Page 75 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
“Lord and Lady Westering,” Ophelia greeted the first guests, giving a slight curtsey. “So pleased you could attend.”
“We were most excited to,” Lord Westering said, a smile on his long, flushed face. “It seems a most interesting prospect.”
“Thank you,” Ophelia said, swallowing hard. She wasn’t sure if she felt even more nervous, given his enthusiasm, but she was grateful for the support. The Westerings were neighbors on their southwestern side, and she had come to rather like them.
Owen and she walked with them into the new salon-room.
Ophelia glanced around, not looking at the familiar features—the bookshelves, the chaise-longue and occasional chairs, the marble busts of famous writers. She let her gaze move to the trestle-table, checking that all the refreshments were there, and that there were enough cups for tea.
“Thank you, Mr. Crane,” she murmured, going over to the table where he was still polishing the cups and silverware, checking everything was looking as it should. “You have plates for sandwiches?” Her heart was thudding in her chest, and she looked around nervously. She wanted everything just as itshould be today. This was her first salon.
“Yes, my lady. I’ll go down and fetch more. There’ll be sure to be enough.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, then looked away, looking around the room again. There were tables and chairs set out informally, while some faced in a particular direction, where a little stand was set up where a book might repose. She felt her stomach tie itself in knots. That was where she was going to stand in just an hour from now.
She felt sick and she looked around, distracting herself. More guests had arrived, the neighbors from the other side of the estate and some friends of Julia’s. She counted them mentally, the act helping her to calm down.
Owen was talking with Leonard and Alice, and she went about greeting the guests, exchanging pleasant words with them. As she went to the table to fetch herself some tea, a familiar voice spoke from behind her.
“Ophelia. I am glad to be here.”
“Julia.” Ophelia smiled up at the older woman, whose long auburn hair was arranged in an elaborate bun. She wore a brown velvet dress and her eyes—dark and humorous—were bright as they looked at Ophelia.
They didn’t say anything to each other for a moment, just smiled. Ophelia felt overwhelmed. Julia had always supported her, and she felt that, though it was entirely Owen’s doing that she had a salon of her own, it was Julia, too, who had always believed in her.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“No need to mention it,” Julia said warmly. She looked at the tea-things. “Now, I’m sure a cup of that tea and a few sandwiches are just what I need. I’ll have plenty of energy for the poetry and all the thoughts it will inspire.”
“Oh, Julia,” Ophelia said, joy bright inside her. “I’m glad youcame.”
“I’m glad I came too,” Julia said with a shrug. “It’s going to be very informative.”
They both chuckled and Julia went to fetch some tea.
The clock struck and Ophelia looked around the room nervously. Owen was standing near the wall, and she went to join him, clearing her throat to ask for silence. Owen clapped his hands, drawing everyone’s attention, and Ophelia’s stomach knotted instantly.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” Ophelia greeted everyone. The room was silent, and forty eyes were trained on her. She felt sweat trickle between her fingers, and she breathed in. “We are delighted to have you here, and I look forward to sharing my latest work with you. The name of the collection is: In praise of Spring. I trust that you will enjoy it and that it will evoke memories and thoughts in you as the season does itself. I shall begin this salon with a reading of a selected few poems. Please take a seat and enjoy the work.”
She looked around as everyone clapped politely, most of them wearing evening-gloves that muffled the sound. The knot in her stomach tightened and then she glanced at the wall across the room. Owen leaned there, and his eyes were aglow with warmth and care. She felt her heart twist and a grin spread across her face.
Alice grinned at her, and Ophelia tried not to chuckle. Leonard just smiled.
She walked to the reading-stand and found her book there. The collection was published, under the name “O. Worthfield.” The surname was lest her parents object to their name being associated with a poetry book. Owen had helped her to publish it and she felt a shiver of pride as she rested her hand on the pages.
“I walk alone across the hills, beneath a sun-filled, cloudless sky,” she began reading. “And all around me blooms unfurl:They bloom without to question why.”
She continued reading the poem, one in which she paralleled the blossoming of talents and abilities with the springtime blooms, and when she reached the end there was silence.
Her heart tightened and she looked up, looking around the room.
Leonard and Alice were gazing at each other, the love on their faces stopping her heart. Lady Westering was nodding seriously. Julia was looking straight at her, and tears glistened in her eyes, tears of understanding, empathy and pride that twisted something deep inside her with a mix of joy and sorrow.
Owen was looking straight at her, and his eyes shone with love and pride.
Ophelia looked up at the ceiling, blinking hard, trying not to let all her emotion overwhelm her. She had expected a polite response, maybe disinterest, even. But every single person in the room looked moved; as moved as she felt when she wrote the poem.
A lump in her throat, she looked down at the book and turned the page to the next one.
