Simon’s hand rested on the small of her back, and Mina felt a modicum of calm wash over her; his own touch relaxed, showing he needed the contact as much as she. Lily sat on the blankets at their feet, examining the spread of food while casting an occasional glance in the direction from which Oliver was likely to come.
“Mama, you are fretting over nothing. Sophie is a dear.” Lily and Oliver had both been singing the young lady’s praises until they were hoarse, but words were of little help at present.
And then her son appeared with Miss Banfield on his arm, and Mina’s breath caught. Simon shifted behind her, and she threaded her arm through his, holding on to give strength as much as gain it. Miss Banfield’s bonnet cast a shadow over her face, keeping her expression from being read at a distance, but as they drew closer, Mina noticed a tightness about her eyes that had Mina wondering what thoughts were churning in the young lady’s mind.
Though they’d had some contact during the house party, Oliver went through the formal introductions, giving Mina and Simon a clear message of how important he believed this meeting to be. Miss Banfield gave the proper curtsies and salutations, and then the four of them stood there, staring at one another for several long moments.
Mina scoured her thoughts for something to say, but this moment was too contrived to allow for a natural discourse. She motioned for them to sit, and the silence lingered. For her part, Lily watched the whole thing with half-lidded eyes that broadcasted her exasperation.
But what was one to say? When meeting the young lady her son fancied, the first thought would be to discuss family history and connections, but no one present desired to venture down that conversational route.
Oliver watched Mina, his gaze begging her to make an effort as Miss Banfield’s hands rested in her lap, her shoulders tensing under the heavy silence.
“I understand you study naturalism,” blurted Mina. Her cheeks pinked, but ignoring the flash of embarrassment, she forged ahead. “Both Lily and Oliver have regaled us with your efforts to catalog the plants, wildlife, and insects of Essex.”
Miss Banfield’s brows rose. “I do enjoy the subject, madam, but I fear they may be too liberal in their praise. I am a hobbyist, that is all.”
“Nonsense,” Lily said as she picked at a pork pie.
Oliver joined in, elaborating on all of Miss Banfield’s studies. For her part, the young lady struggled to meet anyone’s eyes as Mina’s children praised her to the skies, but Miss Banfield held herself without the taint of fear so many timid ladies held. A faint pink filled her cheeks, yet when her gaze rose from her lap, it glowed with pleasure and gratitude. Mina wondered if she was simply unused to such compliments.
Watching carefully, Mina searched for any sign of artifice. Insincere people were rarely careless enough to allow the mask to slip after such a short acquaintance, but there was a sense about them. Some aspect that sent an uncomfortable shiver across her skin and whispered to her heart that they were not to be trusted. Though by no means infallible, Mina had learned to trust those instincts, and they remained silent at present.
“You brought your sketchbook?” asked Lily, motioning to the satchel.
“I hardly think your parents wish to be bothered by such things,” replied Miss Banfield, casting a glance between Mina and Simon.
“You draw?” asked Mina.
“Some, though I prefer watercolor,” replied Miss Banfield.
“She has the patience I do not, Mama,” added Lily with a self-deprecating smile.
Oliver sent Miss Banfield a smile. “You should show them. Mother is quite the artist herself.”
“‘Artist’ may be a bit strong,” said Mina, her cheeks flushing a darker pink. She was no longer the quailing creature of her youth who was often embarrassed, but her skin refused to cooperate and enjoyed embarrassing her to no end by broadcasting her feelings to anyone who cared to look.
“‘Artist’ is precisely what you are,” said Simon with a sigh, for this was an old argument.
“We are not here to discuss me,” muttered Mina. Turning her attention back to Miss Banfield, she said, “I would like to see them, should you care to show me.”
Miss Banfield looked quite confused at that, as though she couldn’t imagine why anyone else would wish to look at them, but without further ado, she opened the straps of her satchel and retrieved her watercolor journal. The young lady’s lips pinched together as she flipped through the pages, doing a quick inventory of what was there and what she deemed worthy of being viewed. Then she turned the book and held it out for Mina to take.
Mina’s brows rose as she examined the painting. Miss Banfield had captured a butterfly in various positions as it flitted across the sky; each one was little more than a few quick strokes of her brush, and Mina was awed by the confidence with which Miss Banfield had rendered the butterfly in flight.
“This is lovely,” whispered Mina as she leaned closer to examine the layers of colors and techniques with which it’d been wrought. “Did your governess teach you?”
A small smile appeared as Miss Banfield’s eyes brightened. “It was not her forte, though she knew enough of the basics to show me a few things. I am mostly self-taught.”
Mina flipped to the next page and shook her head at the painting of a pasture that somehow captured the place with such accuracy that Mina knew precisely where it was, yet with an interpretation that infused the scene with the artist’s own sentiment. If pressed, Mina could not say for certain what it was about the painting that elicited such longing in her heart, but there was no denying that the image was steeped in it.
Posing a few questions, Mina prompted Miss Banfield to discuss her artwork, and soon the conversation meandered around the subject. The colors and paintbrushes used. Their favorite paper and the strengths and weaknesses of each type. The technique behind certain strokes.
While Miss Banfield spoke, Mina searched for those subtle signs of duplicity that whispered a warning to any who chose to listen. But she found nothing to give her any sense of unease. Within minutes of meeting Miss Banfield’s mother, Mina had known her character. Perhaps not the intricacies but enough.
Simon said little whilst the two ladies spoke, but when Mina met his gaze, she saw much of the same surprise she felt.
“The light is so lovely this afternoon. Perhaps I should send for my things and paint,” said Mina. “Would you care to join me?”
Miss Banfield’s brows rose. “You wish to paint with me?”
Mina might’ve been amused by the surprise in the young lady’s expression and tone, but given her cold reception, Miss Banfield had plenty of reasons to question the invitation.
“It’s not often I have someone around who enjoys painting as I do,” said Mina. “And I would appreciate the opportunity to learn some of those techniques you mentioned—if you’d like to show me.”
Miss Banfield straightened, slanting a look in Oliver’s direction, though Mina saw the pleasure shining in her gaze. “If you wish me to, I would be honored.”
Chapter 31
Standing before her bedchamber mirror, Sophie turned to examine her gown, though her thoughts were far from the image. She ran her hands across her skirts, primped her hair, and straightened her necklace and earrings as energy buzzed through her veins like bees. Sophie could not think of another time when a ball had induced such giddiness, but then no other ball had held the promise of an evening with Mr. Kingsley.
Her thoughts conjured images of their first ball together, and Sophie fairly floated out of her slippers at the chance to capture that magic once more. A ball with Mr. Kingsley.
The strains of a waltz tickled her lips, and she hummed the tune, stepping up to her invisible partner before whisking into a dance. It was a monstrously juvenile thing for her to do, but a burble of laughter attested to the fact that Sophie did not care. No one in her situation could feel anything but exultant, and indulging in a few girlish fantasies was her right as the lovesick fool she was.
The door opened, and Sophie dropped her arms and halted before the intruder witnessed her ridiculous behavior, but no amount of self-control could wipe the grin from her face.
“You are in a good mood,” said Mama, adjusting her earrings as she strode into the bedchamber. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you this excited for a ball.”
Sophie gave a vague wave and turned back to the mirror. “I’ve never had reason before.”
Mama came to stand behind her with a delicate smile. “You do seem quite happy with your Mr. Kingsley.”
A blush stole across Sophie’s cheeks at Mama’s declaration, but she would not deny that she was quite happy and that Mr. Kingsley was “hers” as much as she was “his.”
Mama turned her gaze to Sophie’s gown and her brows pinched, her eyes filling with concern. “Why are you not ready?”
Blinking at Mama, Sophie ran her hands along her silk skirts and gave her gown another glance. “I am.”
Pulling Sophie away from the mirror, Mama circled her, taking in every aspect of her gown and coiffure. “Do you feel so secure in his affection that you needn’t make an effort?”
Sophie patted at the side of her chignon and fiddled with her necklace. “I thought I had.”
Mama’s frown deepened. Sophie’s heart sank, but when Mama met her daughter’s gaze, the lady waved her words away with an apology. “I didn’t mean to upset you, my dear. I can see you attempted to pretty yourself up a bit, but you don’t seem to grasp the importance of looking your best.”
Mama’s light eyes filled with concern as she took Sophie by the hands. With each word, her tone grew more demanding, her hold on Sophie tightening. “The greatest asset a woman has is her looks. Good conversation and shared interests are fine and well, but men are fickle creatures, driven by their desires. No matter how confident you are in securing their affections, they will stray if something more captivating appears before them. It is up to you to enhance that which nature bestowed upon you and do battle with the march of time that slowly steals it away.”
Sophie blinked at her mother, uncertain of which issue to address first, but the words escaped before she had time to think better of them. “You speak as though all men stray.”
Mama straightened, her brows rising. Then with a huffing chuckle, she patted Sophie on the cheek. “You think any husband is faithful to his wife? Or that every paramour remains true?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley—”
Fire flashed in Mama’s eyes, there and gone in a brief spark of anger. Then she released her daughter with a derisive snort. “Those two play the adoring couple in public, but no one is that happy. Mrs. Kingsley has no enticements to capture his attention, and her husband may play the saint, but such men are only more circumspect in their liaisons.”
Sophie tucked her hands behind her, watching Mama with a wary eye. Remaining silent pained her, but there was no good to be had in defending the Kingsleys.
“I’m surprised you do not see it, given how much time you’ve been spending in their company of late.” Mama’s tone was disinterested, but her half-lidded gaze watched Sophie with far too much scrutiny, her posture as rigid as steel. “No doubt you have noticed the little signs of discontent beneath the pleasant facade.”
“I have seen nothing of the sort, Mama. And I would welcome the opportunity to paint and explore the countryside with you—as I have with the Kingsleys—but you have no desire to waste your time with such pursuits.” Though not a direct quote, the words were a close approximation to Mama’s sentiments.
With a dismissive wave, Mama herded Sophie to the mirror, standing her in front of it and returning to the previous subject. “You may not trust me on the inconstancy of men’s hearts, but do you truly wish to attend the ball in such a drab gown? Rather than blend in with the crowd, wouldn’t you prefer to turn heads?”
Though the blue silk gown lacked the ostentatious frippery so many admired, Sophie’s gown matched her eyes to perfection and brought their brightness to the foreground. Her jewelry was of good quality silver and there was a beauty to its simplicity. Her natural flair was more muted than the colorful and elaborate creature beside her, but Sophie couldn’t deny that Mama looked lovely.
“There is nothing so powerful as having a man desperate for you,” said Mama, tugging one of Sophie’s hairpins free. She spoke softly, her fingers combing through her daughter’s locks as her gaze grew warm and unfocused. “Having him worship at your feet and knowing he will do anything you ask of him is so… intoxicating. The greatest feeling I have ever known. There is none other like it. But that power fades with your looks, and you ought to seize it now, while you can. I would give anything to return to those younger years when I wielded that power with ease, capturing men’s hearts with little more than a glance or two. Each year, it takes more enticements to far less effect.”
A shudder ran down Sophie’s spine at Mama’s words and the sorrow coloring her eyes as she spoke of men like they had little use other than as slaves worshiping at the altar of her beauty. There was no response to offer to such a statement, so Sophie remained mute, watching her mother as the lady reveled in her memories.
When the lady did emerge from her musings, she met Sophie’s gaze in the mirror. “At the very least, don’t you wish to look your very best for your Mr. Kingsley?”
Now, that was a siren’s call to Sophie, bringing with it images of arriving at the ball and catching his eye. Though Mama’s description of her paramours held no appeal, Sophie longed to see her Mr. Kingsley gaze at her with that desire and admiration. What would it be like to cast aside Silly Little Sophie, who lurked in corners as the evening sped by? What harm was there in embracing a fantasy for one night?
“Do not fight it any longer, Sophie. I know you wish for this, even if you are half-tempted to deny yourself an evening as the belle of the ball.” Hurrying to the bedchamber door, Mama called for a servant to fetch her lady’s maid, before returning to her daughter’s side. “I shall need Bisset’s assistance if we are to manage this properly.”
***
In the weeks leading to the Nelsons’ house party, Victoria had spent much of her time reflecting on what the month would bring. With tonight’s ball serving as the crowning moment of the festivities, she had thought it would serve as an engagement celebration. The Caswells couldn’t afford such a grand gathering, but the Nelsons were enough like family that Victoria could’ve pretended the evening was intended for her. Perhaps it was silly to fantasize so, but this ball would’ve marked the end of her husband hunt, the end of her family’s financial woes, the end of the fretting for her sisters.
Instead, Victoria stood with her friends in a gown intended for a much grander purpose while the end of the house party crept closer. No engagement. No security. Nothing but a false smile and a heart ready to burst beneath the strain of it all.
And it really was a shame, for the gown was Victoria’s greatest work. Many thought deep crimson too bold a color, but there was a regality to it if styled properly. And Victoria had done just that.
Embroidery was not something she often employed in clothes; it was far too much work and too distinctive, making it near impossible to rework and restyle the piece into something new—to say nothing of the additional cost for the unnecessary thread. And the gold thread had come at a dear price. Yet the effect of the vines and scrollwork edging the pleats of her skirts and the bodice was divine, taking the shade from scandalous to sumptuous and contrasting beautifully with her dark hair and pale complexion. A gown fit for a soon-to-be bride celebrating her forthcoming nuptials.
If only.
Victoria would never do something so ridiculous as growl, but she was struck by the impulse because of her ridiculous self-pity. Bemoaning the past served no purpose and only distracted from the here and now. Here she was at a grand ball and dressed in her finest gown with the perfect coiffure. Now was the time for her to evaluate her options and choose the best.
Phyllis
clung to Victoria’s arm, barely concealing the giddy sparkle in her eyes as the pair examined the ballroom. Like the rest of Hardington Hall, this chamber was a tad small for the intended purpose, but the Nelsons had opened up all the adjacent rooms for dining, games, and chatting, drawing away many of the guests and leaving the ballroom free for only dancing. And what it lacked in size, it made up for in elegance.
The ceilings and walls were covered in frescoes as fine as any Victoria had seen in London. Gilded scrollwork separated the panels, catching the candlelight and adding to its glow. On its own, the ballroom was ornate and needed no additions to be fit for any gathering, but Mrs. Nelson had placed magnificent arrangements of flowers all along the walls of the rooms. Altogether, it was a tad much for Victoria’s tastes but impressive nonetheless.
“You should be proud,” said Victoria as Hettie came to stand on Phyllis’s other side. “Your family has outdone itself. The neighborhood will be speaking of this ball for months to come.”
“Most certainly,” echoed Phyllis. “Though I suspect I shall remember this evening for the rest of my life.”
Victoria’s brows rose. “Is your Mr. Dosett so soon to propose? When did you begin courting?”
Phyllis replied with a smile and a lift of her chin. “He spoke with Papa, though I have kept him on tenterhooks concerning a courtship. Yet still, Mr. Dosett has been hinting at a proposal for several days now. I think he may forgo a proper courtship altogether.”
“Such wonderful news,” said Victoria, whose well-wishes were echoed by Hettie.
But Phyllis turned to face her friend, her brows pulled tight together. “I apologize for being so callous, Victoria. It is not kind of me to crow over my victory when things have not fared so well for you.”
Hearts Entwined (Victorian Love Book 3) Page 22
