Page 54 of The Lord who Captured Her Innocent Heart
“I don’t suppose you spent even a moment speaking with Lord Holloway at the wedding, did you?” her mother demanded.
At this, Tiffany’s eyes turned towards Ella, filled with the memory of the letters. Ella felt she might crumple to nothing.
“Lord Holloway seemed quite busy throughout the event,” Ella said. “As we all were.”
“You surely won’t find a husband if you believe yourself too good for anyone else,” her mother offered. She drew her neck upward, evoking the aura of a swan.
“Mother, I really do have to be going.”
“What do you have to rush off to do? Read yet another book? Spend yet another day alone?” her mother demanded.
“Perhaps. Perhaps that,” Ella said, hating the anger that sizzled through her own voice.
She hustled into the hallway, taking enormous steps towards the library at the opposite end of the hallway. Once there, she inhaled the musty smell of old books. Trees arched themselves across the lawn outside, allowing their leaves to quake into the gardens below. Without thinking, Ella draped several books into her arms and then rushed back towards the hall, bounding down the steps from the mansion and tucking herself into the brick-walled escape of one of the gardens, an older one with a creaky, rusting gate. It was nearing August, and the heat felt oppressive like a thick blanket that made it difficult to breathe. Sweat swept down her nose, threatening to drip into her lap. She spread a book over her knees and forced herself to gape at the words. It was a surprise that they didn’t spring up towards her, delivering themselves to her as they always had.
After five minutes of struggling, she snapped the book back together, feeling her heart beat slowly, like one tucked into the chest of a lizard. She held her breath for a moment, wondering how slow she could make the beat. She imagined that if she slowed it, allowed herself to hold her breath for minutes on-end, she could stay there in the garden forever — not allowing time to pass. She wouldn’t have to force herself forward, to an inevitable future of marrying “just whoever came along,” whoever her mother suited her up with. Whoever would become the rest of her life.
Ella pondered over whether or not she should write Tatiana a letter, explaining her current problems. “I thought surely I would love Frederick for the rest of my days. But a deeper understanding fell over me,” she imagined penning. “I can’t imagine a greater love than the one I feel for Lord Peter Holloway. And yet, I’m struck with the knowledge that he can only love you — or someone very similar to you. As I love you greatly, I understand this more than I can possibly say. But it pains me to no end.”
No. This simply wouldn’t do. Ella shook her head at the thought, allowing her red curls to flash across her shoulders.
Perhaps it was something in the air — an inevitable strangeness — that brought Lydia to the estate at around that time. Lady Chesterton announced her arrival to Ella, calling from the creaky gate. Ella shot up, astounded. Firstly, she hadn’t imagined her mother had any idea where Ella was at the moment. She’d assumed herself a kind of ghost, lurking on the outskirts.
Of course, the Chesterton estate had eyes watching always.
Lydia perched herself in the heat of the sitting room, her palms spread across her lap. She blinked at Ella as she approached, seemingly appraising her. Ella hadn’t a clue why she was there.
“Good afternoon,” Lydia said, rising and dotting a kiss on Ella’s cheek. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be too busy to see me.”
She said it as though she knew Ella hadn’t a single thing on her agenda — nothing social, nothing professional, nothing at all. Ella’s cheeks burned red.
“Ella was in the midst of her incredibly important schedule of reading as many books as she possibly can until she dies,” her mother said, her voice sounding pinched.
“That’s our Ella, isn’t it?” Lydia sighed.
Ella felt the conversation existing above her head, like a dark cloud, poising itself to rain. She cleared her throat, attempting to remind them of her existence. They seemed not to care.
“Why is it you stopped by, Lydia?” Ella asked, after a long, stretched-out moment of silence.
Lydia batted her lashes. “I imagined you’d be quite lonely without your sister. And frankly, darling, I haven’t much adding itself to my calendar these days, in the wake of the wedding. Which, Lady Chesterton, I must tell you now: the entirety of London is absolutely wicked with gossip about the event. They can’t imagine how such a stunning affair took place. All congratulations to both you and the Braxtons.”
Lady Chesterton looked as though she could cough up rainbows. Ella forced herself to keep her eyes straight ahead, without rolling back.
“What did you imagine we would do together?” Ella asked.
Lydia tittered. “Whatever it is you like to do most, Ella, darling,” she said. “Why not walk through the gardens? Gossip over tea?”
Ella looked at her, imagining the many hours dropped out before her of menial conversation, lacklustre words spoken, talking about the many intricacies of Lydia’s half-wrought romances. She sighed.
“Ella would absolutely love it. Wouldn’t you, Ella?” her mother chirped.
She felt her mother was arranging a kind of playdate, as though she was years younger — yet still just as awkward, still as ill-formed as a human being.
“Absolutely,” Ella murmured.
This was how she spent the remainder of her afternoon and early evening, wandering a half-step behind Lydia as she ambled from one topic of conversation to the next. Ella hummed and hawed in response, finding her tongue growing increasingly lazy. Her mind hunted for anything else to think about, yet continually traced itself back to Peter Holloway. What was he doing, over at his own estate? Was he thinking about Tatiana, about the honeymoon? Did he ache with jealousy, knowing that Tatiana and Frederick were spending blissful afternoons beneath the Brighton sun?
“What do you think about it?” Lydia asked, her eyes nearly bulging out of her skull with the question.
