Seven Minutes in Heaven(29)

“I have no idea how to respond,” Eugenia said.

“He is begging you to come, Eugenia. Obviously, you must go to Oxford,” Susan said. “I will take your appointments for three days. And I’ll add my own plea: travel from there to your father’s estate and enjoy a proper rest.”

“I cannot go to Oxford,” Eugenia said, the words wrenched from her throat. “I just can’t, Susan. Mr. Reeve is too . . . No. I’m not ready.”

The thought of entering Ward’s house—shamefully, Eugenia couldn’t help thinking of him with the name he used to sign his letter—made her feel weak. Cracked. Overheated.

Susan scowled, but Eugenia shook her head. “No.”

“All right, we’ll have to rely on Miss Midge,” Susan said with obvious reluctance. “I’ll write to Mr. Reeve and explain that we have no expertise as regards larcenous behavior. I won’t mention that Otis has bested the Duke of Fletcher’s offspring,” she added, with a chuckle.

“Thank you,” Eugenia said, heaving a sigh. “If your father only knew what you are urging me to do, Susan—”

“He’d disown me,” Susan said cheerfully. She leaned over and dropped a kiss on Eugenia’s cheek. “It’s only because I love you. You have no appointments tomorrow. Stay home.”

That evening, Eugenia walked through the house where she and Andrew had begun their married life, servants moving in a swirl of activity around her. A footman brought her a light meal that she ate in her bedchamber. She bathed, put on her nightgown, cleaned her teeth . . .

Went to bed and dreamed.

Of course, she dreamed of Andrew. There was nothing unusual about that; she dreamed of him at least once a week. He had been her rock, the stable fulcrum of her world.

In her dream, they were in the dining room, and Andrew was lounging at the table, rolling something between his hands. She couldn’t see what it was. He was talking on and on about a horse he’d bought that had the eyes of a unicorn.

Starting awake, Eugenia lay in the dark, remembering how much Andrew talked. She’d loved to listen to him in those days. He had such definite opinions. And he always, always, knew what was right.

If he claimed a horse had the eyes of a unicorn, it had. No matter that neither of them had ever seen such a creature. Andrew’s certitude had been a refuge after the ebullient chaos in which she grew up.

Her father’s house had been comfortable, untidy, stacked with books, crammed with curiosities from all over the world. He had a penchant for fencing in the long picture gallery, lunging and parrying with competitive fervor while Eugenia watched from behind the shelter of a glass cabinet.

Andrew would never have fenced in the house, any more than he would have left a stack of books on the piano. He furnished their house in perfect taste. No detail was too small—from the way a horse’s mane complemented the carriage he pulled, to the color of a bride’s trousseau. His instinct for perfection dictated every detail of their life.

One night he had even discarded a silk nightgown that her stepmother had given her, because Prussian-blue was unbecoming to Eugenia’s hair. “You look like a firework, all red and blue and ready to explode,” he had said, laughing as he’d bundled it up and thrown it into the hallway. “The only place you’re allowed to explode is in bed with me.”

Then he had gathered her up in his arms and taken her to bed, and she’d forgotten about the nightgown.

Until now. Oddly enough, she felt a prickle of sadness for the girl she’d been, who had loved that nightgown and had felt beautiful in it.

She’d been so impossibly young.

And her life had been so simple.





Chapter Twelve





Tuesday, May 26, 1801

18 Cavendish Square

Mrs. Eugenia Snowe’s residence



The next morning, her maid laid out a muted green gown that complemented Eugenia’s red hair without making it blaze like a wildfire.

Not that Andrew disliked her hair. He had adored winding her curls around his fingers and arranging her hair over her breasts as if she were a naiad in an old painting.

But he didn’t want her to look flashy in public. Ladies sparkled in private; they gleamed discreetly in public.

It would have been easier to recover from his death if she had unpleasant memories of their marriage. Instead, all she had were wistful fragments, like a few pearls strung on a thread. But pearls that are never worn lose their luster and shine. Perhaps that was the problem.

“I don’t wish to wear that dress today,” she told Clothilde. “Don’t I have a gown somewhere that is the color of the sky?”

“Yes.” Clothilde ducked into the dressing room and returned with an armful of cerulean silk. “With slippers?”