Breakfast at Midnight

by Fiona MacFarlane

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  Shared Moments

  After her bothersome encounter with George Brearly, Frances was content to sit the next dance out. Her dance card was not quite full, despite Louisa’s attempts to find partners for her, and she needed time to catch her breath and clear her mind. As she sat beside her aunt, her cousin Charlotte, Cyril and Thomas Maycroft, she reflected on what she had said to George. She presumed that George would take the comment in his stride, and accept it with his usual good grace. If she had known that her words would jeopardise their friendship, she would have kept her thoughts to herself. While she considered her next course of action with George, the small party she was sitting with was soon enlarged to include Agnes and the two Brearly brothers. At the sight of Michael, Frances’s heart gave a spasmodic bound.

  Louisa, in the mean time, had noticed the arrival of her daughter and the Brearlys, and was not impressed. ‘Mercy! What is this?’ she broke in, snapping her fan shut. ‘What is wrong with everybody tonight? Why are you not dancing?’

  ‘I’m awfully fagged,’ George professed, as he threw himself into a nearby chair, ‘and I’m not in the mood.’ In his face, Frances still saw conflict and disquietude.

  ‘Nor am I,’ added Charlotte, sitting morosely beside her mother.

  ‘What do you mean, not in the mood?’ Louisa retaliated. ‘Agnes, Michael, why are you not dancing?’ With downcast eyes, Agnes said nothing. Michael too remained silent. ‘Charlotte, Cyril? What about you two?’

  ‘Cyril thinks it is improper for a Christian minister to dance, Mama,’ Charlotte explained.

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ a captious Louisa retorted. ‘I cannot believe this,’ she remarked, scowling at each member of the party. ‘I have gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to arrange this ball tonight, and now no-one wants to dance. I am most exceedingly disappointed.’

  By this stage dancers for the next waltz were being summoned. Frances, as far as she could remember, was not engaged for the next dance, and instead of checking her dance card for confirmation of this, she sighed and slumped back further in her chair. To her surprise, however, Michael Brearly unexpectedly appeared before her.

  ‘Come on, Miss Norwood,’ he said, smiling at her hesitatingly, ‘you promised me this next dance.’

  Frances simply stared. ‘Did I?’ she replied, looking a little bemused.

  ‘You did indeed. It was written down on your card.’

  Frances was now the centre of attention within her party, and she did not relish it in the slightest. Under the censorious scrutiny of Agnes and her aunt, Frances quickly got to her feet.

  ‘Dance with Frances?’ Louisa asked testily. ‘But Michael, what about Agnes?’

  ‘Agnes has already declined an invitation to dance with me,’ he explained coolly, ‘and that is the end of the story. Please excuse us.’

  Despite Louisa’s gasps of astonishment, and Agnes’s mouth set in grim acquiescence, nothing further was said on the subject, and to the background hum of movement and conversation, Michael and Frances hurried away to the centre of the dance floor.

  ‘I know this sounds strange,’ Frances said, as she took her position opposite Michael, ‘but I really don’t remember you asking me to dance earlier. Shall I check my card, just to be certain?’

  ‘No need to do that,’ Michael replied, removing his spectacles and polishing them rigorously with the cuff of his sleeve. ‘Your memory is not at fault.’ He returned the spectacles to his face. ‘I’m afraid I lured you out here under false pretences. I need to talk with you.’

  The memory of the earlier scene on the staircase inexplicably came flooding back to Frances, and she started slightly at the recollection. ‘Ah, so you didn’t want to dance with me after all,’ she stated, challenging him with her eyes.

  By this stage the music had begun, and Michael stepped closer to Frances. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth,’ he whispered, before tenderly taking her right hand. In the next moment he placed his other hand about her waist.

  Their increasing closeness did nothing to dispel Frances’s awkwardness, and as her face tinged with a blush, she draped her left arm about Michael’s shoulder. They began to take their first tentative turns about the crowded room.

  ‘What did you want to talk about?’ Frances asked, averting her eyes to the colourful sea of dancers around her. A hint of her partner’s cologne wafted under her nostrils, and she smiled uneasily. ‘I, I hope it’s not another discussion about George.’

  Michael stumbled at the mere mention of his brother’s name, and almost collected a huge flower arrangement, perched on a mahogany corner stand. ‘Please, don’t mention George, Miss Norwood,’ he said, between gritted teeth. ‘He occupies my thoughts more than you would care to know.’

  Frances returned her eyes to her partner’s face, and for a moment their eyes met. She read the meaning in his glance, and again she looked away. For some time after this, she was aware of nothing but her slippers gliding over the polished floorboards.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I only mentioned him because we’ve had a slight falling out, shall we say. In the process of conveying a word of advice to him, I inadvertently insulted him.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, if you don’t mind me asking, what did you say to him?’

  ‘The details are a bit vague now,’ she admitted, passing by the violinist, ‘but I quite possibly accused him of being self-centred.’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘He took exception to the comment, and he hasn’t spoken to me since.’

  ‘That’s very unlike George. He doesn’t usually take offence that easily. Still, I’m not surprised. He’s been behaving very strangely recently. So has Agnes, come to think of it, ever since that infernal excursion to Port Arthur. I’ve puzzled my brain over the whole affair, but to no avail. I can’t account for their behaviour.’ He studied her closely. ‘I don’t suppose you know what’s going on?’

  ‘Not at all. Agnes tells me nothing. For some reason, known only to her, we are not on speaking terms. Looking back on it all, I suppose you could say that we have never been in tune with one another.’

  ‘That is indeed a shame, and I am sorry for it.’

  Frances’s face softened, and she acknowledged Michael’s kind words with a smile. ‘So am I. I would have liked to have been her friend, not just her cousin, but looking at it philosophically, some relationships just aren’t meant to be.’

  ‘And some are,’ Michael replied, with an emphasis, meaningful only to himself.

  Frances received these words with equanimity, and while she secretly contemplated his assertion, she found herself occupying a space close to the seated Wintersleigh party. Apart from a friendly wave from Charlotte, the rest of the gathering looked clearly out of humour, and were following her progress on the dance floor with angry eyes, and an undisguised air of resentment. George’s attitude too was cold and aloof, and when Frances smiled at him, he did not return it. Frances was in no way offended by his rebuff, and instead, found herself tightening her grip on her partner, a gesture that Michael promptly returned. They were soon looking into one another’s eyes, and after a long lingering gaze, Frances was compelled to speak.

  ‘What did you want to discuss?’ she murmured dreamily.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, gazing admiringly into her dusky eyes, ‘it doesn’t seem to matter now.’