Unlocked (Turner #1.5)(18)
“Better!” her mother exclaimed. “In three weeks’ time, Lady Cosgrove is holding a gala at Hanover Square. There will be music, and hundreds of people, all interested in—”
“Mama,” Elaine interrupted blandly, “they’ve thrown tomatoes at some of the larger entertainments.” Remember. Remember. Lady Cosgrove doesn’t wish us well.
Behind Lady Stockhurst, Lady Cosgrove bit back a smile.
And, it seemed, this wouldn’t be one of the days when her mother recalled such things. “Why would they do that?” her mother mused. “I can’t account for it. Even the lower orders have better things to do with a perfectly good tomato. And genteel society…”
“They throw rotten vegetables to express displeasure.”
“Or boredom,” Lady Cosgrove put in. “But, then, Lady Elaine, you don’t believe your own mother is boring, do you?”
“This is all nonsense,” Lady Stockhurst proclaimed. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of, Elaine. The tomato is a fruit, not a vegetable.”
By Elaine’s side, Westfeld took her arm. “It will be well,” he said quietly. “It will be well.”
Lady Cosgrove’s lips pinched together.
“How can it be?” Elaine whispered. “I’ve seen how these things go. To expose her to more people, more indignity… How can it be well? I know you will be kind, but you cannot control how two dozen people will respond—and there could be as many as a thousand present.”
Westfeld simply shrugged. “What did Archimedes say? If you want to move the world, all you need is a long enough lever. It will be well.”
She huffed. “You also need a fulcrum on which to rest your lever, I believe.”
He smiled at that—an expression as arrogant and certain as any she could remember seeing on him.
“Well.” His deep drawl seemed to resonate with some deep part of her. “If ever you need to…rest your lever, here I am.”
She glanced up at him. He was watching her, and she felt as if she might burst into flame. She snatched her arm from his before he could notice. “Do be serious, Westfeld.”
He gave a resigned shake of his head. “And here I thought I was.”
Over the next weeks, Evan tried to make jokes to lift Elaine’s distress. None of them worked, and finally he stopped jesting altogether. But despite every attempt he made to make her smile, he still held back the truth of what he was doing.
The truth was deadly earnest. By the time he’d found a seat in the hall at Hanover Square before Lady Stockhurst’s lecture, he was feeling the cost of the last two weeks of frantic work. He’d written letters, found couriers, and gone in person to speak to more than half a dozen men.
He’d had to. He understood too well how Diana operated. His cousin had planned for her evening of entertainment to be a stunning success. It started with a scene from the Pickwick Papers, performed by the Adelphi Theater. The acting was crisp and believable, the characters expertly portrayed. There followed a concerto by Mendelssohn for piano and violin, and a short intermission for light refreshment. It would end with a performance by the famed soprano, Giulia Grisi.
Lady Stockhurst, sandwiched between these shining lights, seemed to serve all too clear a purpose: she was to be the comic interlude. As she started, she did seem to fit that role. She’d had great star-charts made, showing the course of the planets and the placement of her comet in the night sky. She spoke with great animation; her exuberance overcame all ladylike boundaries. She ended her talk with an impassioned speech on the course of the stars, predicting a return of the heavenly visitation in twelve years’ time.
One either had to laugh or applaud…and when she finished, no applause was forthcoming. Instead, when she asked for questions, the audience sat in near-silence as if not sure how to react. The next few seconds would be crucial.
“Lady Stockhurst,” a woman said in the front. “I could not help but notice that your presentation included calculations that are traditionally left to gentlemen. As a lady, have you ever considered that perhaps you are unsuited to such work?”
It could have been worse. Still, across the hall from him, Evan could see Elaine tense. Her chin lifted, as if she were daring the world to speak ill of her mother. He felt his own heart contract, as if he were flinching from the pain she might receive.
Lady Stockhurst, however, simply frowned at the woman in confusion. “No,” she said tersely. “Next?”
A low titter swept the room. Evan had himself prepared a few queries. But he’d hoped that he wouldn’t have to intervene. After all, if the rest of his plans did not come to fruition, his solitary efforts could hardly sway a crowd this large.
He couldn’t pinpoint when he had started feeling this way, but now that it had been going on for these many months, he would personally take on every man and woman in the room just to win a smile from Elaine. It was stupid and pointless…and utterly inevitable. It had nothing to do with making amends any longer. He didn’t want her hurt; it was that simple. At his side, his hand curled into an involuntary fist.
“Lady Stockhurst?” A man stood in the back of the room. Evan had never seen him before—at least, not in person. But he’d seen a portrait of the fellow. Slowly, his hand unclenched.
The man was older, perhaps of an age with Lady Stockhurst herself. His face was thin and framed by short, unkempt hair that was beginning to go gray.