Augusta looked at her.
“Sometimes.”
Honest.
She continued.
“I loved him eventually.”
“Not as girls imagine love.”
“Not as you and Julian…”
She stopped.
Then:
“But enough.”
“I built dignity around the arrangement.”
“And when Julian chose differently, I thought he was rejecting everything I had called wisdom.”
Eliza understood.
That did not excuse.
Understanding was not permission.
Augusta continued.
“I saw you and thought you were what I had not been allowed to be.”
“Chosen without calculation.”
Beatrice whispered:
“Mother.”
Augusta’s eyes filled.
“I was angry.”
“At me?”
“Yes.”
The answer was ugly.
Useful.
Eliza nodded.
“Thank you.”
Augusta looked surprised.
“For?”
“For saying the real thing.”
Then Eliza continued:
“I accept your apology for the letters.”
Augusta waited.
“And?”
“I am not ready to pretend I trust you.”
Her face changed.
Eliza continued.
“You used household authority to isolate me.”
“You removed correspondence.”
“You controlled information.”
“You made me financially vulnerable because you disliked a possibility.”
“I can forgive without giving you access to make the same decision again.”
Augusta looked toward Beatrice.
Her daughter nodded.
Not against her.
Agreement.
Augusta swallowed.
“I understand.”
Did she?
Maybe partly.
Enough for today.
The wedding took place in June.
Not at Cavendish Row.
Eliza refused.
They married at a small church near Bloomsbury where Clara worshipped.
The reception was held in the garden behind Pembroke Street because Beatrice insisted the school should be part of the day.
Society considered it eccentric.
Society came anyway.
Dukes attracted attendance.
Eliza knew.
She did not pretend everyone had suddenly become egalitarian.
Lady Catherine Somerville attended wearing pale blue and kissed Eliza’s cheek.
“I am relieved.”
Eliza blinked.
“About?”
“Everyone thought Julian might eventually propose to me.”
“You did not want him?”
Catherine stared.
“He discusses drainage at dinner.”
Eliza laughed.
Fair.
Augusta attended.
As family.
After apologizing.
No grand reconciliation.
She sat beside Beatrice.
Cried during vows.
Later told Clara the cake was too sweet.
Clara replied:
“Then eat less.”
Beatrice nearly died trying not to laugh.
Marriage did not solve class.
Or family.
Or Julian’s habit of trying to repair problems by funding them.
Three months after the wedding, he offered to purchase the Pembroke Street building outright.
Eliza stared.
“No.”
“It would save rent.”
“No.”
“It is financially sensible.”
“For whom?”
“The school.”
“Who owns it afterward?”
“You.”
“Absolutely not.”