by CE Murphy
“Of course,” their mother replied indignantly. “Unless it should become infected, in which case you have done it to yourself, and if you die of the fever, I shall have no pity for you.”
“That cannot be allowed,” Mr Cox said in horror. “For any of these lovely young women to miss the ball would be unforgivable.”
“Really, Mr Cox,” said Elsabeth with some surprise. “You approve of dancing?”
“It is a most suitable form of exercise for young ladies, and one of the ways society permits young men and women to meet socially. Indeed, I am very fond of dancing myself, and am told by Lady Beatrice that I have a light foot. Perhaps you would honour me with the first dance at the forthcoming ball, Miss Elsabeth.”
Elsabeth, unable to refuse and cursing herself for having spoken, produced a smile that strained her cheeks. “The second, Mr Cox. I have already promised the first to another.”
Rosamund looked at her sharply, but Elsabeth allowed no tell-tale blush to creep up her cheeks whilst her mother and other sisters made a game of guessing to whom she had promised that dance. “It will be Captain Hartnell, of course,” Tildy finally said, whereupon Leopoldina burst into tears and ran from the room.
“How could you, Elsabeth,” Mrs Dover said severely, and rose to follow her beloved youngest. Matilda looked from face to face, protesting, “What? What have I done?” as a faint crease appeared between Mr Cox’s large eyebrows. Elsabeth smiled at him, pained, and as he recalled the promise she had made, all else was forgotten. “The second dance, then. It shall be my pleasure, and I must plead now to press my chance for a second dance.”
“So bold, Mr Cox,” Elsabeth murmured. “We have only just met.”
“But we are cousins!” he objected. “There can be no strangeness between us.”
“Indeed, I am afraid of too much familiarity,” Elsabeth replied, and would not be drawn into a promise of a second dance. Only when Mr Dover, obliged by necessity to offer his guest entertainment in lieu of the interrupted reading, invited Mr Cox to join him in a game of backgammon did Rosamund finally dare lean slightly toward Elsabeth and whisper, “You have promised the first dance to someone?”
Elsabeth, aware of the grimness in her voice, replied, “I shall have by morning,” and had the mitigating pleasure of watching Rosamund’s eyes widen slightly in shocked admiration at her falsehood.
It was to this end that early the next day, Elsabeth proposed to her mother and sisters that they should go to town. Bodton was rich with redcoats, and, though Elsa sought one in particular, both Matilda and Leopoldina were eager to accompany her. Rosa, who was not strictly certain of her own health yet, begged off, but it was she who, watching the others bustle about with their preparations, observed what they had not: “Where is Ruth?”
“She has taken up studies with Mr Cox,” Mr Dover announced from behind his papers. “They are in my library, having forbidden me from the place, and examine the sermons with such devotion that I find myself relieved that I have been expelled.”
“Mr Dover!” exclaimed his wife with such shock that he lowered his papers to meet her gaze.
“Never fear, my dear; I have set Margaret to dusting in there, that they are not alone. I expect to find it no less dusty than before, though; I believe the poor lass will find herself lulled to sleep by the”—he paused and inhaled deeply before drolly selecting “melodious tones of Mr Cox’s voice. That is just as well; our illustrious guest arose at half past four this morning to attend to his devotions, and insisted upon both hot food and a fire at that hour; apparently, his God cannot do with cold prayers and a crust of bread. Margaret will no doubt appreciate the nap.”
The lady of the house cried, “Mr Dover!” a second time, and if her shock sounded somewhat less sincere than it had before, the note of disapproval was somewhat stronger, though whether she objected to the slight directed at Mr Cox or at God was not to be known.
Elsabeth placed a bonnet on her mother’s head, smiled and announced, “We are prepared,” before Mrs Dover could be any further distracted by her husband’s questionable humour. “Rosa, I do not think we will be home for dinner before one, and perhaps not then; will you ask the servants to prepare something simple that we may eat upon our return without requiring their services?”
Rosamund replied in the affirmative, and the bulk of the Dover women exited Oakden. Mrs Dover’s presence demanded the carriage, and Elsabeth was not sorry for that; it was difficult enough to connive a gentleman into asking for a dance without adding the warm glow of walking to the air. So intent was she on considering that task that they arrived in Bodton in what seemed to her a wink, and she had hardly realized they were there than Dina, in her usual impetuous way, stood in the carriage and began waving vigourously. “Captain Hartnell! Captain Hartnell! I declare, Captain, who are your friends?”
—for Hartnell was quite surrounded by men in scarlet dress, and not one of them looked dismayed to see Dina’s enthusiastic greeting. Hartnell himself came to their carriage’s side and smiled up at the ladies as he made introductions hither and thither. Long before he was finished, Dina scrambled out of the carriage and became quite the centre of attention; Elsabeth saw her stealing glances at Hartnell, clearly hoping he would be overcome with envy. He was not; his gaze was for Elsabeth, which was a great relief to her. “Would you walk with me a little, Captain Hartnell? I have a situation I most earnestly require your assistance with.”
“Anything,” Hartnell replied gallantly, and, within moments, they walked together along the very same riverbank that had brought the captain into the Dover family’s awareness. It was there that Elsabeth realised she did not now know how to proceed; a well-bred young woman did not ask a gentleman for a dance, and despite the Dover taint, she was a gentlewoman. Fortunately, Captain Hartnell seemed in no hurry to press the subject; they spoke idly of the weather and drily of Leopoldina’s sudden popularity—“I should think her dance card will be full before the ball begins,” Hartnell said with a smile.
Elsabeth, sensing her opportunity, drew breath to speak, but was stayed by the captain pausing in their walk and turning to face her with a most earnest expression. “Now that I have broached the topic—Miss Elsabeth, I wondered if I might press you for the first dance at the ball? There is no lady in Bodton I would rather dance it with, if you do not think me too brash for saying so.”
“Oh,” Elsa said with a laugh, “no, I do not. Yes, Captain Hartnell. I would be very pleased to dance with you, and if I may confess—I was at this very moment searching for a way to ask you for that dance. I’m afraid I was deplorably rude and told another gentleman it had already been promised.”
Hartnell, with a laugh of his own, seized her hands and pressed his lips to their backs. “I am now eager to meet this gentleman, as I have never seen anyone make quite such a face when they spoke that word. Is he disagreeable, this gentleman?”
Elsa said, “Very,” and might have said more had not a rider astride a fine horse approached them along the river path. She knew at once from the breadth of his shoulders and the cut of his coat that it was Mr Archer, and a queer pang of embarrassment struck her, that he should see her with her hands in Captain Hartnell’s. Her face must have told the story again, for Hartnell, with curious eyebrows, turned to see who approached, though he did not release Elsabeth’s hands as he did so.
Because he did not, she felt the heat drain from them, just as merry colour drained from his face. His smile remained in place but became fixed; it was no longer an expression of pleasure, nor did he seem to breathe easily. Astonished, Elsabeth looked to Archer, whose judgemental mien became more severe than ever. They stared at one another thusly for an extended moment, then broke suddenly with Archer’s formal “Miss Elsabeth,” which he followed by the very stiffest of nod at Hartnell, who returned it far more gracefully. Archer rode past, leaving Elsabeth to gaze at Hartnell in astonishment; he looked rueful and began to speak, but Leopoldina, at the bridge behind them, cried Elsabeth
’s name, and the moment was lost.
(22)
It was lost to good cause: Dina had happened upon Mrs Moore, sister to Mrs Dover and wife to Mr Moore, whose profession was accounts and whose passion was horse racing. He lost no more than he won, being not given to the excesses of gambling that so many lovers of the greatest sport were, but his fondness for the tracks left him bulbous of nose from too much standing in the weather, and he smelt of horses. Mrs Moore, who tended to gossip with the same assiduous study that her husband paid the races, was still her sister’s favourite companion, and swiftly invited the whole of the Dover family to dinner on the morrow. The invitation was promptly accepted. Leopoldina’s cry of protest, that the women should vastly outnumber the men, was swiftly sorted by an extension of the invitation to not only Captain Hartnell but several others of the regiment, until it could very nearly be considered a fine social occasion— were it not for the lingering odor of horseflesh.
Elsabeth, when visiting the Moores, could never help but think of her father’s sister and husband: she who had once been a Miss Dover had wed a Mr Penney, who, the story went, had been quite mad with love for her. But his advocacy business lay in London, where even a whisper of magic would undo him; for this reason, the Dover girls saw their Aunt and Uncle Penney rarely, though they were greatly spoilt by them when they did. Elsabeth had often, quietly, wondered if her and her sisters’ talents had warned the Penney family off having children, for they had none. They were in every way markedly different from Mr and Mrs Moore, whose four children were in spirit and action all very like Leopoldina. Elsabeth always felt a little ashamed that she so much preferred her Town relatives to her Country ones.
But her Town family could not have invited Captain Hartnell to dinner with such impunity; for that, at least, Elsabeth was grateful, and did not pretend to be indifferent when he arrived. Indeed, as she had confessed to Rosamund, her curiosity was piqued: Captain Hartnell was clearly acquainted with Mr Archer in a less than desirous manner, and, upon reflection, it seemed to Elsabeth that when she had spoken of the captain’s rescuing Leopoldina to Archer, there had perhaps been some glint in his eye indicating a mind to speak which she, in her concern for her youngest sister, had not fully appreciated. Mr Archer’s opinion was, of course, not to be much considered—although given his admiration of Sophia Enton, Elsabeth might be slightly swayed on that regard—but Rosamund could not fathom that there could truly be anything of note between the two men, much less any ill will. Elsabeth, being of less generous nature, imagined there must somehow be a secret to be ferreted out, and was as pleased to see Captain Hartnell for curiosity’s sake as for the simple pleasure of his company.
Dinner was taken with much enjoyment, though Mr Cox— who could not have been left behind at Oakden, no matter how much the Dovers might have wished it—somewhat dominated the conversation with observations of his patroness’s wealth and other admirable qualities. Once, Captain Hartnell caught Elsabeth’s eye and, with a quirk of his eyebrow, queried her as to the identity of the man whom she had not wished to first dance; with a widening of her own eyes, she confirmed his suspicion, and they were both obliged to fight away laughter wholly inappropriate to Cox’s extemporizations. After the meal, all guests retired to the drawing room, where Ruth sat at the pianoforte. She had always played with heavy precision, bringing joy to neither herself nor her audience, but tonight, her fingers danced more lightly over the keys and called forth a merry tune. In very little time, Leopoldina and Matilda could not bear it and began to dance; shortly thereafter, several of the young officers joined them, and under the cover of this merriment, Hartnell approached Elsabeth.
“Would it be forward of me, Miss Elsabeth, to ask if you might walk with me in the garden? I do not object to a chaperon, if we should have one; I only hope to speak with you uninterrupted, which in the current clime seems...improbable.” With the suggestion of a chaperon, he glanced toward Rosa; with the implication of interruption he looked at Cox, whose own approach had been scuppered by Hartnell’s.
Elsa, who had been watching Cox with alarm and Hartnell with hope, rose at once and called to Rosamund, who joined them and walked with her arm through Elsabeth’s until they reached the garden, at which time she confessed a sudden interest in their aunt’s wild roses, and perforce to examine them with great attention to detail. Released from her chaperonage, Hartnell escorted Elsabeth a little way down the garden, pausing beneath an arch of blooms quite within Rosamund’s sight but well out of ear-shot. “I have a suspicion that there are questions you would like to ask me, Miss Elsabeth. I think you cannot have missed the tension betwixt myself and Mr Fitzgerald Archer yesterday morning.”
“Oh! I did not,” confessed Elizabeth, “and I have wondered at it. But I would not press you, Captain Hartnell, if it is a topic upon which you do not wish to speak.”
“I think it is best if I do, although I hesitate to ask—are you much acquainted with Mr Archer?”
Elsabeth allowed herself a sniff of disdain. “More than I might wish to be, Captain Hartnell. He is only lately come to Bodton, little more than a month ago. I have recently been obliged to remain a full six nights under the same roof as he, and I confess that I found him in—” She hesitated suddenly, recalling Archer’s gallantry with Sophia, and in that light gentled her commentary a little. “—in many aspects disagreeable and aloof. I dare say so only because I sense your relations with him are also strained, and that you would not repeat such a forthright opinion to others.”
Hartnell captured her hand momentarily and, holding it, smiled. “I would not, Miss Elsabeth; do not fear. But you will perhaps be surprised to hear that my acquaintance with him extends back to our very births; we were, once, as close as brothers.”
“No! How, then, came you to be so unfamiliar with each other?”
“It is a long tale, and reflects poorly on Archer. Perhaps it reflects poorly on me as well; I cannot tell. Miss Elsabeth, I see that there is a bench only a little farther along; do you think Miss Dover would object if we were to retire to it while I share my tale?”
“Not at all, and even less so if we should suggest that she might examine the chrysanthemums some little distance beyond it, where there is another bench she might rest comfortably upon for the duration of our conversation.” With these things swiftly arranged, Elsabeth and Hartnell sat and, to the outside eye, had the look of intimacy, so closely together were their heads aligned, and so intent were their low voices as Hartnell began his tale of woe.
“My father was vicar to the old Archer’s estate, and through happy alignment, my mother and his wife bore we two boy children within weeks of one another. The old Archer saw a companion for his son as a good and necessary thing, and my parents had provided one. Thanks to his generosity, I was educated along with Archer, raised beside him as if we were brothers together, looked upon his sister as my own, and was promised the parish upon my own father’s inevitable passing, for he was not a young man when I was born. But calamity struck.”
Hartnell fell silent until Elsabeth, intrigued, prompted, “Calamity?” and caused a start in the handsome captain, as if he had been lost to his own thoughts.
“I find I hardly know how to tell you, Miss Elsabeth. It is an uncomfortable confession, and I fear that you will judge me harshly, as so many others have done.”
“Captain Hartnell, I can think of nothing you could say that would cause me to shy from you,” Elsabeth said as warmly as she could. “Surely, it cannot be that dreadful.”
“Perhaps not to the lower classes,” Hartnell replied, “but you are a gentlewoman, just as the Archers are gentlemen. I am only the son of a vicar, with a bought commission in the army, and my prospects—”
“Enough. If I am a gentlewoman such as Archer is a gentleman, then I have no use for myself at all, for he has shown no part of himself as gentlemanly,” save for his appreciation of Sophia, Elsabeth reminded herself again, as her hopes for her friend remained bright in her mind. But
that was a consideration beyond the moment, and so she concluded, “And I should hope myself better than that. I will withhold all judgment until you have said your piece, and then I shall consider carefully before I condemn or praise at all.”
Hartnell met her eyes with a gaze both curious and hopeful before it melted into a winning gentleness. “I believe you mean that, Miss Elsabeth. Very well: I shall steel myself and say that as I reached an age to begin my religious studies in earnest, I developed a—a—” Even now he hesitated, then took a breath and plunged onward: “A small gift for magic, Miss Elsabeth; a modest natural talent for coaxing water, most particularly, to do my will. Oh, I have loathed that part of me, but I can say so no longer, for without it, I might not have dared the river to save your sister, and we should never have met!”
Ungainly laughter brayed from Elsabeth’s throat, and she clasped her hands over her mouth, horrified and amused at once. Rosamund looked up and Elsa hastily waved her concerns away; Rosa, with an elevated eyebrow of interest, returned to her consideration of the flowers, and Elsabeth ejaculated, “Is that all!” to Hartnell, whose face was a picture of consternation and confusion.
“Is that all? Miss Elsabeth, it has been the ruin of me. The old Archer passed and the younger would have nothing to do with a youth, even one he had considered a brother, who was tainted with talent. What manner of astonishing creature are you, that you should say is that all of a man plagued by magic?”
“One of great imagination!” Elsabeth burst out in reply. “A calamity, for goodness’ sakes, Captain Hartnell! You might have—you might have accidentally run down a child with a carriage, or—or—” Her imagination failed her, and she carried on with passion. “Magic, magic is an inconvenience, an embarrassment, something, yes, that the lower classes, when beleaguered with it, are forced to hide or join the service whilst the upper classes eschew it wholly, but by your own admission, you are not of gentle blood! Good heavens, Captain, do not frighten me in such a way. What did Archer do?”
