A Debutante's Guide to Rebellion (6 page)

“You've changed the setting again,” Eddie noted, because it was clear she was supposed to say something. This made the fourth such alteration.

“Diamonds like these require the perfect setting. One that can match their particular qualities. What do you think?”

Eddie leaned over the sketches. “It would certainly draw the eye,” she said.

“You don't think it's too masculine?”

“Perhaps a little,” Eddie admitted.

“Ha! You see. I coax the truth out of you. I utterly agree. These won't do at all. I've sent the man back to the drawing board.” Lady Copeland clasped her hands and sighed. “You were always such a timid child, and I'm afraid you've never grown out of it. It takes a hundred questions to get one clear answer from you.”

“I'm sorry,” Eddie said.

“Sometimes I wonder if it was my fault. I was always so afraid for you. The whole time I was carrying you, I was sure I'd lose you. And then the birth . . . It was so smooth, I was certain that we must have missed something, that something must have gone wrong. And then you were quiet, even as a baby. Sometimes I'd pinch you, just so you'd startle and I'd know that you were still alive. I lost all your sisters so young.”

Her sisters. Isabelle, Elizabeth, Prudence, Millicent. All dead before they could walk.

“They were all so lovely, your sisters,” her mother said, and stroked her hair. She did not have to add
and you are not
. Eddie looked down. The princesses had died, and the little goblin girl had somehow survived. The girl with the crooked nose and large ears, with pimpled skin and large, ungainly feet. “I lost them, but I have you. And I will do right by you, Mildred. I will see you taken care of. I will see you comfortable and safe. Lord Averdale can provide comfort and safety and more. He's perfect, don't you see?”

Eddie blinked away tears. She was disloyal, wanting to marry Lord Averdale only to get away from home. Ungrateful. It was true that her mother had always, always protected her. When she found out her friends were mocking her, her mother had held her close and whispered that it would be all right, that she didn't need such false friends. They had each other, didn't they?

She was harsh, yes. But she could be kind like this. Sweet and doting. And at these times Eddie wondered if it was only her foul temperament that kept her from pleasing her mother. Maybe she
was
stubborn and obstinate, and drove her mother to such harshness of pure necessity. Perhaps Eddie hadn't tried hard enough. Perhaps there was still a chance for her to change herself in some small way. She would never be a swan, but perhaps she could be not
quite
so much of an ugly duckling. She could manage a goose, at least, surely.

“I know what's best for you, Mildred,” her mother said, and kissed her brow.

Three visits in two days. It's almost as if I have friends,
Eddie mused as she descended the stairs, her mother trailing her. Ezekiel Blackwood was here again, and she couldn't imagine why. It was not as if they would be able to speak freely with her mother as escort. When they entered the drawing room he was standing stiffly, fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of his jacket. Their greetings were perfunctory, and when he sat none of the tension went out of him.

“There's something I need to tell you,” he said immediately when they sat. His eyes fixed on a point somewhere to Eddie's left, but she was used to that by now—his habit of never quite looking you in the eye. It might have been interpreted as shiftiness by some, but Eddie recognized it as shyness, or something similar. “I spoke with my uncle on the subject of matrimony. His opinions, both generally and specific. We spoke about you.”

Lady Copeland shifted, her expression altering like quicksilver. She was clearly battling a mix of emotions—distaste at Mr. Blackwood's manners; eagerness at news of Lord Averdale's disposition toward her daughter.

“He does not intend to marry,” Mr. Blackwood said, and Lady Copeland's face turned to a stony mask. Eddie felt made of stone herself. Cold, lumpy stone, chiseled into something that vaguely resembled a lady in conversation with a man. But stone had no thoughts; it was inert, and so was she. She heard the words, but they held no meaning. She could not allow them to hold meaning.

“I beg your pardon,” she said. She had no conscious awareness of selecting the words; they simply emerged. “Could you repeat that?”

Mr. Blackwood looked pained. “My uncle does not intend to remarry. Anyone. He enjoys your company, but he does not intend to ask for your hand now or ever.”

“I see,” Eddie said. She rose, still feeling as if someone else were in control of her body.

Lord Averdale does not wish to marry me,
she thought, expecting to feel despair. Instead, she felt nothing. And then, quite the opposite of nothing—a thrill of hope.

Perhaps,
the hope began, and it ended with Mr. Blackwood and the wide, earnest eyes behind his spectacles, but she didn't dare fill in the rest.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you for investigating the matter, Mr. Blackwood. You have been most helpful. If you will excuse me, I'm afraid I am not feeling well.”

He jolted to his feet. “Of course,” he said. “I'll go. I'm sorry. I thought that you needed to know. Maybe I should not have said anything. Was I right, to tell you?”

“Of course,” Eddie said coolly, shoving that flickering little hope away. “I am most grateful to be spared the humiliation of pursuing someone who is not interested in me.”

He said something else, but she wasn't listening. She was glad when he left, striding out of the room with hunched shoulders. Behind her, her mother's skirts rustled as she repositioned herself.

“Well. That won't do at all,” she said.

Eddie didn't turn. She couldn't look at her mother just yet. If she did, her mother might see the relief on her face. Or guess at the traitorous little
perhaps
. “It's not as if it's a great surprise,” she said. “It did seem strange that I should be the one to catch Lord Averdale's eye.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You have much to recommend you.”

“Do I?” Eddie said. “That comes as news to me.”

“Your father is an earl. You have wide hips, good for childbearing. You are unobtrusive.”

“Practically irresistible,” Eddie said. She pressed her hand over her stomach, reminding herself to breathe steadily. Her best chance of a quick escape was gone. So why was she not more upset? Why was she not thinking of Lord Averdale, but of Ezekiel Blackwood's look of abject apology?
Of pity, more likely,
she told herself, and crushed that small hope beneath the weight of the realization.

“Don't despair,” Lady Copeland said. “He isn't out of our grasp yet.”

Eddie turned to her at last. “Did you not hear what the man said? Lord Averdale has no intention of marrying
anyone
, least of all me. He's uninterested.”

“Interest isn't necessary,” Lady Copeland said. She had a scheming look in her eye, one that Eddie knew by long experience was cause to be wary. “He's obviously a softhearted man. And a noble one. Yes, that's it. If you were compromised . . .”

“Compromised?” Eddie asked in alarm.

“We can arrange for the two of you to be found alone together in a room. Hopefully with your bodice askew. Then he'd have to wed you.”

“You must be joking.” It was obvious that Lady Copeland was not.

“We shall have to ask a few favors, to ensure that everyone is in their proper place.”

Eddie stared at her mother in frank bewilderment, but Lady Copeland's mind was clearly elsewhere, making plans. “Mother, this is ridiculous. And unnecessary. My father
is
an earl. Surely there are men who would be interested in marrying a stoat if it would get them an earl for a father-in-law.”

“Oh, you might catch some schemer. Someone who needs money and your father's ear. But it would be someone reaching up, by necessity. And such a marriage would drag our family
down
.”

“You mean, to my level,” Eddie said drily.

“Well. I would never say such a thing, of course. But as long as they are your words, not mine, then yes. Essentially.”

“Dear Lord.” Eddie spun around, unable to look at her mother another moment, and gulped down a breath. Her mother had always been hard to bear, but this was something else. This was not just pushing Eddie to be something worthy of the Copeland name. This was—this was—she couldn't even put words to it. Her mother was willing to turn her into a schemer and Lord Averdale into a dupe. Just to get rid of her.

It had never, ever been about what was best for Eddie, had it? Because this could not be best for her. Not when it would ruin her reputation and brand her as some kind of monster for the rest of her life.

“I won't do it,” she said. “I won't trap a man in a marriage he doesn't want, and I certainly won't compromise my virtue to do it.”

“You'll do as you're told,” Lady Copeland snapped.

Eddie gave her a hard look over her shoulder. “I always do what you tell me to, Mother, and look where it's gotten me.”

With her mother gaping at her, she strode out of the drawing room and kept on going, right out the front door and down the street.

***

Ezekiel left the town house with the distinct sensation of having been kicked in the stomach. He could not go home and risk facing his relatives; Sophie would be sympathetic, Lord Averdale wise and knowing, his father—well. The less he thought about that, the better.

Instead, he returned to the greenhouse. It was an ugly place, a dead place, but when he stepped inside he felt warmth. Satisfaction. He felt as if he were not alone, and that his company took a very particular form.

He wanted her here with him. He wanted to name every species of decaying plant in alphabetical order until she smiled. Would that make her smile? He thought so. He thought she would make a joke out of it. It was so much easier to talk to her than to anyone else, even if they'd only done it twice, properly. He would tell her five things, he thought, and ask a question, and she would notice. Because she paid attention. She listened to him, and not because, like Sophie, she was his friend and it was the friendly thing to do. She listened because she wanted to hear what he had to say.

So he would tell her five things.
I think you are beautiful. I always think so, but especially when you smile. I think you are the smartest woman I have ever met. I think you're the smartest
person
I've ever met. I think that even if you
were
the worst dancer in all the world, I would still dance with you.

And then it would be time for a question.

“What are you doing here?”

He turned, startled. Lady Eddie stood in the doorway. She was not dressed to go out of doors, and she wore only thin slippers, now scraped and muddied. Her eyes were red and puffy, the tip of her nose nearly as crimson as the bottlebrush. She'd been crying. She still was crying; a fat teardrop slid down the side of her nose. She wiped at it furiously.

“I came here to think,” he said.

“So did I.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him as if he were the interloper. “What do you have to think about?”

“You, mostly,” he said. He swallowed.

She gave a hoarse laugh. “Come to think about how pathetic I am? How much of an idiot I was?”

“I was thinking about how much I like you,” he said. She dropped her hands to her sides, her eyes wide. “I was thinking that I hope we can be friends, even after what I told you.”

“Oh.” She walked past him, brushing by so close that her arm caught on his coat and pulled it partially open. She bent, flipped over a flowerpot, and sat down on it with a little
hmph
. “Why?”

“Why what?”

She looked up at him, her arms crossed and her body bent forward, almost as if she were cold. But it was sweltering in the greenhouse; they were both perspiring. “Why do you want to be my friend?”

“Because.” He paused. “You are intelligent. You seem to enjoy listening to me when I talk, and I enjoy listening to you when you talk. You don't mind that I'm strange. To my knowledge, you have never mocked me. And I like your smile. Why wouldn't I want to be your friend?”

“Because I'm a social disaster,” she said.

“So am I.”

“I'm ugly.”

“I have been reliably informed that I am gawky and without charisma,” Ezekiel told her. It was becoming awkward to look down at her, so he sat on the floor, one leg out in front of him and the other bent up, his hands laced around it.

“I have a truly horrific family,” Lady Eddie pointed out.

“I have no desire to be friendly with your family,” Ezekiel said. “Why would they matter?”

“My parents have done horrible things. They don't think I know anything about it, but I hear people whispering. They are not good people. And I'm their child. Don't you think some of that may have rubbed off on me?”

“I have spent my entire life under the care of my stepfather, and I am nothing like him. You have the confounding variable of inheritance to consider, but we don't fully understand the mechanisms of—” He paused. “I mean to say, I do not think you are like your parents. Unless you have done horrible things that I'm not aware of.”

“I used to have a cat,” Lady Eddie said, looking off into the distance. “I loved her very much. But sometimes, when I was very upset, I would look at her and I would want to hurt her. I would want to fling her away from me, or hit her. Just for batting at my skirts or crawling into my lap when I wanted to be left alone.”

“Did you?”

“No, of course not,” she said, her gaze whipping back to him. “She did not deserve my anger.”

“We cannot always control what impulses arise in us,” Ezekiel said. “I have violent impulses. But I don't act on them. And neither do you.”

“What if I do, someday?”

“You won't.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if you have the choice, you will always choose kindness,” Ezekiel said.

“You don't know me well enough to say that.”

“It is an initial hypothesis,” Ezekiel allowed. “But I doubt that subsequent observation will alter it.”

She was crying again. He'd upset her. He sat upright in alarm.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Stop saying you're sorry so much. I'm not upset at you, Mr. Blackwood. I'm upset because . . .” She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with the side of her thumb. Suddenly recognizing his responsibility in this situation, Ezekiel rummaged in his pocket for his handkerchief and handed it over. She smiled gratefully through her tears. “I'm crying because you're being so nice to me.”

“That doesn't make sense,” Ezekiel said, confused.

She laughed. “I know. Humanity is a strange thing, isn't it?”

“Plants are much more predictable,” Ezekiel agreed.

“I didn't really want to marry him, you know. I mean, I want to marry. I want to marry as quickly as possible. And marrying your uncle seemed like the best way to do that.”

“Why are you so eager?” Ezekiel asked. He understood that women wed far earlier than men, on the average, but it wasn't as if she were approaching that dreaded twenty-sixth year of life, in which a woman, through some mechanism beyond his understanding, transformed into a spinster.

“It's my mother,” she confessed. “It's terrible, I know, but I cannot stand to be around her. And I cannot please her, whatever I do. I am weary of knowing at every moment what a burden I am. Of being reminded of my failings. At least if I were to be married, it would take some time for my husband to become fully acquainted with my faults, and perhaps if I were lucky he would decide to overlook them.”

“What faults are those?” Ezekiel asked.

“I'm ugly, I'm clumsy, I'm a terrible conversationalist, I get distracted, I talk too much, I walk too loudly, I hold the wrong opinions, and I read too much.”

“I don't think you're ugly,” Ezekiel said. “And I don't care that you're clumsy. As for conversation, I am hardly a good judge, but you at least exceed my own skills. Distractibility is frequently confused with curiosity, and I think you possess the latter. You certainly don't talk as much as I do, I have never noticed a particularly robust auditory quality to your stride, I want to hear your opinions, and there's no such thing as reading too much.”

“That was a very long fifth sentence,” she said, one side of her mouth curling up in a smile. It made her face look all the more crooked, and rather impish.