Charles Mortlake was the younger of two grandsons of the Duke of Brixton, not quite heir to the title, but within a couple of convenient deaths of succeeding. In the meantime, he and Elizabeth occupied a rich estate in Hampshire he’d inherited through his mother. Now three-and-thirty, he was neither a tall man nor a handsome one, although he had what Eleanor’s father had called a good face, lively and expressive, with quick dark eyes and a thatch of hair he habitually pushed back from his forehead.
When she’d first met him, Eleanor had thought Charles was wrong for Elizabeth, too active and sometimes abrupt. But on the night of their ball, as they stood greeting guests at the bottom of their grand staircase, they looked inevitable. Walking carefully down the stairs, Eleanor found it hard to picture Elizabeth beside any of the handsomer men who’d courted her. They would have looked like a pair of actors hired for the occasion. Nor could she imagine Charles Mortlake being satisfied with anything less than perfection.
“Mrs. Crosby, you’re so very welcome. Darling Eleanor,” Elizabeth said, taking both her hands in hers. “Doesn’t Nell look lovely?” she asked her husband. “Do you know that when we were choosing our dresses, she showed the most exquisite taste.”
“Mrs. Crosby, Miss Crosby,” Charles Mortlake said. “I’m grateful to you for occupying my wife while I’ve been over-occupied myself. Of course, you’ve known her so long, you realize she needs an object. It’s most kind of you to supply one.”
Behind them, guests were backing up on the stairs, craning to see who was absorbing their hosts. Important people, no doubt. Elizabeth continued to burble about their dresses and their art lessons (which she hadn’t attended) until Eleanor grew embarrassed, eager to get away from the eyes and impatience of the other guests. It was only a minute or two before Charles bowed them off, but it felt like an eternity.
“She certainly does it up in bows,” her aunt said as they walked off. Then she brightened. “Sir Waldo! Lady Anne! Kitty, in your beautiful new dress!”
Lizzy had said she wanted Kitty to stay overnight, but hadn’t mentioned the arrival of her parents. Now Elizabeth smiled across the room, enjoying her surprise, and nodding approval as the Mowbrays made a point of greeting Mrs. Crosby and Eleanor warmly. Lady Anne put a proprietary hand under Mrs. Crosby’s elbow, while Sir Waldo leaned in to tell Eleanor, “If your father was still with us, none of this would have happened.”
Turning to a passing gentleman, he said, “Lord Cobble”—bowing—“I was speaking of my great friend, the late Reverend Dr. Crosby, whom I’m sure you’ll remember . . .”
Turning to Kitty, Eleanor saw a young man bearing toward them. It had started: the gentlemen freed by the Mortlakes were arriving to sign their dance cards. Then she realized it was Mr. Crawley, a copper-headed young man from Gloucester who had shown such a marked interest in Kitty he would have asked anyway.
Eleanor had no idea of Kitty’s feelings about her not-quite-suitor, but as he eagerly signed Catherine’s card, and courteously signed Eleanor’s, she felt like a mama seeking out his hidden advantages. Murdo Crawley was a rather plain, freckled young man who had been blinded in one eye during a childhood accident. But rather than bowing to the injury, he’d turned sporty, going in for pugilism and long hikes, even mountaineering in Switzerland, and surely it counted in his favour that he collected art during his travels. Despite the smallness of his estate, Mr. Crawley was ambitious, and liked to move among significant men.
After Mr. Crawley came a flood of young gentlemen, some of whom Eleanor assumed were sent by the Mortlakes and some by Sir Waldo, who was touring the room with the dignity of a schooner. The men signing her card weren’t anything like suitors. But Eleanor knew that wasn’t Lizzy’s point, which was to send her back to Yorkshire cleansed.
When the dances were due to begin, Eleanor took her first partner’s arm and joined a milling crowd on the dance floor. Up in the balcony, the conductor surveyed his small orchestra, baton raised. Then he dropped it, and Eleanor entered the happy whirl around the ballroom. Two dozen couples circled each other like gears in a watch, always turning, the ladies’ brilliant gowns billowing. As they passed, Eleanor whispered to Kitty, “Your impossible mother hasn’t left my aunt’s side.”
“Isn’t she dreadful ?” Kitty asked affectionately, and twirled away.
The schottische came next, then a polka. As she danced, Eleanor saw all of Society. The Duke and Duchess of Brixton were drinking punch. The Countess of Wigan was showing off her new rubies. (“The pleasure of bankrupting one’s heir, my dear.”) The only person Eleanor didn’t see was Edward Denholm, when she’d thought that was the point.
Then the polka ended, and as her partner bowed himself away, she saw Mr. Denholm walk into the ballroom wearing one of his beautiful suits. Eleanor had been looking forward to a rest. But as she reached the punch table, he started toward her, Charles Mortlake standing in the background as if Edward Denholm was a toddler he’d set wobbling down a garden path.
“What a delightful coincidence, Mr. Denholm,” she said as he arrived, aware that everyone near them was watching.
“Miss Crosby,” he replied, not meeting her eye. “I’m told I need to offer you an apology on behalf of my family.”
“That would be nice,” Eleanor said. “My aunt wasn’t an actress, you know.”
Mr. Denholm gave her a quick glance. “She seems the type who might have been. And my father has an objection to deceit.”
“I wonder whether it’s a sincere one,” Eleanor said.
Edward Denholm remembered to force a smile. “She’s certainly never provided any particulars about her family. And my parents have known her for years.”
“So have the Mowbrays,” Eleanor said, smiling back. “And they believe her family to be entirely respectable. We wouldn’t be here otherwise, would we?”
“I wonder who they are.”
He spoke so aggressively that Eleanor had to pause.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve only been told there was a breach between my aunt and her father. I think it must have been painful, she’s kept it so quiet.”
“And what is one to make of that? Truthfully.”
Mr. Denholm finally looked her in the eye.
“Truthfully?” Eleanor asked, looking back. “I would imagine my aunt’s background is rather banal. Knowing Aunt Clara, she would probably prefer to be thought an actress than be known for what she is.
“Truthfully,” she continued, “I think my aunt is probably the daughter of a gentleman with a large family and a modest estate. Or a perfectly respectable physician at one of the spas, or a solicitor, or a naval officer who captained a small ship during the last war. Any one of them might have forced her to marry Mr. Preston, which I suspect is the cause of the breach. I believe your parents knew the unpleasant Mr. Preston fairly well.”
Mr. Denholm examined his boots, but nodded, seeming to agree this made sense.
“Of course that wasn’t my father’s only objection,” he said. “Although perhaps we should leave it at that.”
“Better not speak about stewards, you mean,” Eleanor said. “Or of bribing servants, and certainly not of women named Julia Holmes or Mrs. Ormsby.”
“Gentlemen require more latitude than ladies,” Mr. Denholm began.
“And have never heard that pots shouldn’t call kettles black.”
Mr. Denholm smiled faintly, looking more like himself.
“In my experience, pots can be quite convinced of their right to boil whenever they see fit. Not that I always agree with them.”
Eleanor pictured the family sitting room at Ackley Castle, his father ordering Mr. Denholm to be seated with a quick clench of his fist.
“I wish we could be friends,” she said impulsively, offering her hand. “Can’t we try?”
“Miss Crosby, I find this very painful,” he replied. Taking her hand like a suitor, Mr. Denholm slowly and minutely examined her calfskin glove, smoothing a wrinkle with his thumb. “My father sees an insuperable objection to our . . .”
“Be friends and not talk about it,” Eleanor interrupted, resisting the temptation to snatch her hand away. Too many guests were watching, as if she and Mr. Denholm were performing a play for their benefit, as of course they were. She knew she couldn’t do anything hasty, but managed to take back her hand with a vague unpromising smile. Afterward, they stood together awkwardly. Eleanor knew she needed to find a way to end this, but couldn’t resist.
“I wonder if you’ve heard from your brother,” she asked. “I think it’s probably too early, but I hope in any case he’s well.”
It might have sounded as if she were ending things with a polite query. She hoped so.
“Thank you. He managed to send a letter when they docked at Karachi. He’s well, at least so far. Although it seems dire there, frankly. And of course he’s off to the thick of it.”
Eleanor caught her breath. Or tried to. She’d imagined this; she’d known it. But she found she could only take in shallow breaths like an overheated dog. The ballroom was warm. The gaslight, the press of bodies made it far too warm. Yet she tried to nod calmly at Mr. Denholm as if she were no more than ordinarily concerned.
“He only had time to scrawl a quick note,” Mr. Denholm went on. “But from the sounds of it, the entire Bengal Army is in revolt. They’d received reports the sepoys had occupied Delhi after leaving Meerut. Massacres, I’m afraid. Ladies and children. English ladies, the wives of officers, suffering the unspeakable.”
He glanced at Eleanor, then did a double take, knowing that he shouldn’t have said that.
“The Bengal Army,” she replied, picturing the captain up against a rebellious army, and panting harder as she tried to speak. She could see, as if seeing herself from a distance, that her concern appeared exaggerated. “My cousin is in Bengal,” she began, certain that Hetty was fine. “Perhaps not close. I hope she’s not close. But if the whole Bengal Army . . .”
She felt herself tottering, and a firm arm passed around her waist, holding her up. It wasn’t Mr. Denholm, who was still facing her, looking miserable.
Charles Mortlake. Charles Mortlake was supporting her, asking if she were ill.
“I asked,” she said, trying to sound conversational, “I asked Mr. Denholm. About his brother. And he tells me, the Bengal, the entire Bengal Army is . . . in revolt.” She was dizzy, feeling only lightly tethered to the room. “And my cousin, my cousin Henrietta is in Bengal. And he says, they’ve done”—gasping—“the unspeakable to ladies.”
Distant murmurs of horror. Looking down a narrow tunnel, Eleanor saw an older lady staring at her calmly. The lady seemed to be thinking, This is interesting. I believe I’ll watch.
“Poor show, Denholm,” Charles Mortlake said, the words reverberating through the bone of Eleanor’s stays. His voice was low but carried like an orator’s, which of course he was, on the Whig front bench in the Commons.
“First you spread lies about the girl’s family and now this. Revenge taken cold, is it?”
“Revenge for what?” She thought she heard a whisper.
“She turned him down,” came a voice Eleanor might not have heard.
“Miss Crosby! Are you . . .”
Eleanor never fainted. But suddenly she was lying on a sofa in a quiet room, Lizzy Mortlake holding salts to her nose, her aunt hovering, Kitty and Lady Anne behind them. Removing the salts, Elizabeth daubed a lace handkerchief as thin as air against her forehead.
“I could throttle that man,” her aunt said.
“She’s perfectly all right. She’s always been strong, and she doesn’t faint. Really, Nell,” Lizzy said, pushing back her hair. “Some might accuse you of taking it to extremes. But perhaps I shan’t, since you’ve certainly dispatched the Denholms.”
“My stays are too tight,” Eleanor said.
Elizabeth burbled with laughter. “A thousand ships launched over Helen’s pretty face. The Denholms dispatched because your stays are too tight. Small particulars leading to such grand results.” Carolling: “And my ball is the success of the Season.”
In her darkened carriage, not much later, Mrs. Crosby sounded bitter.
“I dislike the modern age,” she said. “Such hypocrisy, and so much of it directed at ladies. Things are getting worse; our lives getting worse. It’s fashionable to claim that we’re far more fragile than we are, and Nell”—turning to her—“be careful not to give yourself over to it. It’s very easy to fall into doing what Society expects even when it’s very much against one’s interests. When I was young, we were able to observe the dictates of Society while dancing around them, observing the formalities while privately doing very much as we wished.”
Eleanor had no answer, nor did Mrs. Crosby seem to expect one.
“Now they’re refusing to let us get away with anything. Even the queen was criticized for using chloroform for the birth of her last child, when it sounds a marvellous invention. She’s supposed to have ducked ‘the pain of Eve.’ Poor bloody Eve.”
Eleanor started at her aunt’s coarseness, and wondered uneasily if she had been an actress. Perhaps it was something that couldn’t be proved, so Lizzy felt able to deny it.
“Instead we’re expected to behave like Mr. Dickens’s wretched Little Nell,” her aunt said, “when it’s very clear Mr. Dickens believes that women are born to serve men. I greatly prefer Miss Austen, who wrote her male characters into subservience.”
“You tried to make me marry Mr. Denholm.”
“I did,” her aunt agreed. “It was rather old-fashioned of me, but the marriage would have been a success, especially with his brother unlikely to come home. Please don’t faint again.”
“Kitty loosened my stays.”
“Edward Denholm is very much in love with you and he was humiliated tonight. His father deserved it, but he didn’t. Whatever were the Mortlakes thinking?”
“They were protecting their good name. And yours. And mine.”
“‘Good name.’ Names used to be good when they were bold. Now it means conforming. They were making the Denholms conform.”
“Out of fondness . . .”
“Because they like intrigue,” her aunt said. “And because they can.”
Mrs. Crosby paused.
“I was under the impression that Colonel Denholm had managed to overcome the financial mess left by his brother. Apparently he didn’t. Lady Anne told me tonight his debts are large and the Ackley estate is under a considerable mortgage. Charles Mortlake looked into it, and what he found makes sense. The colonel arrived home from India at the start of the Hungry Forties. Of course, there’s a financial panic every decade or so and most of us survive them. He could have settled his brother’s affairs before things got too bad and been one of the survivors. I thought he had. But now it seems he didn’t and the estate is in difficulties. We were fortunate to have avoided a marriage. It’s just too bad that poor Edward Denholm has been doubly injured.”
Her aunt paused to think.
“Possibly trebly,” she said. “The news out of India is dire. Mr. Denholm was right: there have been massacres. Ladies raped and thrown down wells. Their children thrown down wells, and quite possibly raped beforehand.”
“Good God!” Eleanor cried.
“We have to hope Captain Denholm is spared,” her aunt went on. “But frankly, I’m more concerned about you. Life will grow even more constrained when the unspeakable starts to be spoken about. ‘Ladies need to be protected.’ From rebellious sepoys, thousands of miles away. More likely because men enjoy exerting control, and now they have a new excuse to do it. So for you to go fainting at even the merest mention of cruelty—which is rife in this world, my dear, and must be borne—surely, surely you can see that it reinforces a view of womanhood one simply can’t support. Not as a thinking creature.”
The carriage stopped. They’d arrived at her aunt’s townhouse. Eleanor knew she ought to drop it. But she was unsettled by her aunt’s outburst, which came straight from the ramshackle past.
“I’m surprised you can be so complacent,” she said, “with your daughter in India.”
Mrs. Crosby grasped her arm, holding it so tightly that when the footman opened the door, he stepped back, surprised to find them locked together.
“We’ve established that Hetty is far from the fighting,” Mrs. Crosby said. “My daughter will be perfectly fine, even with her husband in Cape Town.”
“He’s in Africa?” Eleanor asked. For the first time, she felt concerned for her cousin.
Her aunt enunciated each word: “He has to sell his tea.” Eleanor could almost hear her say, You’re concerned because she’s without a husband to protect her? Do you think I need a husband to protect me?
Eleanor thought she’d rather like a husband’s protection, or at least Captain Denholm’s protection. She was prepared to argue the point, when Mrs. Crosby dropped her arm and left the carriage, staying silent until they stood in the foyer and the housekeeper took their wraps.
“Hetty’s always been so good with animals,” she said mildly, surprising Eleanor with her change of tone. “Dogs. Horses. You must remember that incontinent hedgehog she brought home, which drove me mad. Now I like to picture her in the Himalayas, with tigers guarding the plantation and elephants protecting the house. Monkeys on patrol to warn of trouble. Not that they’ll find any, since Hetty is almost as far from the fighting as we are.”
Eleanor pictured the stained glass windows at Ackley Castle, Eve and the peaceable lion, the light breaking through them into kaleidoscopic fragments. It was astonishing to find her aunt taking solace in such a romantic vision.
“What harm is there?” Mrs. Crosby asked, as if reading Eleanor’s thoughts. “I can’t do anything to stop whatever happens, so I might as well picture her happy.”
“A pretty picture, mum,” agreed the amenable Mrs. McBee.
Robert Denholm was good with animals. Eleanor remembered him holding her aunt’s chicken against his coat, its head darting, and tried to picture him in India holding—what?—a spitting mongoose in place of a sword?
“I dislike the modern age,” Mrs. Crosby said. “Everything so much more hidebound and earnest than when I was young. Mark my words, the middle class aims to take control, and they’ve got their dreary prince behind them. Trends are always exaggerated in London. Life can be better here, but also worse. Tomorrow we pack. Our Season is over and we’re going home.”