Flirtation & Folly

by Elizabeth Rasche

“A few weeks more, and then the rectory,” Marianne said. Her coldness had returned, and instead of wincing at the guffaws of the young men tipping over the stuffed beaver, she threw them an icy glare. “Unless I marry.”

  “Of course,” Miss Emily said, but her thoughts were clearly elsewhere. When Mr Cox asked her to dance, she accepted with unusual alacrity for a man of his low standing.

  Marianne watched her go, until her gaze was arrested by the sight of Mr Hearn at the other end of the ballroom. He bowed to her across the distance, and Marianne felt her throat suddenly choke with unwanted emotion. His expression was calm but not cheerful. In that inexplicable rush of intuition she had felt about him before, she suddenly knew what he was thinking. He pitied her for the way people were mocking her efforts at triumph, but he feared expressing any such feeling would only make things worse for her. So he merely bowed and did not approach. It was already too much, however. Somehow his compassion made the rigid ice in her chest melt in an uncomfortable, raw downpour, and she wished she had the cold stoniness back again.

  “Where is your sister, Miss Mowbrey?” Mr Lowes appeared at Marianne’s right hand. He still searched the crowd for Belinda as he often did, but his voice was uncommonly cheerful.

  “She was ill, Mr Lowes, but—ˮ

  His gaze finally fixed on Marianne. “By heaven! That is terrible news. I had better do something.”

  Why did every man imagine himself a cure-all for Belinda? “She is better now, I think, and she is coming.” She studied Mr Lowes’s pale face and the unusual height of his coiffure. It looked overdone compared to the more natural looks most men favoured, but she understood it. Mr Lowes was trying very, very hard to please the lady of his choice—too hard. Belinda would have laughed at his hair, layered and curled like wood shavings. “I hope you are enjoying yourself despite Belinda’s absence.”

  For once, Mr Lowes’s smile to Marianne felt genuine. “I say! Miss Mowbrey, it’s a riot. Imagine carrying in all those beasts! And roping the ceiling like you were chasing a wayward cow.” The smile became a grin, and Marianne surprised herself by responding in kind.

  “You really like it?” she said hesitantly.

  “It is the best ball of the Season—setting aside Miss Belinda’s illness, of course. Why, it is the only ball where you can escape an old woman’s chit-chat by saying, ‘Forgive me, I must go look at the elephant now’.ˮ He let out an uproarious laugh, and although the praise was not exactly to Marianne’s taste, she was too grateful for any approbation to cavil at it. The thawed ice did not hurt her chest so much now. “Most balls are a terrible bore. Saving your sister’s presence, of course,” he said, and Marianne even forgave him the persistent homage to Belinda. She accepted Mr Lowes’s invitation to dance. By the end of it, she must have looked more cheerful, for Mr Hearn ventured to approach her. Mr Lowes went off to find another partner, apparently assuming that Mr Hearn wanted a moment with Marianne. She did not know whether to be more surprised at his tact or his willingness to oblige the man he wanted to snub.

  “You dance well,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She hesitated. It had been easy to ask Miss Emily and Captain Pulteney what they thought of her ball, but she was strangely afraid to ask Mr Hearn. “I am glad you could come.”

  “So am I.” He said nothing further then, but merely led her to the dance floor.

  Marianne realised she had forgotten to ask the orchestra to change the music she had selected, but apparently someone else had, for the music had surged into a more ordinary cotillion. It was as if the orchestra had struggled with the clinging, dreamy coverlets of one mood and suddenly sat up in bed, wide awake. Marianne suppressed a sigh. “Go on and tell me,” she said. “People hate my ball.”

  He did not pretend not to know what she meant. “There is a lot of talk. But what does that matter? You like it, don’t you?”

  “It’s exactly the way I planned it. Aside from the reactions of my guests.”

  “You cannot really plan those.”

  “I suppose not.” She tried to mind her steps, but the dance felt duller with the ordinary pacing. It was almost too easy.

  “For what it is worth, I have enjoyed it. Aside from your reaction,” Mr Hearn said. She looked at him curiously. “Of course I do not like seeing you unhappy.”

  “Well, I am not unhappy, not really.” She tried to understand herself. “I wanted one shining moment for myself, something to take back to the rectory with me. And I did not want it to be Miss Emily’s vision of what was elegant, nor my own idea of what would—er, impress gentlemen.” She hastened over that part. “I just wanted a magical time I could appreciate. And if there are a few friends who happen to appreciate it, so much the better.” She blew out her breath, feeling like a racehorse after running at Ascot.

  “For what it is worth, I appreciate it.” The slow, warm smile he gave her tilted her world in dramatic fashion, as if her own fairy queen’s spell had swept herself upside down. She took note of her hand in his, the soft, scraping tension of glove on glove. The movement of dancers around them bled into an unimportant background, like an oil painting running into blurs and haze. Marianne sought to memorise this moment of goodness out of her ball. It was exactly the sort of magic she had dreamed of.

  Over Mr Hearn’s shoulder she could spy the stuffed deer humbly posed to the side. Wads of gauze hung left and right. Perhaps it was all ridiculous, the whole ball. At least Mr Lowes had laughed with her more than at her. And Mr Hearn was not laughing at all.

  She finally had a moment to step back from it all and, in viewing her own debacle, she found herself oddly amused. Had Mr Hearn helped her make that shift in feeling?

  Marianne suddenly remembered that he had his own troubles. “Does Mr Lowes show any sign of wavering?” she asked.

  “He has been a little less rude lately,” Mr Hearn said. “I have not…apologised, exactly. But I did say something about what a brute I was as a boy. Perhaps it helped. But I think it more likely he is simply less rude because he is not thinking of me as much. He admires your sister very much.”

  “Poor Mr Lowes.” Marianne pitied anyone who fell in love with Belinda. What were the gentleman’s chances? He was young and rich—but then, there were so many rich young men who marched after her.

  “You think he has no chance?”

  “Not much. Belinda likes money, of course, and Mr Lowes looks well enough. But he is not—ˮ She could spot Captain Pulteney in the corner of her eye, starkly noticeable in the oil smears of background. “He’s not dashing. He’s not witty.”

  “Perhaps dash and wit are not what Miss Belinda is seeking,” Mr Hearn said.

  “Perhaps not.”

  “At any rate, I will be privileged—or penanced—to see what comes of it all. Lady Sweetser has invited Belinda to come to her country estate when the Season is over, and so of course Lowes is determined to follow.” Mr Hearn smiled in a black humour. “He lacks an invitation, but he is convinced he can put up at the inn and ride over to woo her every day.”

  Marianne was depressed, but not surprised, to find that her sister already had secured a fashionable invitation for the summer. “And will you go with Mr Lowes?”

  “Where he goes, I will follow.” Mr Hearn’s grim tone showed his determination, but he softened it a moment later. “It will give me a chance to take your advice, you know.”

  “I believe my advice was that you drop Mr Lowes. You can hardly credit yourself with obedience.”

  “No, not that. I meant I could do what you suggested about trying out a country life. A friend of mine is a gentleman farmer in Hertfordshire. I was thinking I could visit him and learn a bit while Lowes is off courting during the day.”

  A smile blossomed on her face. “Truly? I am glad.” Marianne had to admit it was not only a gladness for Mr Hearn’s efforts to know his dream better, but also a special satisfaction in the fact that he had remembered—and taken—her advice.

  “Perhaps I am hoping that you wi
ll take a little advice of mine.”

  “Which is?” She was not sure she wanted to hear it.

  “Try to enjoy yourself more this evening. Does it really matter so much if some of the others do not see what you see?” His hand pressed hers once, and Marianne smiled.

  And when the whispers continued their mocking rush around the room, and the frosted castle crumbled into slabs of sugar and paste in the supper room, and Belinda sailed in to a welcoming port of eager gentlemen, and it was revealed the mad crush of bodies had largely been the result of Mrs Carrington’s sudden cancellation of her own rout, Marianne enjoyed herself anyway. And though her success in that endeavour was not complete, the tiny bright spots of happiness she collected shone like stars in her heart.

  Perfectly carved cornices, sweeping upside-down arches of chandeliers, a pristine marble floor. Another brilliant London evening, lit not by sunshine but battalions of flickering candles, with bright flames shifting like cockades in the wind. Mrs Walters was throwing an immense gala, partly to defend her station as a reigning queen of fashion in London, and partly to showcase her beloved guest, Belinda Mowbrey. Marianne had so long imagined revelling in ball after ball in London that she was disturbed and surprised to find she did not want to be at this one.

  The guests who milled in the Walters ballroom did not have to fend off curtains of gauze or lurching stone beasts. Everything was elegantly arranged and unimpeachably correct. The cream-coloured walls bore portraits and landscapes whose respectability defied curt comment. The supper room harvested trim little cakes in rows, thinly-sliced cold meats in a fan of layers, and other dainties fit for a proper gathering of the elite. The mildly stinging scent of sweat and spoiled hair oil was unpleasant, but de rigueur for a ball in late spring. Only one feature demonstrated any idiosyncrasy, and that was not the fault of Mrs Walters, but rather of the indomitable Lady Sweetser, who had found it worth her while not only to grace the gala with her own presence, but that of her two dogs as well. Marianne could not help finding it unfair that while her imaginative forays had fallen flat with the London ton, they were all too ready to accommodate two fat pugs waddling behind their mistress, tumbling gowns and getting underfoot. The girl from the rectory was beginning to dismantle her dreams. Lady Sweetser could bring unusual canine guests to a ball and it was deemed charming—because Lady Sweetser was already a fashionable and powerful woman. Originality was not a practical means to social success; it was a privilege accorded to those who had already attained it.

  Mrs Walters’s ball was in ideal accordance with the usual path to gaining social power, and yet Marianne found it mildly distasteful. True, everything was elegant. No fault could be found with the décor, the provisions, or the music. But Marianne found herself missing some spark of novelty or creativity. How jaded I must have become if, after only a few months of balls, I find any less than divine!

  She had thought fashionable life in London would satisfy her every craving. Perhaps she was simply harbouring resentment after her own ball’s failure. She supposed she could advance another effort—try a fête-champêtre, a concert, or some other venue for her creativity—but she no longer thought it likely anyone would appreciate her tastes. She could copy what Mrs Walters had done. Then everything would be correct, precise—and somehow unsatisfying. There did not seem to be any hope of reconciling her rectory dreams with London’s reality.

  Belinda’s dreams, however, were well in hand to produce abundant fruit. White silk moulded her bosom, then bunched loosely at a high waist where a yellow sash clasped her and fell in tangles that mimicked the golden curls tumbling down from where they were pinned at the top of her head. Aside from the yellow sash, she was decorated in white simplicity: white silk, white fan, white slippers. Belinda’s sudden, irrepressible laughter often revealed the pearls of her teeth, while less metaphorical pearls looped around her neck in a smooth curve. Every time Marianne saw that pearl necklace, a twinge of unease ran through her. Perhaps Mrs Walters had gifted Belinda with such a lovely set of pearls? Surely a jeweller would not advance such a piece on credit to a young woman looking for marriage, the way Belinda said milliners and warehouses did. Marianne was afraid to ask.

  Lady Sweetser’s daughter Lucy was wading through the crowd after the two pugs, and Marianne could almost imagine that the girl had resigned herself to the position. Lady Lucy hovered behind them, occasionally pausing her steps to allow for the dogs’ straying sniffs, while clinging to the arm of Captain Pulteney. Her face had a translucent—almost unhealthy—pallor, ill-suited to the steady stream of chatter she directed at the gallant captain. Her grey eyes shone at his every remark in a kind of vacant appreciation, and Marianne felt sure the captain had gained another lady admirer.

  Perhaps that was why Miss Emily had not been near Marianne all evening. She had nodded from a distance across the ballroom, but perhaps she had not liked to approach when the captain was clearly the devoted escort of Lady Lucy—devoted, at least, for the moment. Miss Stokes had politely introduced her intended husband, Mr Wilkes-Sutton, to Aunt Harriet and Marianne, but then had drawn him off to dance soon after.

  Perhaps everyone is out of sorts at this ball, Marianne thought, but she was beginning to think the Stokeses’ interest in her had cooled.

  “Well, Miss Mowbrey, is this not a lovely entertainment?” Lady Angela stood in front of Marianne as if a soldier prepared for inspection by an officer, her voice so cheerful Marianne had difficulty processing it.

  “Good evening, Lady Angela,” Marianne said, sifting through Lady Angela’s tone for sarcasm and finding none. Was the woman actually going to be pleasant for once?

  “I have only a moment to speak with you. All my dances are taken, you know, so I must rush off and find my partner.” The note of boasting rang clear in Lady Angela’s voice, and Marianne grew even more perplexed. Were there really so many gentlemen interested in dancing with an awkward spinster? Then her gaze fell on the glitter of gems wrapped around the scrawny neck and wrist. There was a fat pigeon’s egg of a red one on one finger—surely that could not be a ruby? Lady Angela’s gown was new, too. The pale pink satin with playful bows and beading would have flattered a younger or paler woman. As it was, the crepey yellow skin looked all the older and sicklier under its influence. The heavy scent permeating her silk and hair added a sickliness of its own.

  Lady Angela seemed oblivious to any defect; she fairly preened under Marianne’s gaze. “Admiring my new things, are you? You will not see rubies like this anywhere else, I assure you, Miss Mowbrey. My jeweller informs me that he rarely is able to collect anything so good, and he was reluctant to part with them. But I wanted them, you know, to go with my pink gown.”

  Marianne did not know where to begin in attempting to understand the transformation. How had fraying merino dresses and withered bonnets changed—to this? “I did not know—ˮ

  “My fortunes have changed, as you see, dear.” The endearment was particularly bewildering to hear from Lady Angela’s lips. “Your aunt has been so kind. She is quite dutiful to those of us of the higher classes. How she has struggled to set me in my own again! And she shall be rewarded, Miss Mowbrey. You need have no fear I shall forget her. I will visit her and call her my friend, even in the face of a duke. Or a prince.” She smiled her wide, puppet-like smile.

  Marianne remembered Aunt Harriet saying something about trying to retrieve money owed to the lady from old debts. Apparently her aunt had succeeded, and this was the result. Marianne could not find it pleasing. Of course it was good that Lady Angela would not have to scrimp anymore, but Marianne felt uneasy with the reckless gaiety emanating from the woman.

  Lady Angela did not wait for further remark. Apparently satisfied that she had displayed her transformation to good effect, she sailed off towards the captain, reserving a little wave of parting to Marianne as she left. The captain’s face betrayed a glimmer of amusement at Lady Angela’s costume, and he bowed goodbye to Lady Lucy and took the older woman’s arm wit
h an excess of gallantry that suggested mockery. If it was so, Lady Angela did not see it, and she nearly crowed with delight as he led her off to the dance floor. Marianne watched with distaste. Did I ever look as ridiculous as that?

  “Fool of a woman.”

  Marianne did not need to turn to realise her aunt had joined her. “I suppose you were successful in securing the money owed to her family,” Marianne said.

  “I certainly was. It took some doing, I may tell you. And now look!” Aunt Harriet’s tone was grim. “All I wanted was to help her live more comfortably, but the funds will not last if she spends it all on perfumes and silk.”

  Marianne watched the flush of triumph in Lady Angela’s face and felt a quiver of camaraderie. “I daresay she has wanted nice things for so long, she could not help playing the belle a bit.”

  “Well, she will be scraping along where she was in a few weeks, if she keeps this up.” Her tone turned aggrieved. “And after all my warnings to her! Take her as an example to avoid, Marianne, and perhaps it will not be all for nothing.” Aunt Harriet gave Marianne an affectionate pat on the arm, the unusual warmth of her gesture no doubt resulting from a confidence in Marianne’s adoption of her pecuniary principles.

  “I am trying to behave as you taught me, Aunt,” Marianne said. She had to repress a sigh, thinking perhaps it would have been better for Belinda to be under her aunt’s tutelage. Belinda was more likely to be exposed to wealth, but Marianne thought her sister might already be in more trouble than the pretty belle could handle. As if summoned by her thoughts, Belinda traipsed towards them with light, prancing steps, Lady Sweetser striding half a pace behind and the two pugs swaggering behind her.

  “Aunt Harriet! Marianne!” Belinda squeezed her aunt’s arm, resulting in a huff from the old woman, and hugged Marianne. “I am going to introduce you to Lady Sweetser. By all rights I should lead you in decorously, in great state, to meet her, but she says she wants to walk about.”