Page 37 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

The moment the baron approached his mother, she extended a hand, smiling with serene satisfaction.

“Roman, my dear. I feared the press of the crowd would make you late. Or cause you to forget me altogether. You know how it fatigues me, worrying about where you are.”

“I did not keep you waiting long, Mother,” he said with an indulgent smile, bowing over her hand. “And you appear to be in excellent company.”

Lady Hartwell laughed softly, then turned her attention to Emily and Juniper. “Lady Juniper Sterling, how lovely you look this afternoon. And Lady Emily, my dear, how charming to see you again.”

Emily curtsied, offering the expected compliments about the fine weather and the success of the day. The words came easily, almost mechanically, while her mind struggled to find something more specific to say. Something interesting. The light coming through the tall windows caused a slight throb at her temples.

Thankfully, Jack and Juniper spoke warmly to their hostess, while Lord Hartwell exchanged pleasantries with his mother’s friends. Emily tried to listen, to smile at the right moments, and to appear composed. But the room pressed close. The hum of voices and movement bled into one another, becoming a relentless buzz, like bees trapped in glass.

She told herself she must not falter. Not here. Not now.

Grace. Usefulness. Composure. If she could maintain those three things, no one would suspect how unsteady she felt.

Someone asked a question about the races. She smiled and answered, uncertain of her own words. Her neck felt warm beneath her collar, her gloves damp against her palms. The polished floor slowly tilted under her feet.

Lady Hartwell’s laughter drifted to her ears again—airy, confident, unbothered. Emily envied that ease. How long would it take her to learn to look so assured, to belong so wholly to this world?

A wave of dizziness passed through her, and she turned slightly, facing the nearest window. The light there seemed cooler. The glass panes rattled faintly as a breeze moved against them. She drew in a slow breath and tried to summon calm.

A shadow fell beside her. She tilted her head enough to look without moving her eyes.

Mr. Eastwood stood there, a glass of lemonade in one hand and a folded fan in the other. His expression was quiet but intent, his gaze steady.

“You looked as though you might wish for one,” he said softly, offering the glass.

Her fingers brushed his as she took it. The coolness startled her, and she had to resist pressing the cup to her temple.

“Thank you,” she managed to say, her voice soft. She sipped at it, grateful for the cool liquid, for the sweet and sour on her tongue to draw her mind away from everything else.

He inclined his head, nothing more. No comment, no intrusion. But there was something in his eyes…an unspoken understanding. And that made it easier to breathe.

The noise of the room dimmed slightly. The ache behind her eyes eased. And for a moment, amid the elegance and clamor of the world she was still learning to move within, she felt seen.

Chapter Thirteen

August 20th, 1822

Mrs. Elgin, as a widow, had more freedom to move about in Society than an unmarried lady did. Unfortunately for Emily, Mrs. Elgin often included her mother in her entertainments and activities. Emily sat across from Mrs. Holly and Mrs. Elgin, facing backward in the carriage, with Mrs. Elgin’s brother, Mr. Holly, seated next to her. He kept his arms folded and his gaze on the window, while his mother kept up a steady litany of naming the best families in the county and how many of them she had already seen present for the races.

For her part, Emily’s friend sat with hands clasped in her lap and a pained smile upon her face. She tried, several times, to break into her mother’s recitation of names, but had yet to manage a change in the subject.

Emily recalled a friend of her own mother’s, from the days before the title, who had a similar way of dominating conversation. What was it her mother would do to maneuver the friend out of such monologues?

Ah. Yes. Give the woman something useful to do.

Emily slipped her hand into her reticule and drew out the small notebook she had taken to carrying in town, along with a short pencil. She waited for a pause in Mrs. Holly’s naming of the local gentry. At last, there was one, very briefly, after the woman spoke of “the utterly insufferable Mr. Godwin.”

Emily leaned forward with what she hoped was an expression of earnest appeal.

“Mrs. Holly, you know everyone far better than I. Might I prevail upon your experience? I am forever muddling names and connections. If I give you my little book, would you be so kind as to mark down which families I ought to be certain to remember? Especially those most important to our local society?”

Mrs. Holly’s expression brightened at once, her spine straightening. “My dear Lady Emily, of course. It is high time someone guided you properly. Let me see.” She accepted the notebook and pencil with the same firm purpose Emily had once seen in the neighboring farmer’s wife when handed a basket of tangled wool. This was a problem the woman fully intended to put right.

At once, her attention bent to the page, lips moving soundlessly as she began to write, occasionally muttering a correction or adding a note in the margin.

Freed from the steady stream of commentary, Emily let out a discreet breath and glanced at Mrs. Elgin. The young widow’s shoulders had fallen away from her ears; she sent Emily a look of mingled gratitude and amusement.