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Chapter Sixteen

After the opera, Serafina slept late, and her dreams were troubled. When she woke, she was not rested and would have lain abed longer, except that she knew her father would expect a full examination of the evening, and the prospects that he believed would be attendant upon it.

She had no such illusions. 

As a girl, she had always longed to be in a real box at the opera, to drink champagne, and have one of the finest views in the house, to be among genteel company as the music flowed about her, accomplished and ravishing. But the music had been merely tolerable, the soprano a disappointment, and the company? Lord Forthenby had taken no interest in what occurred upon the stage, nor the jeers of the pit. Indeed, he held himself aloof even from the gossip and prattle of the folk of his own class. 

She had wondered, often, during the evening, why he troubled himself to have a box if he had no taste for either music or company. She and her mother had sat in silence, tense and neglected, leaving Serafina alone with a growing awareness of the press of Lord Forthenby’s gaze upon her skin. Her father had, of course, tried to ingratiate himself, pushing his praise and attentions upon Lord Forthenby, and was met with barely concealed contempt. 

She had come home unsettled and so, after she had dressed for bed, she had taken Mr Thornton’s handkerchief from the drawer where she had concealed it, and slept with it, pressed to her lips. There was still, about it, the trace of his scent; active, masculine, alluring. 

As she rose, Serafina clutched it and, unwilling to ring for a maid, dressed herself as she had when she was a girl. When she was done, she slipped the handkerchief in to her sleeve. 

Downstairs, her parents were already at breakfast. The frown upon her father’s face warned her far more effectively than the tense expression her mother wore.

“Good morrow, child,” said Mr Tooting, with affection. He was warmer with her, paid her many little courtesies now that he believed she finally brought the laurels he had always hoped she would lay upon the family name.

Still, there was that frown.

She curtseyed, “Good morning, sir. Good morning, mama.”

“Serafina,” her mother said, in a voice that boded some ill. “I would see you in the morning room, when you have broken your fast.”

“Yes, madame.” She took a cup of coffee in her hands and sipped at it. Already, it was lukewarm. There were eggs and sliced meats upon the table, but in the morning light, they seemed greasy and unappealing. She applied to mind as to what possible bad news could have come in the night to bring that tight look to her mother’s face. 

Her stays pinched, pressed at her chest – she had made something of a mess of tying them. 

The coffee was bitter and black, leaving a sour taste upon her tongue. “Have we news from little William?”

Almost a flinch, but so well concealed that you would need to know her mother well to see it. Composure, Serafina had often been told, was a gentlewoman’s armour. “As far as we know, your brother is most well.”

“The Lord be praised,” said her father. “A boy to be proud of. Or he will be, when school has done it’s work on him.”

No-one said anything. Between them, Serafina and her mother had managed to conceal the way that William had wept at the thought of going away to school, or the desperate letters he sent them. Serafina let her mind go to what other catastrophe might have befallen. 

“I am at liberty now, ma’am,” she said. “I have very little appetite.”
“You must break your fast, Serafina,” her father said.

Head still bowed, she took a slice of gammon and a small piece of bread from a plate. Feeling her father’s gaze still on her, she took another and some fruit. 

“You must preserve your beauty,” said her father. “No man likes a woman who makes mealtimes tense.”

“No, sir.” She sipped her coffee and waited for the blow to fall.

Minutes ticked by. 

“I rode out this morning,” he said, announcing it to the room, although her mother clearly knew already. “And met some most disturbing news.”

Serafina put down her cup.

“It appears that our dear friend Lord Forthenby, was threatened and assaulted in the small hours of the morning.”

Was that all? She almost felt a smile curve the corners of her mouth, but was able to arrest it. However much she disliked the man, no-one deserved to be harmed. “That is most distressing news, sir.” 

Perhaps she was too calm, for she saw her mother’s movement, the flash of eyes, the warning.

“I sincerely hope he was not injured,” she added, trying for a little more feeling, “or otherwise distressed.” 

Her father frowned more deeply. “I believe he was angered rather than harmed. I hear tell his man had to restrain him from committing some rash act of retribution. Quite understandable. Quite.”

Serafina let the words wash over her, relieved. “But my Lord was unharmed,” she said, with what she hoped was a disingenuous, winning smile. 

“Put your mind at ease, child,” said her father, satisfied. “His Lordship is quite well.”

“I am most reassured to hear it, sir.”

Across the table, her mother gave a slight shake of the head.

Which meant there was something more. Serafina took the napkin from beside her plate and moved her fingers in it. “I hope, sir,” she said, in as a level a voice as she could manage, “that they have managed to apprehend his assailant.”

“They have not,” her father said.

She felt her hands tense in the clean linen, and forced herself to relax them, “No doubt some common footpad, or...” 

There was too much emotion in her voice.

“No. The attacker was gentleman. Or something approaching one.”

She did not look at her mother, she could not. 

“Indeed, I believe he is one who was at one time permitted welcome in this house.”

Do nothing to offend such men as Lord Forthenby. Or your father. 

“Does something ail you, child?”

“No, sir.” She remembered the way that, before he had left, Mr Thornton had kissed her hand. “I merely struggle to credit such a thing…” Her breath came short and uncontrolled, her stays pressing tight, too tight, “…between gentlemen.”

Breathe, she thought, but she could not, could not stop herself gasping, could not swallow enough air. She could not but see him, her Mr Thornton, standing there in the dawn light, a pistol in his hand.

Her father was talking, “...hardly know why we admitted a man of that stamp to…”

She began to rise, thinking to walk to the window, to lean against the cool glass to steady herself. As she rose, her mother rose with her.
“... worked at the Treasury, I think...”

There was not enough air. The fabric of her stays bound her, stopped her chest from moving, pinching, pinching. Her eyes ached.

“Mama,” she said, as the room faded to grey around her.