good. I’m certain I won’t be able to touch my dinner. Not sitting across the table from Harold.”

“Let’s not speak of that yet.”

“You’re right. It’ll come soon enough.” She polished off the scone, then stood and paced. “I’m just so angry, Charity! At Father, Uncle, Harold, everyone. Even Mother. Couldn’t she at least have given Father a proper funeral? Surely that was more important than this charade she insists on, staying in town with her head high when we can barely afford to get by.”

Charity tugged at her hair, an old, familiar habit that signaled her own distress. Elizabeth sat again.

“I don’t understand it either.” Charity bowed her head. “I never got to tell him good-bye. I asked if she’d open the casket, but she’d had it sealed and locked.”

Elizabeth frowned. It had bothered her, too, not to see her father’s body as she made her final farewells. They said he’d been thrown from the carriage in the accident, but surely they could have cleaned him up enough for a proper funeral. Was her mother truly as cheap and uncaring as that?

Not wanting to upset Charity further with her misgivings, Elizabeth put an arm around her sister. “Oh, honey. I’m sure he knows we wanted to say good-bye. And I’m sorry I said I hated him. I’m just upset right now.”

“It’s understandable.” Charity nodded. “I’d be angry, too, in your place.”

“Ugh. Why
does
Uncle George hate me so much?”

Charity’s eyes softened. “It isn’t just you. He was beastly to Mother while you were gone. Berated her constantly—said she thought herself better than the rest of the family, marrying into nobility, as she did, and look where it had gotten her.”

“Oh, dear.” Elizabeth wasn’t on the best of terms with her mother, but she disliked her uncle more.

“He sees us as a problem to be taken care of, preferably with as little of his own money as possible. That’s why he’s so unkind to you. Marrying you off to Harold would rid him of one of us, at least, but you won’t do it.”

“Not willingly.” Elizabeth gave her sister a quick squeeze, then pinned on a smile. “First things first. Help me think of a way to get through tonight.”

A spark of Charity’s usual spirit gleamed in her eyes as she quipped, “Lots and lots of wine?”

Charity may have been joking, but when at last Elizabeth was seated at the dinner table that evening, she clutched her wineglass as if it were the only lifeline between her and purgatory. The temptation to run again, to escape to anywhere but here, had nearly gotten the best of her.

Harold dominated the dinner conversation, relating the details of his recent travels to the Continent at length. It sounded to have been a rather dull trip, Elizabeth thought, but her uncle George kept plying him with questions about who he’d met and what promising connections he’d made.

Elizabeth hoped fervently one of those connections might be a fiancée, relieving her of any future obligations, but Harold mentioned nothing of the sort. Occasionally he paused in the monologue, shoveling food into his mouth and leering at her while he chewed.

Elizabeth quickly decided it was better to keep her gaze lowered to her plate. When one of the men addressed her, she answered succinctly, using as few words as possible.

Her mother and Charity remained mostly silent, though occasionally Elizabeth looked up to catch a sympathetic glance from her little sister.

Once, she saw Uncle George nod approvingly toward her. Apparently he was under the impression her behavior constituted an attempt to be demure. Well, no need to relieve him of that impression, Elizabeth thought, taking another long sip of wine. For now, all she had to do was get through this dinner. After that, she’d rather sew a thousand gowns for the women who used to be her friends than marry the swine sitting across from her.

Midway through the meal, Elizabeth was feeling pleasantly lightheaded.

Toward the end of the meal, however, she thought perhaps she’d been a bit too liberal with the wine…How many glasses
had
she drunk?

It hadn’t seemed like that many, but she dreaded having to stand when it was time for the ladies to retire. Her balance, never a strong point anyway, was certain to be off. Already her chair seemed to be floating in a bumpy sea.

“Elizabeth, why don’t you and Mr. Wetherby remain here while the rest of us retire?” Uncle George suggested. “He told me before dinner that he wished to speak privately with you, and I must say I approve.”

At the moment, Elizabeth thought drowsily, that didn’t seem such a bad idea, for it would save her the indignity of having to rise and reveal her tipsiness. Then again, she’d be alone with Harold. “I’m certain he won’t mind if you stay,” she asserted, though the words came slower than normal.

“No, no,” her uncle replied. He nodded at the other two women. “Come, ladies.”