Burning Bright (6 page)

The knot of acid threatened to overpower her. “Papa, I do not—he made improper advances to me, and I am persuaded I cannot like him.”

Mr. Pembroke waved this away. “It is not uncommon for men to be carried away in the presence of a woman to whom they already feel an attraction,” he said. “You are young and unfamiliar with the ways of the world. Don’t be missish.”

“Papa,” Elinor exclaimed in desperation, “I will not accept an offer from Lord Huxley.”

Mr. Pembroke’s pleasant demeanor faded. “What I hear you saying,” he said, “is that you refuse to be obedient to my wishes.”

“No, papa, I—”

He leaned forward and gripped her knee painfully hard. “I will not hear ‘no’ from you, daughter,” he said. “You may have no thought for your future, but I assure you, I have. I have indulged your freaks far longer than I should have, given you latitude to do as you pleased, and now I expect that indulgence to be repaid. Do not think I will support you forever. You will marry, you will marry well, and you will be grateful for my interference on your behalf. Do you think a man like Lord Huxley would ever have paid you the slightest heed had I not brought your talent to his attention? Your mother is correct—you cannot expect to do better, and, I might add, you could very likely do worse.”

Elinor’s eyes watered from pain. “You cannot force me to marry,” she whispered.

“I can make your life a misery if you do not. Imagine yourself cut off from every pleasure, your allowance vanished, your movements restricted. No more parties, no more balls, no social visits. I will forbid you the library and the newspaper. Choose that, or choose to marry. There is no third way.” He squeezed harder, and she gasped.

“Mr. Pembroke, do not—”

“Be silent. Elinor, you are not a fool. You must see what I am doing for you is best. It will make you happy.
Think
. You cannot believe I enjoy causing you pain.”

Elinor opened her mouth to speak and gasped again as his grip on her knee grated against the bone. “I understand,” she whispered. A few teardrops spattered the green silk, leaving marks that would probably not come out. Mr. Pembroke loosened his grip and patted her knee before withdrawing his hand.

“Then everything is settled,” he said in a perfectly normal voice. “You need not rise early tomorrow, daughter. We keep London hours now.”

Elinor nodded. Mrs. Pembroke, uncharacteristically silent, reached out as if to pat her daughter’s knee, but withdrew before she touched her.

Elinor submitted to Mostyn’s care—her mother, as if in apology, sent the woman to Elinor first—and then sat in her nightdress on the edge of her bed, staring at the fire. Its flames burned low and Elinor did not have the energy to rouse them. Lord Huxley’s crooked smile came to memory. It would not be so bad, would it? At least he was interested in her, though how much of that interest was due to her talent she had no idea. He was friendly, amusing, attractive, wealthy—or so her father said—and someday he would make her a countess. She felt his mouth pressed against hers once more and went to her knees and scrabbled under the bed for the chamber pot, which she found just in time to be sick into it.

Afterward, she scrubbed her mouth with her sleeve and laid her forehead against the counterpane. Her father might dress it up any way he liked, but she was being sold on the market as surely as if she were a two-year-old filly. Whatever Lord Huxley wanted from her, she was certain it was not entirely her talent.

She carried her chamber pot to the water closet and poured it out, wrinkling her nose at the stench, then climbed into bed and pulled the blankets close under her chin. Live as a slave in her family home; live as a slave in Lord Huxley’s mansion, or estate, or wherever it was he lived. There was no third way.
And I never did apologize to the captain. Not that it matters now.

She fell into a restless sleep and dreamed of Luddites smashing her father’s house, dreamed she was one of their number and set the place ablaze, then woke terrified the dream might have been real, though she had not unconsciously burned anything since that first night four months ago. She slept again, and dreamed of her father as the captain of a Caribbean pirate ship, and set his ship on fire over and over again until she woke in the cold April dawn, a third path clearly outlined in her mind.

She dressed in a dark-green merino walking gown and matching spencer, good quality clothing with no frills, clothing that declared her a serious, responsible person. She put her hair up, something she had been doing for herself since her first, failed season, tied her good grey bonnet with the silk lining over it, and threw a cape over the entire ensemble. She examined herself in the mirror; her heavy brows made her look fierce, which in this case might be a virtue. She straightened her hem, went downstairs, and had the butler summon a hackney.

She waited in the entry, pretending to be calm, terrified that some Pembroke or other might break with tradition and wake early, come into the hall, and want to know where she was going. Finally, the carriage arrived at the front door. She climbed into it unassisted, rapped on the roof, and said, “Take me to the Admiralty.”

In which Elinor braves the Admiralty

linor had never been to Whitehall, and was disappointed to see that its blocky architecture looked exactly the same as the parts of London she was familiar with. She had thought such an important seat of government would be more distinguished. The Admiralty was housed in a series of unassuming red-brick buildings situated around a central courtyard, surrounded by an imposing colonnade in which stood a small, square entrance barely tall enough to allow her carriage through.

Even at this hour of the morning, the courtyard was already busy with men, in uniform and out, passing through the entrance and in and out of various doors opening on the courtyard. She paid the hackney driver and stepped down into the yard. She saw no other women, but she held her head high and strode across the expanse to a pseudo-Grecian entry with four columns that looked entirely out of place against the modern brick façade. No one stopped her.

Inside, she stood, uncertain as to her next move. The marble floor beneath her feet reflected her as a grey smudge marring the smooth whiteness. A fire blazed in the long fireplace, doing its best to warm the bleak room but failing in the effort; the chairs flanking the fireplace were likely the only beneficiaries of its heat. More doors led off this chamber, ahead and to her left, neither of which gave her any clue as to where she should go.

Her uncertainty mounted, growing within her like an approaching fog she was powerless to stop. It was not too late to go home, to turn and walk out the door as if she’d merely been curious about the interior of the Admiralty and had now satisfied her interest. She half-turned, took a step toward the front door—
no, if I am to leave it will be because the First Lord rejects my plan, not because I am a coward.

She looked desperately from one door to the other, wishing she dared choose one, afraid to choose incorrectly. Her continuing hesitation brought her the dubious assistance of a man in livery, who said, “Is there something I can help you with, miss?” as if certain there was not.

“I wish to speak with the First Lord of the Admiralty,” she declared, squaring her shoulders and burying her hands in her skirt so their trembling would not betray her.

The functionary, surprised, said, “Do you have an appointment, miss?” His voice clearly conveyed he could not imagine anyone like her having an appointment with such an august personage as the First Lord.

“I think Lord Melville will want to speak with me when he knows what information I bring,” she said, keeping her gaze steady and calm in contrast to the man’s growing consternation. She hoped the First Lord was a reasonable man. Her plan hinged on it.

“Miss, I think you have been misinformed…the First Lord is a very busy man, and no one can simply walk into this building and demand an audience.”

“I repeat, sir, Lord Melville will wish to speak with me.”

The functionary blew out his breath in exasperation. “Miss, I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave.” He reached out as if to grasp her shoulder, hesitated, then stepped forward and made a little shooing motion with his hands that would have amused Elinor if she were not so agitated. He looked like a hen trying to get a recalcitrant chick to obey.

She clenched her fists, which were now shaking so hard she was certain he could not help but notice. She looked over the man’s shoulder at the large fireplace where the cheerful fire crackled a welcome at her. “Sir, I believe something is wrong with your fire,” she said.

The functionary reflexively looked over his shoulder. “I see nothing wrong. What do you mean?”

She raised her hand, knowing drama could sometimes win the day when reason and logic could not. “That,” she said, and made an unnecessary gesture of dismissal as she commanded it to go out.

Five people passing through the room stopped in their tracks, and Elinor heard someone gasp. The liveried man took two steps backward in astonishment, then turned to look at her, his jaw hanging slack and his eyes wide. “You—” he began, then seemed to lose track of his words.

“I,” Elinor said, and gestured again. The fire reappeared, as high and bright as if it had never been extinguished. “Shall I show you again? Or will you take me to see Lord Melville?”

The functionary nodded, his mouth hanging open slightly. “Follow me, miss,” he said.

Elinor followed him down some broad, marble-paved corridors, too nervous to pay much attention to her surroundings. She kept her gaze directed at the functionary’s back as they passed men in uniform or livery so she would not have to see their reactions to her presence, though she imagined their attention pressing on her back like a blunted knife, too dull to pierce skin but painful nonetheless. Her unwilling guide led her to a heavy oak door that looked exactly the same as all the others they had passed. The man opened it, hurrying inside without waiting for her to precede him. “My lord,” he said, his voice cracking, “this young lady wishes to speak to you.”

This room was high-ceilinged, paneled in oak with windows along one wall that let in the grey morning light. A long, green-topped table occupied most of the middle of the room, and a fireplace, its fire laid but unlit, interrupted the paneling on her right. Long cylinders that might contain maps hung above the fireplace. Across the room, a clock several feet in diameter set into the wall swept out the time above a pair of globes larger than she could encircle with her arms, bracketed by a pair of narrow glass-fronted bookshelves. It was big and masculine and overpowering and because of that, Elinor relaxed a little; the room was trying too hard to intimidate, like a large man blustering at the world who does not know his trouser seat is torn.

At the far end of the table stood a high-backed chair, in which was seated a man with a handsome face and slightly disordered hair who looked up at her entrance. Two Admirals standing near him, leaning over the table to examine a large sheet of paper, glanced at her and then gave her longer, more astonished stares, while a fourth man wearing a post-captain’s epaulettes stood looking out one of the windows and did not acknowledge her entrance.