Breakfast at Midnight

by Fiona MacFarlane

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  Temptation

  ‘Oh, Mercy! I am sure I have forgotten something!’ Louisa Wentworth declared, as she stood by the drawing room window on the evening of the New Year’s Ball. ‘If only I knew what it was!’

  ‘You’ve forgotten nothing, Mama,’ Agnes reassured. ‘Everything is perfect.’

  ‘Oh! If only that were true, my dear,’ Louisa responded, patting her daughter affectionately on the shoulder. ‘If only that were true.’ She sighed, then turned towards the window, looking through the glass to the darkening world outside. ‘They will all be here soon,’ she said, staring fixedly at the entrance drive. She was soon startled by a voice behind her.

  ‘Only me!’ announced George Brearly, sidling up beside them. His presence provoked no response from either woman. ‘By Jove,’ he said, feeling rather unpopular, ‘that wasn’t exactly the response I was looking for, but…’

  ‘Oh, where is everyone?’ Louisa bewailed over the top of George’s voice. ‘They should be here by now. It is most vexing.’

  ‘Mama,’ Agnes ventured, ‘please do not distress yourself unnecessarily.’

  ‘Unnecessarily?’ Louisa repeated. ‘After all the effort I have put into this ball, I think I have every right to be worried about it.’

  ‘Of course you do, Mama, but you say this every year.’ From the corner of her eye, Agnes felt George’s eyes upon her and she decided to say nothing more.

  As she had suspected, George Brearly was observing her, and quite intently too. His eyes, in particular, were drawn to her tall, tightly corseted figure, shown to best advantage by her new ball gown, (a pale primrose-yellow spotted muslin, with printed patterns of irises in pink, green and yellow) and her white, elbow length gloves. Her jet coloured hair was gathered fashionably behind her neck, and was tastefully decorated with ornamental combs. An elaborate toque, trimmed with sprigs of wattle and sweet scented boronia, rested delicately on top of her head, and her other accessories included several pieces of jewellery, including a brooch at her breast, a gleaming pearl necklace at her throat, and matching pearl earrings.

  ‘Well, I must say, Agnes Wentworth,’ George began, still studying her figure with admiration, ‘that you are looking particularly fetching this evening.’

  ‘Oh hush, George!’ Louisa growled. ‘Not now! Your taunting words are most harassing to my nerves.’

  ‘I wasn’t taunting. I was just making an observation.’

  ‘Could you please fasten my comb, Agnes?’ Louisa asked, interrupting again. ‘I can feel it slipping out.’ Agnes quickly went to her mother’s aid. ‘By the way, George,’ Louisa added over her shoulder, ‘what have you done with your hair? It looks positively wild. When was the last time you brushed it?’

  George fell into thought. ‘Don’t know and I don’t care. I’m not the one who has to look at it all day.’

  ‘Yes, well we do, and so will my guests when they arrive. Why don’t you go upstairs and run a comb through it?’

  George clenched his jaw in annoyance, before glancing in Agnes’s direction. She had affected an air of indifference towards him, and seemed to be serenely unaware of his existence. George felt her rudeness, and turned away. Without another word, he slipped disconsolately out of the room.

  Agnes noticed his departure, but said nothing to her mother. Her heart was beating so quickly that she could hardly breathe, let alone make an intelligible comment. The arrival of Cyril, Thomas, Jack and her fiancé soon aroused her from her thoughts.

  ‘Oh, splendid! You’re all here at last!’ Louisa gushed, hurrying towards the group with sudden energy. In her anxiety, she failed to notice that Frances and Charlotte were both absent.

  ‘Yes, Louisa,’ Michael said, stepping forward to take her hand. ‘We’re here. And might I say, Louisa that the house looks exquisite.’ He squeezed her hand gently, yet reassuringly.

  ‘Does it? Oh, I hope so. The guests will be here in a minute, and knowing the Watsons, they will be first at the door. They are always so punctual.’

  ‘Well of course they are, Mama,’ Agnes laughed. ‘They only live down the road.’

  Louisa cast her daughter a look of reproach, but said nothing. She released Michael’s hand and glided across the room again to the window. She then peeled back the curtains and stole a cursory look outside. Seeing no new arrivals, she looked back towards the group. It was at that point she realised that several members of the party were missing.

  ‘Where are the others?’ she queried.

  ‘They’re still upstairs,’ Cyril mumbled. ‘Getting dressed.’

  ‘Getting dressed?’ Louisa exclaimed. ‘Surely they must know what time it is. Oh dear, this is all too vexing!’ She let the curtains fall, and set off with determination across the room. Just before she reached the door, however, Michael’s words caused her to falter.

  ‘Louisa, please don’t work yourself up into a state. It isn’t worth the worry, or the energy.’

  ‘Well, what am I to do, Michael? How would it look if the guests arrived, and they were no where to be seen?’

  ‘I’ll go and see what’s going on,’ Agnes suggested.

  ‘No,’ Michael said firmly. ‘If you don’t mind, Agnes, I’ll go. I have to go upstairs anyway to get something.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ Louisa said, watching her future son-in-law dutifully leave the room. ‘Do tell them to hurry!’

  In another moment, Michael had taken his leave and was making his way up the stairs. By the time he reached Frances’s room, he was a little breathless from anxiety, and taking deep breaths to steady himself, he knocked diffidently at the door. When there was no response, he knocked with more vigour.

  ‘Miss Norwood? Are you in there?’

  The door opened, and through the small gap, a fretful looking Charlotte appeared. Her face relaxed when she saw Michael, and she even allowed herself a smile. ‘It’s all right, Franny!’ she said, addressing her cousin from over her shoulder. ‘It’s not Mama. It’s Doctor Brearly!’

  Michael didn’t hear the response, but presumed that Frances too was relieved. ‘Is everything all right, Charlotte?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘It’s just that your mother is none too pleased, and wants you to come downstairs immediately.’

  ‘Bother,’ Charlotte said, nibbling her lip. ‘That sounds ominous.’ Again, she looked over her shoulder to check Frances’s progress. ‘Please hurry, Fran,’ she urged. ‘Mama is getting cross.’

  ‘Is something the matter?’ Michael asked again, growing more curious.

  Charlotte turned back to face him. ‘Well yes, there is a slight problem. Wait one moment.’ She then disappeared back into the room, shutting the door behind her. Through the door of the bedroom, he heard muffled conversation.

  ‘Are you sure you can’t see it?’ a troubled voice cried.

  ‘I’m certain. The rest of your hair is covering it.’

  He then heard some sort of activity from within the room, and before he had time to step back from the door, it opened, and both Charlotte and Frances emerged. While the two women stood before him, he was only vaguely conscious of Charlotte’s existence. Frances was all he saw, and the more he gazed upon her, resplendent in her ivory and gold ball gown, the more captivated he became.

  ‘Miss Norwood,’ he murmured, silently admiring the creamy whiteness of skin above the low-cut bodice, ‘you look, er, remarkably well. Beautiful, if I might be permitted to say so.’ Frances smiled and nervously adjusted the gold ribbon that adorned the upper part of her throat. In an instant Michael realised his blunder and sought to correct it. ‘You both look quite beautiful,’ he added, for Charlotte’s benefit.

  Charlotte coloured a little and didn’t quite know where to look. She evidently wasn’t used to receiving compliments and wasn’t sure whether to offer her thanks, or whether to say nothing at all. She opted for the latter.

  Frances, however, was in no doubt how to respond. ‘And you look vaguely acceptable too,’ she answered coyly.
<
br />   Michael smiled and looked down at his clothes. On this particular evening he was dressed suavely in a full dress suit, comprising double-breasted waistcoat with matching coat and trousers. His high standing white collar had clearly been starched for the ball, and around the collar he wore an Ascot tie and pin.

  ‘What? This old thing?’ he cheerfully remarked.

  Both Frances and Charlotte laughed and for the time being nothing more was said. The group of three then moved away from the bedroom door, and began heading down the hallway. They had not taken five steps when Charlotte realised that she had left her fan in the room. She said as much to Frances and Michael.

  ‘Oh, I am sorry!’ Charlotte declared. ‘Do go off without me,’ and with that, she darted off down the hall, in the direction of her old bedroom.

  In Charlotte’s absence Frances and Michael did as they were bid, and slowly walked down the hall towards the staircase. When the staircase came into sight, Frances faltered and turned towards the doctor.

  ‘I hope my aunt isn’t too annoyed with us,’ she said, looking apprehensively downstairs.

  ‘Well,’ he ventured with a smile, ‘let’s just say that I’ve seen her in better moods.’

  ‘Oh, dear. That sounds a bit grim.’

  ‘No, no, not at all. She was just worried about you both. I daresay she thought you were having some problems.’

  ‘Yes, well we did. Rather I had some problems.’ She lowered her voice to a confiding tone. ‘Charlotte burnt a small patch of my hair with the curling tongs,’ she explained. ‘She assures me that it is not visible, but I am a pessimist at heart, and of course I am yet to be appeased.’

  ‘Poor Charlotte. Do you think you can ever forgive her?’

  ‘One day perhaps.’

  ‘Let me see,’ he said, leaning over slightly to have a look. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  In spite of her awkwardness, Frances allowed herself a smile. ‘That, Doctor Brearly, is because you’re looking in the wrong area.’ She looked at him with playful severity. ‘It’s further along,’ she added, indicating the burnt patch with her gloved finger.

  Without thinking, Michael stepped closer to her, and following the direction of her finger, gently peeled back several long strands of hair on her neck to inspect the damage. It was clearly visible, but out of kindness to her he pretended that he couldn’t see it. At that moment, he smelt a faint hint of her perfume, and without knowing what he was doing, he felt his hand falter on her neck. Their eyes soon met, and to Michael’s relief Frances’s eyes were not rebuking. She seemed to regard him with more timidity than censure.

  The shrill, yet distant sound of Louisa’s voice, soon caught their attention, and Frances instinctively pulled away. In the background, Louisa’s voice continued to be heard.

  ‘The Watsons have just arrived, Frances!’ Louisa was saying. ‘I think you had better come down this instant!’

  Frances assumed a theatrical expression of exasperation, before hurrying down the stairs to her awaiting aunt.

  As soon as Frances disappeared from view, Michael sighed and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He then took hold of the banister to steady himself.