by CE Murphy
“Papa,” that worthy said, entering the room only in time to hear Rosamund’s remark, “is always quite serious, and indeed, there is nothing to be done about it. Elsa, what is that thing you are bedecking?”
“A saddle, Papa,” Miss Elsabeth said with perfect equanimity. “I think it shall look very fine with white ribbon, do you not?”
“It is a hat, Elsa,” Ruth said in the most severe tone at her disposal. “You must not mock our father. It shows an ugliness of spirit.”
“I cannot believe our Elsa has any ugliness in her at all,” Mr Dover replied. He sat, collected a newspaper and shook it into fullness before peering over its topmost edge. “I am, however, pleased to hear it is a hat and not a saddle, for while I believe its structure would not stand up to being ridden upon, it seems to me it would sit nicely upon a young woman’s head. I hope Mr Webber will like it.”
“We shall never know what Mr Webber likes,” Mrs Dover said resentfully, “for we shall never meet him.”
“You are too bothered, Mamma,” said Miss Elsabeth. “I am sure we will meet Mr Webber at church, and Sophia’s mamma, Mrs Enton, has promised to introduce us.”
“Mrs Enton has Sophia’s future to attend to,” Mrs Dover said with a sniff, “and I do not believe she shall do any such thing. Sophia may be old and plain—”
“Mamma!” Elsabeth put down both ribbon and hat in dismay. “That is an unkind thing to say.”
“Unkind,” Leopoldina sang out, “but true.”
“Even if it is”—and it was, although Miss Elsabeth would never venture to think, much less say, such a heartless thing about her dearest friend—“even Mrs Enton cannot refuse to make the introduction should we be together with this Mr Webber in public. Surely he is gentleman enough to ask after our names, and she would be obliged to offer them.”
“Except Mrs Enton is away.” Mrs Dover spoke with the formidable certainty of one who knows that her next words are inarguable. “She will not be back until a fortnight today, and the next ball to be held is a fortnight tomorrow. She will not be introduced to him herself by the ball, and so not one of you shall marry Mr Webber.”
“Certainly I cannot speak to the impending nuptials,” Mr Dover proclaimed from behind his newspapers, “but surely if such a tremendous amount of time is to pass between now and the ball, at least one of my dear girls will be able to make this Mr Webber’s acquaintance and therefore introduce poor Sophia Enton to him.”
“Do not be absurd.” Mrs Dover drew herself up, looking like nothing so much as a kestrel whose hunting skills have been offended. “It is simply impossible, when we are not ourselves acquainted with the gentleman in question. Do not tease us so, Mr Dover.”
“I should never dismiss your convictions,” Mr Dover said to his papers, then folded them down in a flash to reveal a most serious gaze. “It is true that a fortnight is no time at all in which to know a man, and it is not beyond reason that his character should be shown to be quite dreadful. Even so, I fear that if you do not introduce the Entons to Mr Webber, someone else shall, and your friendships will be marred by it. I will take it upon myself to make the introductions, if you will not.”
“Nonsense,” declared his wife stoutly. “You are speaking utter nonsense, Mr Dover, and I will not have it.”
It would be a falsehood to say that Mr Dover did not enjoy the consternation of the six women returning his gaze. Chief among them in pleasing him was Elsabeth, whose fine dark eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she sought to break through the perfect solemnity of his expression. He could not let that happen, so averted his gaze from hers, and in so doing, saw delighted comprehension flash across her pretty features. Daring not to look at her, he addressed Mrs Dover. “Nonsense? What, then, is nonsense? The art of introduction? Perhaps, and yet we hold it in the highest esteem. What do you think, Ruth? You are, of all of us, well-studied and thoughtful.”
Ruth, never in the least anticipating to be called upon, none-the-less straightened and drew breath for a discourse on the practicalities and impracticalities of the necessity of public introduction. Mr Dover, seeing that he had nearly unleashed a lecture, spoke quickly. “While Ruth considers her topic, let us return to Mr Webber.”
“Mr Webber,” said Mrs Dover bitterly. “I am sick of Mr Webber!”
At long last, the papers were folded in their entirety, coming to rest in Mr Dover’s lap. “How I wish I had known that, Mrs Dover! Had I known that, I should never have taken myself to Newsbury Manor this morning to call upon him! But I did not know it, and now I fear we are obliged to pursue the acquaintance. I am sure, though, that we will find him an unseemly young fellow with callow views and an unsightly leg, and that we shall soon be able to rid ourselves of his undesirable presence.”
A tremendous and wonderful silence met this declaration, only to be shattered by Leopoldina’s girlish shriek of joy. With Tildy in her wake, she fell upon Mr Dover to shower him with kisses and hugs, while Rosamund folded her hands in her lap and smiled shyly at them. Poor Ruth sat stiff with disapproval, though whether it was born from a dislike of teasing or disappointment at being unable to speak in a scholarly fashion about the practise of introductions could not be said.
Elsabeth, who had suspected Mr Dover in these last minutes, only clapped her hands together in delight, and pressed her fingertips to her lips. Of all the astonishment and raptures shown by wife and daughters, this by far pleased Mr Dover the most. He smiled and smiled again, and only when Mrs Dover proclaimed, “I knew that you only teased us all along,” did he allow his humour to drop a wink at his second eldest and most beloved girl. Elsa smiled from behind the steeple of her fingertips.
“You could not have done so ill by all of us,” Mrs Dover went on, as though she had never once trusted her husband’s chicanery. “I knew I would persuade you at the last, and I am sure you have always had your girls’ best interests in mind. And how clever you are to make a joke of it, and not tell us at all until you have been to see him already! Oh, what an excellent father you have, girls! What an excellent man he is!”
“It is true,” agreed Mr Dover, and upon those accolades, sailed from the room.
(3)
Indeed, for three full days Mr Dover found it expedient to confine himself to his library at all costs, for on those occasions that he departed its safe walls, he was beset by women demanding that he reveal each and every detail of Mr Webber’s face, form and personality. To his daughters’ unending dismay, and his wife’s exasperation, Mr Dover had taken no notice what-so-ever of any of these things, save a confidence that Mr Webber was indeed a young man, and that he had not been adorned in any startling garb. From this Mrs Dover deduced that Mr Webber dressed well, though Elsa and Rosamund exchanged a glance that confided their lack of certainty in Mr Dover’s sartorial awareness.
But no other trifling bit of knowledge was forthcoming from the husband and father of the house; the ladies Dover were obliged to go elsewhere for their gossip. And such gossip was to be had! Mr Webber was handsome, fair, exceedingly gentle of spirit (“A fine match for our Rosamund!” thought Mrs Dover), with a ready smile and a gallant bow, and most delightfully, was known to attend balls and galas at the slightest provocation. This, above all, set Mrs Dover’s heart alight, for any young man happy to dance was a young man sure to quickly fall in love.
This sentiment was broadly shared by other hopeful mothers, though it was also widely agreed—out of Mrs Dover’s hearing— that their own daughters, being untainted by the speculation of magic—speculation only, of course, for no one had ever actually seen any of the Dover girls display obviously untoward talents—their own daughters would surely be more appealing to the handsome young Mr Webber than even the admittedly lovely Rosamund Dover. Indeed, they were determined of it, and most particularly of all, one Mrs Enton, upon her return from holiday, was determined of it.
It was not that Mrs Enton disliked Mrs Dover, although she did; they had been bosom friends since girlhood, until Mrs Ento
n’s triumph in marrying well had been usurped by Mrs Dover’s own somewhat scandalous marriage to a suspected magician. Even that would have been forgivable, had Mrs Dover not produced several lovely girls to Mrs Enton’s singular daughter of uninspiring looks. Certainly Sophia Enton was no less attractive than Ruth Dover, and of much gentler and appealing personality, which ought to have had her married long since. However, to Mrs Enton’s grim horror, Sophia’s twenty-eighth birthday was approaching. Should she not snare Mr Webber, it was certain that Sophia would spend her life being cared for, and finally caring for, her parents.
Mrs Enton had wished for a middling age of no responsibilities; she had had quite enough of those, and to have a daughter still at home a full decade after she had expected to divest herself of that burden was nigh unto unbearable. Mr Webber was Mrs Enton’s very last chance.
It was therefore with this thought in mind that she put forth the idea that Mr Webber had brought with him a full dozen young ladies from town, sisters and cousins and second-cousins-once-removed, who might in their great numbers dissuade the sisters Dover from bothering to attend the forthcoming ball at Newsbury Manor.
This news, while met with dismay, was no more likely to discourage Mrs Dover than it was to send the Thames swimming backwards in its banks. It was with all sisters flying that the Dovers arrived at Newsbury Manor, and at once that all sisters learned that indeed, Mr Webber’s personal party consisted of no more than five: himself, the Gibbses, who consisted of Mr Webber’s married sister and her husband, an unmarried sister who was of course Miss Webber, and another gentleman, perhaps a few years Mr Webber’s senior, called Archer.
It was generally and instantly agreed that Mr Webber was a handsome young man. His eyes were a brilliant blue, his hair the colour of a midsummer sunrise, and his smile quick and ready. Half of the attending ladies were in love with him before he spoke a word.
The other half were given entirely to palpitations over Mr Ar- cher, who had not Mr Webber’s easily pleasing mien, but whose colouring and height were singularly arresting. He was black-haired, with curiously grey-green eyes that gave some hint of English blood in his African heritage. His bearing was regal, his aristocratic features not given to smiling, and his suit of impeccable quality. Upon the approach of the family Dover, he turned away to the precise degree necessary that it became positively impossible to broach an introduction, whereas the charming Mr Webber put both hands out and grasped Mr Dover’s with enthusiasm. “Sir! It is to my great regret that I was unable to accept your dinner invitation, most particularly now that I have seen the ladies of your house! Would you be so good as to introduce me, Mr Dover, that I might have their acquaintance?”
Mr Dover gave the tall Mr Archer’s rudely turned shoulders a brief and thoughtful examination without ever seeming to ignore Mr Webber’s request. Indeed, he brought Mrs Dover forward even as he gave that unfavourable look to Mr Archer, and said with full attention to Mr Webber, “My wife, Mrs Dover. My daughters, Miss Dover, Miss Elsabeth, Miss Ruth, Miss Matilda—”
“Tildy,” burst that child before anyone could stop her. Mr Dover’s eyelids pressed closed at more length and with greater force than an ordinary blink might require, but Mr Webber only smiled genially at the fourth Miss Dover and said, “Miss Tildy,” with perfect respect and charm.
“And Miss Leopoldina,” said Mr Dover with an unusual note of steel in his voice, and Leopoldina swallowed her protest with such vigour that her eyes bulged.
Mr Webber, though, lowered his voice and said, as if begging a boon, “Miss Leopoldina. Might I make so bold as to call you Miss Dina? It seems a more favourable name for such a delight- ful young lady.”
Joy swept Dina’s countenance, and to the great relief of her two eldest sisters and father, she flounced and curtseyed but was for once too overwhelmed to speak. Mr Webber, smiling as though he had personally averted a disaster, made introductions all around: “My sister, Mrs Gibbs; her husband, Mr Gibbs. My sister, Miss Webber, and, good God, Archer, turn and be seen. Have you no manners at all?”
So entreated, Mr Archer could hardly refuse, though his greetings were brusque and he made no effort to ingratiate himself to the family Dover. His distasteful gaze lingered on the three youngest sisters; Elsabeth he could hardly seem to look at, and Rosamund he only barely tolerated. That was as well: Mr Webber in turn had eyes only for Rosamund, and though she was not given to outward displays of emotion, she blushed with pleasure when Mr Webber offered a hand toward the dance floor with more youthful hope and admiration than polite gallantry.
Mrs Dover clutched Elsabeth’s arm so hard as the lovely young pair stepped onto the floor that Elsabeth was obliged to disengage her before a mark was imprinted on her flesh. Miss Webber, who had very much the look of her brother about her, save that her hair was sandier in colour than his, observed this and allowed the corners of her mouth to turn up, although in no wise could Elsabeth regard her expression as a smile. With this aspect firmly in place, and somewhat to the collected Dovers’ astonishment, Miss Webber departed their little group without further conversation. Mr Archer retreated with her, and Mr Gibbs obligingly requested a dance of Mrs Gibbs, leaving the Dovers abandoned.
“What a lovely young woman,” said Mrs Dover brightly. “She would certainly make a most suitable sister-in-law for our Rosamund.”
‘As would a viper,’ thought Elsabeth, but was wise enough to keep that opinion unspoken. “Look, Mamma, there is Sophia. I must introduce her to Mr Webber when Rosamund’s dance is done.”
“If we are fortunate,” Mrs Dover said with asperity, “it will never be done. I do not understand why you must put Sophia forward, Elsa, when you have four unmarried sisters and are yourself unwe—”
The rest of her familiar scold was lost to the noise and cheer of the ball, and to the pleasure of friends meeting again. Sophia, who had been obliged to travel with her mother, was gladder of nothing than to see Elsabeth, and Elsa, in her turn, was pleased to introduce her dear friend to Mr Webber as he exited the dance floor with Rosamund, whose face shone with happiness. Obliging and polite, Mr Webber pressed Sophia, then Elsabeth, for the next dances, but it was Rosamund he begged the promise of at least one more dance from, and no one, not even Sophia, begrudged the eldest Dover girl that grace. Upon completion of their turns with Mr Webber, Elsa and Sophia stood to the side, heads bowed close so they might speak to one another rather than dance, as there were too few gentlemen for the ladies to always be on the floor.
“Though,” Sophia remarked, “that does not seem to distress your sisters.”
Elsa looked to them with perhaps too much indulgence: Leopoldina and Matilda danced together when they had no other partner, though Ruth stood stiff and straight against a wall, ready to lecture on the impropriety of too much exercise gained through dance if anyone should give her the opportunity. “Nor should it distress them,” Elsa proclaimed. “It does not distress me, although I am astonished to see that certain gentlemen choose not to dance at all, when there are so many ladies wanting a partner.”
As one, they looked to Mr Archer, who had danced and spoken with only those ladies in his own party. “I hear he has ten thousand a year,” Sophia said, and Elsa’s smile lit with mischief.
“He would need at least that for a lady to overlook his distasteful pride. Oh, look, he disdains poor Rosamund; that will not do.” Elsa’s humour fled as both lips and eyes narrowed, but Sophia, who knew her friend well, put a gentling hand on Elsa’s elbow.
“Do nothing that Rosamund might have cause to regret, Elsa.”
Elsabeth quirked her head, then let go the thin and insulted line of her lips. “You are too good, Sophia. Your mother would have me do something entirely unsuitable, that you might come to Mr Webber’s eye in an appealing light.”
“My mamma,” Sophia said with great and precise restraint, “sometimes mistakes the pursuit of my welfare for kindness, when to someone else it might be a terrible cruelty.”
“You a
re too good.” Elsa embraced Sophia, then, smiling again, returned to the joy of dancing and, she was not too proud to admit, the embarrassment of sometimes standing aside as others danced. She could not, though, be sad when it was her sisters who danced, or even Sophia: her heart was a merry thing, and she took as much joy in the happiness of others as in her own.
It was in this merry state that Mr Dover looked up from nearby conversation to see her cross behind Masters Webber and Archer, the one speaking to the other in a scolding tone: “You must dance, Archer; I insist upon it. You look a perfect fool, standing upon imagined dignity when the room is full of lovely girls and too many of them lacking a partner.”
Upon hearing this, Elsabeth paused, a smile curving her lips and curiosity cocking her head. She was quite unseen by the men, who stood shoulder to shoulder and gazed outward, overlooking the ballroom and its denizens as Archer spoke. The depth and smoothness of his voice could have been considered beautiful, had it not been so clearly marked with distaste. “I certainly shall not dance. I detest the exercise unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner; you saw me dance with your sisters, and Julia is the only unmarried female here worth bestirring myself for. There is not another woman in this room with whom I could possibly stand up.”
“I would not have your standards for a kingdom, Archer. I have never seen half so many pleasant girls in my life, and a fair portion of them are very pretty besides.”
“You have danced twice with the only lovely girl in the room.”
“Oh!” cried Mr Webber, “is she not the most beautiful creature you have ever seen? But you cannot imagine that she is the only fair woman here. Why, her next sister, Miss Elsabeth, to whom I introduced you, is very agreeable as well. You must find her, Archer, and ask her to dance.”
Archer did not so much as look around, else he might have seen Elsabeth’s eyebrows rise and the interested gaze she settled on his black-clad shoulders. “I recall,” he said instead, and with such stiffness that his entire person might have been laden with starch. “She was, I suppose, tolerable, but not nearly handsome enough to tempt me, nor, it seems, many of the other gentlemen here tonight. I certainly have no interest in young ladies who are slighted by other men. Go, Webber. Return to your partner, and waste no more effort conspiring to waste my time.”
