“It doesn’t,” Catriona said, sweat breaking over her brow. “She . . . she learns the error of her ways.”
Lady Middleton’s thin brows were still arching high. “I thought it was a romantic novel.”
“It’s quite . . . French, in its atmosphere”—she was rambling now—“and to make her story feel as authentic as possible, I must speak to ladies who would consider such legal actions, or a lady who might have felt passionately enough to do so at some point.”
“I see.” Lady Middleton rapidly stirred her tea with a tiny silver spoon. “I do meet a group of ladies in my position once a week. We have a literary salon. It is very pleasant. Intellectually stimulating.”
“How wonderful.”
“None of them would dream of acting like your heroine; I’m afraid there isn’t a French lady among us.”
“I suppose not,” Catriona said, trying to think of something sensible to say while she was speaking. Charlie was smirking at her from above. The long arm of the pendulum clock ticked onward loud as a gong. Seven minutes left. Inside her gloves, her palms were sweaty.
“Wait,” Lady Middleton said, and held up her hand. “There’s one woman.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m thinking of a certain Mrs. Weldon,” she said. “She isn’t a regular member, she usually only attends the séances. Her husband left years ago, but I daresay she remains obsessed with him.”
Obsessed sounded promising. Nothing less would make a woman risk her reputation. She would know.
“Why do you believe she is obsessed?” she asked.
Lady Middleton gave her a pointed look. “Not a meeting passes without a Captain Weldon this or Captain Weldon that . . .”
Captain Weldon? A giddiness gripped Catriona. There was her man of influence. This was too good to be true. Praise her stubbornly complacent face, because inside she was grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“。 . . even during the séances, it’s him she asks about,” Lady Middleton continued, “where he is, whether he plans to visit her. It’s unfortunate, quite embarrassing. She has a lovely house in Acton, for which her husband pays in full, and I gather he pays her five hundred pounds a year, too. Captain Weldon would provide anything for her, anything at all. Some women are simply never satisfied.”
“He seems dutiful,” Catriona said. “Perhaps that’s why she still regrets the separation.”
“He keeps a fancy girl somewhere,” Lady Middleton said curtly. “They all do. They always do. No, I believe she would feel less ireful if he cared nothing at all—in that case, a woman may blame the abandonment on his dishonorable character, whereas when he generously fulfills his obligations, then it must be a fault in her that caused the separation.”
Perhaps neither party need be at fault at all; a bad match of temperaments was possible, too, but it was not her place to suggest this. With an eye on her swiftly disappearing minutes, she asked Lady Middleton for a written recommendation that she could present to Mrs. Weldon for an introduction. Lady Middleton obliged her, although her lips were pursed with disapproval while she wrote.
She presented the introductory card with a sniff. “Here you are. I shall find out Mrs. Weldon’s address in Acton and send you a note.”
Catriona slipped the card into her skirt pocket. “I so appreciate it.”
Lady Middleton smiled haltingly. “Well. It was quite lovely to see you again, Lady Catriona. Our families have long been friends.”
Distinct lines framed the lady’s mouth, even when her smile had been switched off again. I would have called this woman Mama, had Charlie wanted me ten years ago. A whole decade. Sitting there on his mother’s sofa, in his banal presence frozen on canvas, Catriona felt the weight of these years, like physical blocks pushing between her current self and the girl back then, until the two seemed worlds apart. She left Charlie’s house feeling dazed. During the carriage ride, her thoughts were in such disarray, it was like thinking of nothing at all.
* * *
—
Elias’s presence was palpable when she entered Cadogan House. Sure enough, his coat hung on the garderobe and his elegant walking stick was in the cast-iron umbrella stand. He might be upstairs. She took off her hat and gloves and placed them onto the sideboard. In the mirror, her lips looked pale and her eyes glassy, as if stunned. Hardly enticing.
When she approached the kitchen for some water, she heard a rhythmic clacking she could not place. The kitchen door was ajar. She entered and Elias looked up from a cutting board. Afternoon sunlight warmed the room and the air smelled unusually fresh, like cucumber and herbs. It was disorienting, as though the gray flagstone tiles, the wooden cabinets, the brass pots on the floating shelves were new surroundings. It was too unusual to see a man standing behind the cabinet at the center of the room, jacketless, a large knife in hand, chopping something.