Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (9 page)

With the invitations out, she turned her attention to preparing Oliver’s house for the event. Little Beeswick was a small establishment situated on a hundred acres that had been carved away from the primary Fay estate, Beeswick Hall, at some point in the distant past. Enough land to mollify a younger son or stray relation, allowing him to dabble with running an estate-in-miniature, but not enough to build fortune or power to rival the paterfamilias. During Elsa’s time as viscountess, Rollo, Harvey’s heir, had occupied Little Beeswick. Once he inherited and moved into the big house, he passed the small one on to his brother.

The house had been built three-quarters of a century ago, replacing one lost to fire. Though only about twice the size of Elsa’s house, Little Beeswick had been built in the style of a much grander home, with tall ceilings and an abundance of windows. A colonnaded portico welcomed guests into a spacious entryway, and the several public rooms adjacent to it made a fine setting for the reception.

What the house lacked in architectural imperfections, it made up for with bachelor barrenness. Over the course of a week, Elsa rode on a tide of decorating mania, calling upon neighbors and friends she’d not seen all winter to beg and borrow plates, glassware, and linens. Her friend, Lady Laura Beaufort, even loaned Elsa her second-best silver, so the spoons would all match. Elsa pulled together a menu of hors d’oeuvres and miniature desserts, not even slowing down when she rattled off the wines and liqueurs the party would require. She didn’t have time to crave the alcohol for herself. She barely had time to think.

It was marvelous.

In the midst of her planning frenzy, she even found herself playing nursemaid, soothing Oliver’s fits of nerves.

“Perhaps this isn’t a good idea, after all,” he’d fretted one afternoon. “What if my brother’s absence from Lords turns opinion against me?”

Elsa had adopted a falsetto voice. “What if the other boys at school don’t like me,
maman
?” she’d teased good-naturedly to break his sulk.

On another occasion: “What if I don’t win?”

At that, Elsa had planted her hands on her hips. “This is an uncontested election, Oliver. You can’t
possibly
lose. Even if no one comes to the hustings to cast a vote, you’ll win by virtue of being the only candidate in the running.”

He’d looked stricken. “Are you sure?”

“Certain,” she’d assured him.

Men, she knew, had very tender sensibilities. And they called
women
the weaker sex.
Bah
.

And so the evening of the reception arrived. The doors of Little Beeswick were thrown open, and the great and powerful of Fleck descended to hear Mr. Fay’s announcement—and to take a gander at his cousin, Lady Fay, who had been missing from their little society since Christmas. In the case of a borough with the overall consequence of a persistent rash, those illustrious persons consisted of several squires, a handful of gentleman farmers, two industrialists of independent means, one dotty scholar, the vicar, the ladies attached to this fine array of males—and Mr. Denny, the village barkeep, who was providing libations for the reception, as Oliver’s cellars were as woefully stocked as his linen cupboard.

Elsa stood at Oliver’s side, once more in her element as she greeted guests, chatting and laughing while nimbly directing the staff as needed. The first hour passed gaily as neighbors discussed the coming growing season and swapped the latest gossip.

And it was easy not to drink. So easy. Elsa was far too busy tending to her guests, ensuring everyone was comfortable and amply fed and watered, to even think of imbibing. The faint perfume that drew her toward Mr. Denny’s beverage station, the tugging she felt inside her head, those weren’t thoughts. She wasn’t thinking about drinking at all.

In politics, as in theater, timing is everything. Elsa gave her guests time enough to arrive, to enjoy a bite and a drink, to have a bit of a chat—but not enough to become bored with the company or dull from food and drink. While the merriment was still at its zenith, Elsa nodded at Mr. Denny, their predetermined signal for him to begin pouring the champagne.

The
pop
of the first cork elicited a startled laugh from someone standing near the table. Several heads turned to see what Mr. Denny was about.

Elsa watched, too. But while others merely registered the man pouring drinks and then returned to their own conversations, Elsa was riveted. Mr. Denny tipped the bottle and poured a measure into each glass. Elsa’s throat felt parched.
You’ve been so good
, whispered a seductive voice.
Learned your lesson. Things got out of hand, but it’ll be different this time. You won’t let it happen again.

And she
had
learned. She’d seen the underbelly of drunkenness, experienced the hell of deprivation. She would not go back to that. Not ever. But suddenly, the idea of spending her entire life without ever again tasting champagne seemed absurd. There were moments in life—special occasions such as this—that called for a celebratory libation. Was she to sacrifice her culture, her very way of life, on the altar of abstinence? She thought not.

As the footman loaded up his tray and began distributing the glasses of champagne, Elsa’s knees trembled. She tracked the servant moving from guest to guest. Her heart pounded. What did her friends and neighbors know about her? Did they suspect? Was it plain to them that she was not supposed to have a drink stronger than milk? It felt to her as though the truth must be branded on her face. Couldn’t they hear her teeth chattering, see the way her limbs were limp and stiff all at once?

Plainly, she could not get away with this. Someone—the vicar, probably—would step in. Would stop her from taking a glass. But then, suddenly, it was in her hand. The footman nodded and turned to Lady Beaufort, and no one looked twice at Elsa clutching a glass of champagne. Just that easy.

Then Oliver had the attention of all, obliterating the possibility of anyone noticing Elsa and her forbidden nectar. She stood at his side, smile pasted in place, hearing not a word of his brief speech. He must have said something about her, thanking her, maybe, for now all eyes
were
on her. Demurely, Elsa dropped her gaze.

The liquid inside her glass was the palest gold, the purest morning sunshine streaming over the Suffolk hills. Through the thin crystal, she felt the effervescence, the sensation of a million tiny bubbles swimming to the surface to release their heady aroma. She brought the cup to her nose and inhaled, relishing the way the fumes unfurled in her nostrils and drifted into her brain, making her a bit giddy before she’d had a sip. Her mouth watered in anticipation.

I really shouldn’t ...

It’s a special occasion.

Mr. Dewhurst said never again.

Just this once.

My count! I’ll have to start all over again.

The tiniest taste. Not enough to do any harm. It wouldn’t signify. Your journal would never know.

In the space of a second, a dozen arguments and counter-arguments tumbled through her mind. Panic spiraled through her as she was seized with a craving almost violent in its intensity. She didn’t
want
the drink. She had to have it. She
would
have it.

Elsa felt heat bloom in her cheeks, her mood suddenly soaring. Oliver had concluded his speech and glanced at her. “To Mr. Oliver Fay,” she toasted, lifting her glass in salute. “Our next member of Parliament.”

“Mr. Fay,” chorused the assembly.

She brought the glass to her lips, her blood fizzing right along with the champagne.

Suddenly, Elsa knew a terrible truth: She craved this drink more than she wanted Oliver to win, more than she cared about the good opinion of her neighbors. She’d ignored them all these last long moments, her entire being utterly fixated on the champagne.

Numbly, she allowed the liquid to touch her top lip, tightly sealed to the rim to prevent it from entering her mouth. Then she set the glass down. Meant to do it gingerly, but her arm jerked and it tipped, splashing wine onto the floor.

Oliver’s brows drew together in unspoken question.

A bead of champagne clung to the bow of her lip. Elsa felt it there, like a fly, a ticklish presence that consumed her attention. “If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured out of the corner of her mouth, straining to keep the liquid balanced.

Ignoring her neighbors’ stunned expressions, she all but ran out the door. She dashed away from the house, then scrubbed her mouth on the back of her gloved hand until the drop of champagne was gone, scrubbed until she could no longer smell it, scrubbed until she tasted blood.

She turned for home and stumbled blindly up the darkened drive to the lane. What manner of unnatural creature was she, to desire drink more than anything else?

Failure
, keened Guilt and Shame.
Too selfish to be a good wife. Too selfish to become a mother. Too selfish to help your friends.

A sticky residue of old regrets clung to her hands. She wiped them on her thighs.

Failure and a fraud. Not a lady, not a hostess, but a wanton and a drunk. That’s what you are. That’s all you are.

“Shut up,” Elsa croaked through a constricted windpipe. She swiped wetness from her cheek. “Just shut up!”

In a nearby pen, a sleepy cow lifted its head to mark her deranged progress with a liquid brown eye.

Sobriety wouldn’t be such a challenge if those horrible voices would just go away. Alcohol was the only remedy she’d ever known for silencing them, although she had enough clarity to recognize that her drunkenness only gave those demons of self-loathing more ammunition to use against her.

What was she to do?
What was she to do?

Sobriety was killing her by inches, locking her in a hopeless battle against herself. She couldn’t even spend an evening in company without nearly careening back into her old habits. All she did was not drink, and the effort of it left her spent. Elsa’s struggle was relentless, incessant, with no sign of abating, no promise of respite, and no hope that her life would ever be anything but this hell.

Her wanting for alcohol had not ebbed. She’d been a fool to believe otherwise. The anguish of it lashed her mind like the crack of a whip across her back, demanding she give in to the craving. “Don’t drink,” she sobbed. “Don’t drink, don’t drink, don’t drink ...”

Elsa didn’t remember arriving home, but at some point, she became aware of Foster hovering nearby, her face creased in concern.

“My lady, you’re unwell. Are you ...? That is, did you ...?” Were those tears in the redoubtable abigail’s voice? Odd, that. Elsa had never seen Foster cry.

A bitter laugh escaped her dry lips. “No, I’m not drunk,” she said dispassionately. “But I wish I was. Oh, how I wish it.”

Foster regarded her in a kind of shocked silence. Then, with a trembling touch, she guided Elsa to the vanity stool, took down her mistress’s hair, and began combing it. The nighttime ritual soothed Elsa’s fevered nerves a bit, the sensation of the comb passing through her black tresses something to focus on besides her unfulfilled longing.

Foster divided Elsa’s hair to braid it for bed. “If you don’t mind my saying so, milady, I do not believe Mr. Dewhurst’s country air cure is working.”

“That wasn’t all. He said ...” Squeezing her eyes shut, Elsa fought to retrieve her memory of the conversation with the surgeon. Like much of that day, like too much of her life these past several years, her recollection was spotty.

“He said you were to distract yourself.” None too tenderly, Foster tugged as she plaited. “You’ve kept busy—didn’t hardly sit down this whole last week—but still this happens.”

Elsa opened her mouth to argue, but she was too tired to fight. When she had been able to stir from her room this winter, she’d engaged in a litany of mindless pursuits around the house: needlepoint, paper quilling, rearranging furniture in the parlor—anything to keep her hands busy. The problem was that all of these activities bored her to tears. She’d not yet found something to engage both her hands and her mind.

If only Norman was here.
The thought did not surprise her; it was one she’d had often enough.
No
, came the quick reply.
He may have provided a distraction, but he left you.

He’d abandoned her in her hour of need, but her body would not forget the exquisite, searing release he’d given her. Neither could she ignore the sense of stability and care she’d felt during their journey—before he’d ditched her on the doorstep, of course. If he appeared right now, she would hotly inform him what a cad he’d been ... but she would probably take him to bed right after. She was pathetic.

No, Norman was not the answer—not him, nor any other bedmate. Elsa was in no state to have an affair. Though it would be diverting, there was always the risk of her emotions being left in worse a shambles than they were at present.

Elsa needed something that was hers, something that gave her a feeling of purpose and a reason to maintain her sobriety. Something like her old days of political hostessing, when she could charm a recalcitrant aristocrat into supporting Harvey’s agenda in the House of Lords or help broker a coalition between rival factions in Commons. She’d been useful then; she’d made a real difference.

This past week, this evening, hostessing for Oliver had given her a tiny piece of it back, and it had been wonderful. If only ...

With a sharp gasp, Elsa’s eyes met her own startled blue gaze in the mirror. A smile, the largest smile she’d smiled in months, stretched across her face.

“He needs a hostess,” she exclaimed in wonder. “The election is the easy part.” Uncontested it might be, but her mind was already racing to plan campaign events to coax franchised men to the hustings to vote for her cousin. This past week had proved that doing something she cared about eased her desire to drink, and so she’d do more campaigning, unnecessary it may be. And then,
oh then ...
“Once he’s in London, he’ll
have
to have a hostess if he’s any hope of making a name for himself. He’ll need me.”