An Evening at Almack's

by Sally Britton

  “Thank you, but I—” She cut her words off, her eyebrows furrowing. “I would not wish to intrude.”

  “You would be most welcome. After all, we have known each other a very long time.” He grinned, using her words against her.

  Though she didn’t laugh, he saw the gleam of humor in her eye. “Very well. I accept your invitation on behalf of myself and my sister. Thank you.”

  “Oh, one thing more, before I take my leave of you.”

  She had the grace not to appear impatient with him. “Yes, Mr. Bolton?”

  He took the half step necessary to be close enough to reach out, his hand going to the little white feather above her left ear, removing it carefully from her hair. “You’ve lost a feather.”

  Matilda’s lips parted in surprise, her eyes widened. “Has that been there this whole time?” she asked, the last word coming out as more of a squeak.

  His lips twitched as she raised her hand to accept the feather. “Never fear, Miss Rayment. You were perfectly intimidating and stern, even with the bit of fluff.” He bowed, feeling cheeky, and hastily made his exit.

  He hadn’t seen Beatrice, but Oliver left encouraged just the same. Robert Dunwilde kept a box at the theater. All Oliver had to do was ask to accompany his friend, and the thing would be done.

  Spending a single evening in Beatrice’s company had once been a dream, but if he took the opportunity to court her, who knew what his future might entail?

  Chapter Four

  “You did what?” Lady Granthorne asked, her voice rising dangerously. “Beatrice absolutely will not attend the theater with that young man, however charming he may be.”

  “Mother, please.” Mattie stepped to the door of her mother’s bedroom and closed it with haste. “Beatrice isn’t going with him. She will not even know about the outing because you will make certain she is engaged elsewhere.”

  Her mother, dressed for the evening at Almack’s, stood in stiff elegance beside her dressing table. “And where would that be? I cannot conjure invitations out of thin air.” Her mother waved her hand about her head before rubbing at her temple.

  “The Redhurst house party,” Mattie said, unrepentant. “You were to leave Saturday morning. If we are clever, we can come up with an excuse for you going the evening before.”

  “I suppose that might work,” her mother said, her brows drawing down in thought. “And their country house is only fifteen miles from London. That isn’t a terrible distance, should your father need us.”

  Mattie clasped her gloved hands before her and considered the situation. “And we have already decided I would remain behind. So long as you return for the ball next Wednesday, you will not miss anything of importance in London. I can make our usual calls.”

  Her mother closed her eyes tightly. “I do worry for your father.”

  “The staff will help, and I will be here as much as possible.” Mattie went to her mother’s side to take up the older woman’s hands, fixing her with an earnest stare. “All will be well, Mother. Once Beatrice is taken care of, we can retire to the country to help Papa.”

  Lady Granthorne nodded, her expression unchanging. She returned Mattie’s warm clasp, and her eyes grew distant. “If only we hadn’t lost David.”

  It took all of Mattie’s strength not to flinch at the name of her little brother, who had been between Mattie and Beatrice in age. He’d been gone twenty years, and her mother rarely mentioned him now. A childhood fever had stolen David, their father’s heir, and the family had never quite been the same. If David had lived to adulthood, all manner of things would be different for the family.

  “Come, Mother. Let us try and be cheerful this evening. We are going to Almack’s,” Mattie said, whispering the last word as though it were a magic spell to cast out her mother’s gloom.

  By the time Mattie led the way into the sparkling ballroom, chandeliers glimmering and their light reflecting off the multitude of mirrors, Mother had regained her cheer. Beatrice followed them both with her usual grace and a roving eye that took in all the gentlemen present.

  Mattie, paying careful attention to her sister, dropped back a step to link her arm through Beatrice’s. “Do you see Mr. Redhurst? He asked for two dances with you this evening, did he not?”

  “Hm? Oh, yes. Mr. Redhurst.” Beatrice narrowed her eyes and looked around more carefully. After several moments of stretching about, Beatrice lifted a gloved hand to wave across the room at the one man who showed the most interest in her. “Here, he is coming to join us.”

  “Lovely.” Mattie watched her sister’s reaction to the man’s approach, attempting to discern how much work she must do to remove Oliver Bolton from Beatrice’s thoughts. Given her sister’s somewhat fickle nature, she hoped it would not be an enormous undertaking.

  Beatrice’s bright blue eyes widened happily, and she lowered her chin almost demurely when Mr. Redhurst arrived at her side.

  He was a handsome man, six years Beatrice’s senior, with sandy-colored hair and eyes a few shades darker than Beatrice’s. Their children would likely be beautiful, given the attractiveness of the parents.

  Nothing in Beatrice’s manner indicated a change of feeling for Mr. Redhurst, which eased Mattie’s mind somewhat. After an exchange of polite greetings with Mattie, Mr. Redhurst swept her younger sister away for a dance.

  Mattie waited patiently for Beatrice’s first dance to end. Mr. Redhurst always asked Mattie to stand up with him at least once, which she counted in his favor. The man was incredibly thoughtful.

  Mr. Redhurst’s mother approached Mattie. “Good evening, Miss Rayment.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Redhurst.” Mattie curtsied to Mr. Redhurst’s mother with all deference. “I am very glad to see you.”

  “As I am to see you.” Mrs. Redhurst glanced briefly at the dancers, then back to Mattie. “You do not dance, Miss Rayment?”

  “Not very often, I am afraid. Your son is always good enough to ask for at least one set. He is such a kind man.” It wouldn’t hurt to give a little flattery to the mother, Mattie well knew. “Beatrice often speaks of him with great regard.”

  “Indeed. My son speaks highly of your sister too.” Mrs. Redhurst snapped her fan open and looked about them before she leaned closer to Mattie. “Your sister is a delightful girl, and the very sort I’ve always hoped he might find interest in.”

  Hardly believing her good luck, Mattie leaned closer to the matron to speak in a conspiratorial whisper. “Beatrice knows her good fortune, my dear Mrs. Redhurst. She has spoken of your house party with great excitement. I know she wishes she might be there as soon as possible, to see your beautiful house. My father may need the carriage Saturday morning,” Mattie said, improvising and hoping the falsehood was not too terrible. “Beatrice is most distressed this may delay her arrival until Sunday.”

  Mrs. Redhurst turned fully to Mattie, her attitude one of accommodation. “That simply will not do. We have all manner of entertainments planned. Might it be better if your mother and sister came on Friday?” She glanced again at the whirling couples changing hands and places on the dance floor.

  “I believe that would do perfectly,” Mattie said, holding her breath as she said the last word. Could it be so easy?

  “Hm.” Mrs. Redhurst raised her eyebrows. “I will speak with your mother.”

  “I am certain she will appreciate your generous offer, Mrs. Redhurst.” Mattie took out her own fan and waved it languidly, putting on her most confident mask. “Mother is just there, across from the orchestra’s perch, if you wish to speak to her now.”

  Mrs. Redhurst took her leave, making for Mattie’s mother at once.

  Now all Mattie had to worry about was breaking the news of Beatrice’s absence to Oliver, who truly didn’t deserve whatever painful feelings such a thing would cause. Mattie bit her bottom lip and wandered away to stand near the walls, making eye contact with herself in one of the gilded mirrors.

  It’s for the best. Beatrice would never be h
appy with Oliver, and that would make his life miserable. Who knew her sister better than Mattie? No one. And she knew enough about Oliver’s good heart and hard work to want to spare him the difficulties her sister would cause in his life. Mattie would handle him gently, guiding him as well as she could from disappointment to acceptance of the situation.

  On the edge of the ballroom, Mattie quietly went through her plan, assuring herself she had done the right thing.

  Chapter Five

  It took all Mattie’s abilities to remain composed when Oliver Bolton called Friday evening. Though she’d rehearsed what she must say enough times to put even the most sophisticated actress to shame, her stomach writhed inside her. While she had little choice in what must be done, Mattie had never felt easy when telling a falsehood.

  The butler showed Oliver into the parlor, where Mattie and Mrs. Clifton, her mother’s old friend and the chaperone for the evening, were waiting. Mrs. Clifton, an elderly and genteel woman, had already dozed off in her seat near the fire.

  Mattie stood and curled her fingers tightly, watching as Oliver’s eyes darted around the room, searching for Beatrice. Finally, his eyes settled on her, suspicious and a touch disappointed.

  “Good evening, Mr. Bolton.” She offered the customary curtsy to his bow. “I am afraid I have rather dreadful news.”

  He raised a hand, forestalling her explanation, his eyes crackling with indignation. “Your sister will not accompany me to the play.” He turned away, the lines of his body stiff. “You might’ve at least sent word and spared me the humiliation of coming to your home.”

  Mattie’s compassion for him pricked at her heart, but she could not remove her duty to her sister. Mattie stepped closer, the silk of her evening gown swishing softly with each movement. “Mr. Bolton, please, it was not my intention to upset you. Beatrice is not here, it is true, but when she returns you may spend time with her. She did not have a choice but to go, you see, as my mother insisted upon it only this morning.”

  She spoke quickly over the lie, relieved he didn’t study her as she spoke. It would be harder to bear up the falsehood under any scrutiny. “I thought to send round a card, but my day was taken up with helping the others pack, and then I thought it might be best to explain to you in person. They were to go to a house party tomorrow, but were unexpectedly asked to arrive a day earlier.”

  Mattie took the last step between them and tilted her head, trying to peer up into his expression. “I am trying to handle the matter delicately, Mr. Bolton. Will you please forgive my bumbling attempts this once?”

  Oliver spared her a sideways glance, brows drawn down, before he nodded. “I suppose I must.” He put a hand to his cravat and smoothed the crisp white fabric in a gesture which could ruin the elaborate cascade of folds.

  Mattie raised a hand to still his gesture, but quickly pulled it back. The swift movement gained his attention, and he stared at her, eyebrows raised.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, tucking the offending hand behind her back. “I am sorry for the disappointment. I wonder, Mr. Bolton, if you might still wish to attend the theater? I am dressed for it, you see. And there is Mrs. Clifton to chaperone. We might still have an enjoyable evening, though I know I am a poor substitute for Beatrice.”

  Those words settled heavily in Mattie’s heart. Beatrice was prettier, livelier, and certainly better company than Mattie at social engagements. Most of the time, Mattie had too much on her mind to give herself up to the pleasures of society. Planning for Mr. Bolton to excuse her, the most likely thing to happen, made dressing for an evening out a less joyful affair than it otherwise might’ve been.

  Oliver lifted his head and regarded her with a critical eye before speaking. “You would still be willing to accompany me to the theater?”

  “Why, yes,” she stammered, taken aback by the intensity of his stare. “It hardly seems fair to make you give up the enjoyment and make the trouble of obtaining tickets a waste of time. I understand if you do not wish for my company—”

  “Not at all,” he said, his words clipped. “Although I had hoped to attend with both of the Miss Rayments, I would hardly be a gentleman to retract my invitation. I have a friend with a box, and he is expecting us.” Oliver hardly looked pleased as he spoke.

  That he was still willing to take her with him, despite his disappointment in the evening, said something of his nature. She shouldn’t have been surprised, yet she stood still for a moment, the prospect of going to the theater with him lifting her heart. It fell again nearly as quickly.

  Truly, it almost made her feel worse about the whole ruse. Yet how could she gracefully refuse, dressed as she was?

  “I will accompany you, Mr. Bolton, with the greatest pleasure. Allow me to—erm—bestir Mrs. Clifton.” She hurried to rouse her chaperone, privately thinking it ridiculous her mother insisted she have one. After all, at twenty-six and with no plans for marrying, Mattie hardly thought it necessary. But even a spinster’s reputation must be guarded.

  #

  It was almost insulting Matilda thought him simple enough to believe her story. Oliver may not have been a Cambridge or Oxford scholar, but he had a good head on his shoulders and sufficient instincts to know when someone lied to him. Although he suspected Matilda’s motives were not entirely cruel, after their last meeting he had genuinely thought she would give him an opportunity to prove his worthiness to her sister, her family, and society as a whole.

  While leaving her at home would have been the more satisfying response to her charade, he had made a fool of himself to Dunwilde and his other acquaintances by speaking of the evening with delighted anticipation. To arrive at the theater alone would be almost as terrible as not going at all.

  The new world he inhabited put too much emphasis on one’s social standing for him to ignore the rules of good manners.

  Perhaps spending an evening with Matilda would prove educational. Observing her behavior during conversation would be enlightening. The first thing he must try to learn, of course, was whether or not Beatrice had even been aware that he had requested her company for the evening.

  When they arrived at the theater, they went immediately to Dunwilde’s box, where the man was sitting with a lady and the lady’s mother. All rose to make their bows when Oliver presented Matilda.

  “Miss Rayment, daughter of Baron Granthorne, and her companion, Mrs. Clifton.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Rayment,” the young woman’s mother said with a beaming smile. “And Mrs. Clifton. Come, you must sit next to me. We will let the young people sit at the front. Heaven knows, I have seen more than my share of plays.”

  Oliver showed Matilda to a chair and took his next to her. Next to him sat Robert Dunwilde and the young lady he escorted.

  His friend wasted no time in leaning close to whisper. “I thought it was the younger sister you were interested in?”

  Matilda stiffened in her chair and leaned forward, eyes intent upon the still-lowered curtain.

  Dunwilde had never been particularly good at whispering.

  “She was indisposed,” Oliver answered quietly. “I am grateful Miss Rayment was still able to attend this evening.”

  The skeptical tilt to his friend’s eyebrows said it all, and then the curtain was rising and half the room turned to the stage. The other half continued to examine members of the audience and gossip between chairs as well as between boxes.

  Matilda was one of the few more interested in the stage than her neighbors. Oliver studied his opponent as covertly as possible. He knew, somehow, that he had been put in an awkward position on purpose. The lovely Matilda Rayment had never meant for him to escort her sister anywhere at all. What remained to be seen was how far she might be willing to go, what manner of tricks she might enact, to keep him distanced from Beatrice.

  Appealing to the parents would do him no favors, either. The baron and baroness would most likely scoff at him for entertaining such notions as courting their younger daughter.

&nbs
p; But if he could convince Matilda, perhaps she could persuade their parents to treat him with fairness instead of snobbery.

  After all, as a landed gentleman—even if the land wasn’t yet as successful as it could be—he was an appropriate choice for a suitor.

  While the actors sang of love on stage, Oliver mentally prepared to do battle to win the right to court whom he wished.

  Chapter Six

  Mattie sat in her father’s library, reading aloud while her father drew. His lucid moments, his ability to converse like himself, became rarer with each passing week. But if his hands were busy, he was often capable of maintaining greater focus on the world around him.

  Though the reading wasn’t exactly required, Matilda found it necessary in order to keep her mind from turning continually to the rather dishonorable lies she’d told Oliver. He’d hardly said a word all the night long, during the opera and after, though he’d been a complete gentleman.

  Her voice faltered as she read, the dry text closing up her throat completely.

  “Something wrong, Mattie girl?” her father asked, glancing up briefly from his sketch. “You aren’t your usual lively self today.”

  When was the last time she’d even thought to apply the term lively to herself or any of her pursuits?

  “No, Papa. I apologize for my distraction. Shall I continue reading?”

  “You needn’t. I am finished with your likeness.” He handed her the folder wherein he kept his sketches, and she took it, curious despite herself. Sometimes he drew her as a child, nearly perfect representations of what she’d looked like when she was young.

  Today’s drawing was of her reading a book, her brow furrowed and her eyes dark with thought. She swallowed at the sight of her guilt, captured quite innocently by her father.

  A knock at the door gave her leave to turn her attention away from the troubling image.

  “Come in, please,” she said.