There, after telling the maid she needed no attendance, she found a quiet and private corner at the far end of the room, pulled the curtain, and sat down on the velvet covered bench provided for those who merely wished to rest or fix their hair. She sobbed silently, not wishing to make a sound, lest some other lady come in and hear her.
Never had she been treated so. It was not so much what Lord Harveston had said, it was what she knew he meant by what he said. She, and Lady Rawley’s acting troupe, were not wanted. They were judged unworthy. Their interests were deemed stupid,shewas deemed stupid.
In fact, he thought her to be so dense as to not understand that some mild flattery from a group of young gentlemen was not a proposal of marriage. As if the most obvious thing must be explained to her.
He found her tiresome and unaccomplished and did not even bother to hide it, as she was of so little consequence.
Then, to further heap on the misery, she’d felt nothing at all for Lord Hamill. He was genial, to be sure, but she could not be in love with him.
All in all, she felt exceedingly stung by the events of the night. Very stung indeed.
When Beatrice and Rosalind and Viola had made their debut at Almack’s it had all gone stunningly well. She felt like some sort of failure that she could not claim the same.
From outside her little corner, she heard the door to the retiring room open. A lady’s voice, a very commanding voice, said, “Where is she?”
Cordelia could only imagine the maid had pointed to her location as she heard footsteps approaching. Very determined footsteps.
Was it a patroness? Was she in trouble of some sort for leaving Lord Harveston alone at the table? Had she broken a rule and was about to be lectured?
She could not bear it, not this very moment.
A lady came round the corner and Cordelia instantly recognized her as Lady Hightower. She had not ever been introduced to the lady, but she had seen her in the park when Lady Hightower had inserted herself into the scene of Rosalind’s pickpocket arrangement.
“I recognize you as a Bennington girl,” Lady Hightower said.
“Yes, Lady Hightower, I am Cordelia Bennington,” she said, attempting to hide her sniffles.
“Hah! And you will know me from the day your sister very dramatically fainted into Conbatten’s arms when she lost her handkerchief to a pickpocket.”
Cordelia nodded, though she was not entirely sure why Lady Hightower seemed amused by the recollection.
“My lady,” she said, wishing to get whatever scolding was coming to her over with, “am I in trouble for leaving Lord Harveston at table?”
“In trouble? Goodness, no. I merely saw the state you were in when you left him and thought I ought to assure myself that you were alright.”
At this kindness, Cordelia burst into tears all over again.
Lady Hightower ordered the maid to bring all the handkerchiefs in the place. She sat on the bench next to Cordelia and began handing them to her, one by one.
“That’s right, cry it out,” Lady Hightower said, “it never does a bit of good to hold it in and the young have a great propensity for feeling things sharply.”
Though the lady had given her leave to cry as much as she liked, Cordelia did make an effort to regain her composure.
“You must think me a terrible ninny,” she said.
“Well, that entirely depends on what you were crying about. Did Lord Harveston spill something on your dress or some other easily remedied matter?”
“No, of course I would not collapse over such a small thing,” Cordelia said. “I really should not have collapsed at all, I do not know why his opinion has stung me so, he is nothing to me.”
“And what opinion was that?”
Cordelia mopped at her eyes and said, “He thinks me very stupid.”
“He did not say so!”
“Not in those words exactly, but his meaning was clear enough.”
Lady Hightower sighed, and Cordelia thought it was rather a disgusted sort of sigh.
