But the smile wasn't just forced, it was downright rigid.
She rang for chocolate cream, but eating it didn't seem to help. The conversation flowed around her. Lady Avonleigh got up and wandered over to Corinna's easel, admiring her latest painting. "Very impressive, my dear."
"Thank you," Corinna said.
Alexandra smiled as she plied her needle. "Did you know Corinna plans to submit a painting to the Royal Academy next year?"
"Several," Corinna corrected. "I'm hoping one will be accepted for the Summer Exhibition."
"Really?" Lady A mused. "I did tell you my younger daughter was artistic, yes? Though it seemed unlikely, she always hoped to see one of her paintings in the Summer Exhibition, too. But her real dream was to be elected to the Royal Academy."
"That's my dream as well," Corinna said. "I know it won't be a simple matter, but I'm willing to work hard for the honor."
The older woman measured her for a moment, then returned to sit beside her. "I want to help you," she announced. "My daughter never attained her dream—I want to see you attain yours."
Aunt Frances knotted and snipped off a thread. "How can you help her?"
"I don't know, but I'll think of a way." Lady A picked up the little cap she was making and smiled at Juliana. "You're good at coming up with ideas. If you wouldn't mind helping, maybe together we can see that your sister becomes the next female member of the Academy."
That would be wonderful for Corinna. And of course Juliana wouldn't mind helping. She needed another project. It would be a lengthy project—it would likely take years—but keeping busy would make it easier to bear her and James's despair.
Well, not really. But she'd find a solution for their despair soon. She would talk to James tomorrow.
Damnation—make that dear heavens—she was not going to cry.
FORTY-SIX
THERE WERE different ways of dealing with the blows life randomly chucked at some people. James's method—perfected during the years he mourned his brother, father, wife, and newborn child—was to bury himself in work.
Since Sunday he'd been operating in a blur—a dark, painful, all too familiar haze. The miasma had lifted momentarily on Monday, when it had seemed Juliana's plan might succeed. But since learning the truth of Castleton's birth, the dark had closed in again.
James couldn't say that what he faced now was worse than coping with death. Of course it wasn't worse. But it didn't seem better, either. Like loving Juliana compared to loving Anne, it was different.
Death was final. One mourned, one grieved, one eventually moved on. But what he faced now…it wasn't final—it was forever. It was a life sentence. It seemed so arbitrary, so accidental, so damned unfair.
And so bloody damned inescapable.
And so he'd worked. Because it seemed there was nothing else he could do.
He knew what he couldn't do. He couldn't abandon a fine young lady to a life of utter disgrace. He couldn't condemn himself to a future devoid of all honor. He couldn't make sense of anything in his irrational, haphazard world.
But he could work.
He could work at the Institute to save the world from smallpox. He could work in Parliament to better his country. He could work on his estate to improve the lives of those who depended on him.
He couldn't help himself, and he couldn't help Juliana. But there were other people he could help. Right here, right now, his work was the only thing that seemed to make sense.
One thing James knew—probably the only thing he knew for sure—was how to bury himself in his work to the exclusion of everything else. To the exclusion of everything painful. And so on Tuesday he'd risen at dawn and spent the entire day at the Institute. And the entire evening in Parliament. And then he'd gone back to the Institute and stayed there until the wee hours, finding things to do, until he could go home and fall into bed and get up and start all over again.
Today he'd risen at dawn and returned to the Institute, even though he had two physicians scheduled and wasn't really needed. There was no Parliament tonight, so he'd stay here until the wee hours, finding things to do, until he could go home and fall into bed and get up and start all over again.
He'd do the same tomorrow and Friday. Saturday would be a little different—there would be an interlude in the middle for his wedding. But then he'd come back here to the Institute and repeat the pattern again.
It wasn't an unbearable life. At least he had a purpose. And he was keeping himself so busy he didn't have time to think. Thinking threatened his mental health, and the busyness was a sort of medicine—a medicinal ointment he could smear all over everything to obscure the ills infecting his world.
The medicine, sadly, was an imperfect cure. As the Bible said—Ecclesiastes, if he remembered right—"Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savor." Despite countless Sundays in church, he'd never quite understood what "stinking savor" was supposed to mean. But to put it another way, in simpler words, there was a fly in the ointment.
And the fly was women.
Women always—always, always—wanted to talk. Not the superficial talk of men—talk of news and the weather and horses—which didn't make one think. Men's talk could substitute for busyness. But women's talk was different. Because women didn't just talk.
Women wanted to discuss things. And discussions required him to think. Which in turn sent forth that stinking savor he was striving so hard to avoid.
If only he could avoid women.
Unfortunately, that was impossible, since approximately half the world's population was female. There was his mother, always wanting to discuss
