by Jane Ashford
“Well, we will go and test your judgment,” answered Anne. “But I warn you, if they are not pleasant, we will not let you forget it.”
“I shall await your decision with fear and trembling.” Arabella laughed again, and Laurence smiled down at her.
Anne opened another envelope. “A musical evening at the Branwells’. We shall of course accept that. And next, a waltzing party at Lord Dunn’s.”
Laurence had looked gratified at her first remark, but now he frowned. “I’m afraid you must refuse the second. You cannot waltz until you are approved by one of the patronesses of Almack’s.”
“What? How ridiculous. I have been longing to learn the waltz for a year!”
“No, Anne, he is right,” said Arabella. “You must wait.”
“But why? Do they ever refuse to allow one to waltz?”
Laurence cocked his head. “No, not if they admit you to Almack’s.”
“And if they do not, it cannot matter to me what they think. So…”
“Yes, but if you waltz before you are approved, they will not admit you,” responded Arabella. “And you must be admitted, Anne.”
“Must I?” She looked mischievous. “Oh, yes. Almack’s is also called ‘the marriage mart,’ isn’t it?”
At the same moment, Arabella and Laurence exclaimed, “Anne!” in shocked tones. Their expressions were so identically aghast that Anne burst out laughing and pointed to the mirror behind the sofa. The others looked, saw their own reflections, and reluctantly began to smile.
“How easy it is to scandalize you two.” Anne laughed. “I knew I could roast Bella, but I did not think I would catch you as well, Laurence. Oh, what a picture you made.”
Arabella and Laurence exchanged understanding glances, smiling ruefully at each other. Seeing them, Anne was suddenly struck by a new idea. It was of such blinding beauty that her eyes widened and darkened to full violet and she pressed her lips together to keep from exclaiming aloud. In the next moment, when the other two turned back, she was looking down and reaching for another envelope. But if they could have seen the sparkle in her eyes, they might have once more united in uneasy inquiry.
The afternoon passed in this pleasant way. They had tea when they finished with the invitations, and a little while later, Arabella took her leave. As Anne and Laurence walked upstairs to change for dinner, he said, “Your friend is charming. It must have been a help to you to have her at your school.”
“Yes indeed,” answered Anne, looking at the carpet. “Arabella got me through any number of scrapes. The teachers thought her a good influence on me.”
Laurence merely nodded, but Anne felt she had sown a promising seed.
Eight
Anne’s first ball came two weeks later. In the intervening time, she had attended a variety of lesser entertainments and made many new acquaintances. Laurence was tireless in escorting her, and Edward turned up with a group of his friends at nearly every one. Thus, she soon began to feel very much at home in London’s drawing rooms and to cease worrying whether she would be a miserable failure as a deb. She was not one of the toasts of the season, as indeed she had never dreamed of being. But she was a creditable success, and more than one young officer showed signs of susceptibility to her charms. Arabella was even more sought after, and both girls were very pleased and excited.
Charles joined Laurence in squiring Anne to the Duchess of Rutland’s ball. She had seen little of him lately; he seldom attended the deb parties, and he often dined away from home. Thus, she had the sense that their quarrel was not made up; it was merely ignored. Yet whenever they encountered one another, Charles was politely solicitous. He asked if she were enjoying herself and if there was anything she needed. But she did not believe he was really interested in the answers. And Anne herself remained a little angry. Charles had no excuse for his cold treatment of others. She told herself that not only did she not miss his company, she was glad he avoided her. It considerably lessened the tension in her life.
This ball, however, was one of the major events of the season. Everyone would be there, and Charles could hardly refuse to join Laurence and Anne in the Debenham carriage. They pulled up before the duchess’s house at ten and were ushered into the hall, where footmen took their cloaks. Anne had chosen a striking gown of coquelicot satin, which matched the color of her hair admirably, and she wore ornaments of twisted gold. The brothers were elegantly handsome in knee breeches and black coats, Charles particularly striking in evening dress. They greeted their hostess on the landing and moved into the ballroom, which had been hung with yards of blue cloth, tied up with garlands of flowers, for the occasion. The dancing had begun, and Anne was soon asked to join a set. Laurence went in search of Lydia Branwell, and Charles strolled over to speak to some of his friends. He rarely danced himself.
The first three sets passed very quickly and pleasantly for Anne. She danced, and between times managed to snatch a few words of conversation with Arabella. But the fourth was a waltz, and as she had not yet received her all-important nod of approval from Almack’s mighty patronesses, she was forced to sit out. This did not please her, particularly when she looked around to find that nearly everyone she knew was dancing. Even Arabella had passed into the select company of waltzers, by virtue of her mother’s prompt efforts with Lady Jersey.
Anne grimaced and searched for someone to talk to. She was not going to sit alone in one of the gilt chairs by the wall and advertise her exile. But the only person she saw was Charles, standing with some of his friends in the corner of the ballroom. Anne hesitated a moment, then shrugged. Even Charles was better than solitude. She walked around the floor and joined his group. No one seemed to notice her—Charles was slightly turned away—but she did not mind. For as she came close to them, she had realized that she was entering exalted company. Lord Wrenley was chatting with Lord Alvanley, Sir James Steadham and his wife, and another couple who, though unknown to Anne, had the same air of fashion and elegance as the others. These were the very cream of the haut ton, and she was suddenly uncertain of her welcome.
No one made any remark, however, though she was certain Lord Alvanley, at least, saw her arrive. Anne wished that Charles would turn and say something, but he was engrossed in conversation with the woman she did not know.
“But you must remember, Charles,” she was saying. “That night we all went to Vauxhall in dominoes and bet Prinny he could not tell who we were. He couldn’t, and he had to buy us all champagne. You can’t have forgotten. Teddy remembers. Don’t you, Teddy?” She took her partner’s arm and looked up into his face with open affection.
“Of course,” responded Teddy promptly.
“You would ‘remember’ anything your wife asked you to.” Charles laughed. His tone was so easy and friendly that Anne started in surprise. “I have no memory of the incident. It must have been someone else with you, Elaine. Indeed, I cannot imagine indulging in such a prank.”
Elaine opened her blue eyes very wide. “You? And who was it replaced Teddy’s splendid claret with a very inferior wine just before it was served at dinner? I don’t believe our butler has recovered from it yet.”
Charles laughed again, throwing back his head.
“He did not!” exclaimed Sir James Steadham. “Charles, that was my joke. You stole it!”
“I had to,” replied the viscount. “It was too good not to repeat. I don’t know whether I laughed more at Teddy’s expression when he tasted it, or when you told me the story the first time.”
“Who was your victim, James?” asked Lord Alvanley.
“Bob Pritcher.”
“No! He is forever prosing on about his wine cellar.”
“He was that night, too. That’s what made me do it. And you know the cream of the jest.” He looked around the group, beaming. “Pritcher didn’t even notice the difference. He drank this beastly port and praised it to us as if it we
re nectar.”
“He did not!”
“I tell you he did, Alvanley. That was the moment I decided I wasn’t the least sorry for the trick. The man knows nothing about wine, for all his boasting.”
Lady Steadham shook her exquisitely coiffed head. “It was amazing. He really didn’t know.”
“I suppose that means you think I know nothing about wine,” growled Teddy with mock ferocity. “Wrenley, I believe I will call you out.”
“Peace. I didn’t think anything of the kind.” Charles grinned engagingly at the other man. “And you noticed at the first sip, didn’t you? I was after Beckwith, not you.”
“Beckwith?” Teddy frowned.
“He was one of our dinner guests, dear,” said his wife. “You remember, that fat little man Mama wanted us to invite.”
Teddy shook his head in bewilderment.
“I didn’t know him either,” said Charles, “but he insisted he was a better judge of wine than any man in the room, and I wanted to shut him up.”
“Did he notice the switch?” asked Sir James.
Charles smiled ruefully. “Yes. As soon as anyone.”
Steadham broke into laughter. “So it backfired on you.”
Smiling, Charles nodded. “I haven’t your finesse, James.”
Throughout this exchange, Anne had been standing openmouthed on the fringes of the group. Here was a Charles she had never seen and hardly recognized. His smile was warm and genuine, lighting his thin face and cool eyes and revealing an entirely unsuspected facet of his personality. He was amusing, witty, and obviously attached to these friends, with whom he had clearly shared many pleasant times. He joked and laughingly mocked himself. She could scarcely believe her ears. And yet none of the others seemed to see anything out of the ordinary in his behavior. They were obviously as accustomed to this Charles as she was to the stern, distant man of her youth. It was so startling that Anne could not keep the astonishment from her expression.
Just then, Charles turned a little and saw her. In an instant, his face changed, the smile dying and the twinkling eyes going bland. “Anne, I didn’t see you,” he said with perfect politeness. “Did you want something?”
The transformation was so rapid, and so total, that Anne could hardly speak. “N-no. That is…I wasn’t dancing, so I…” She flushed, feeling horridly young and clumsy before this glittering group.
“For shame, Charles,” said Lady Steadham, “leaving your, ah, ward without a partner.”
Her tone was kindly, and Anne knew that she meant well, but this teasing remark merely made her blush more hotly.
“Yes indeed,” agreed Elaine. “And as a punishment, you should dance the next set with her yourself.” Turning to Anne, she quickly added, “I only say punishment because Charles hates dancing. Any man in his senses would consider it a reward.”
By now desperately embarrassed, and wishing with all her heart that she had sat alone by the wall through this stupid waltz, Anne could not muster a reply. She merely pressed her lips together and fought back tears.
Charles bowed. “You do me an injustice. I should be delighted to dance with Anne. Shall we? It is a country dance.”
He did not sound delighted, but Anne was ready to seize any escape. She took his arm and allowed him to lead her onto the floor. Once out of earshot, however, she stammered, “You needn’t dance. It is all right. I don’t want… I didn’t mean…”
“Nonsense. Of course we shall dance,” replied Charles, and he bowed her into the set forming nearby. But though he showed no sign of annoyance or anger at her intrusion, neither did he exhibit the easy friendliness and affection he had shown with his friends. The old Charles was back again. Indeed, he was feeling more than usually annoyed. He had been thoroughly enjoying himself with Alvanley and the others, only to be jerked away by responsibility to Anne. Well, he would do his duty, but he would not pretend to enjoy it. He never had.
Anne was only too glad to escape him at the end of half an hour. Their dances had been ponderously polite and, for her, almost unendurable. She felt terribly confused, and since it was impossible to retreat and think things out alone, she longed to put this incident from her mind and not have to wonder why her chief emotion at the moment was envy of Steadham, Alvanley, and the rest.
She noticed Arabella leaving the set, and joined her, bidding Charles a firm farewell. He departed, showing neither eagerness nor regret, and the two girls walked toward the sofa where Mrs. Castleton was sitting with Mariah.
“What is the matter, Anne?” asked Arabella immediately. “You look as if you had seen a ghost.”
“Perhaps I have.”
“What?” But they reached the chaperones before Arabella could press her further, and she had to content herself with a frown and a concerned gaze. Mrs. Castleton greeted them contentedly. She had seen Arabella achieve a solid success, and more than one eligible young man had shown signs of serious interest. Though Mrs. Castleton’s ideas and desires certainly went far beyond these heights, she could not help but feel gratified and relieved. Arabella was her youngest daughter, and the third she had presented in four years.
“Are you enjoying yourselves?” she asked both girls.
They nodded. Another waltz was beginning, and Anne took the vacant place on the sofa with a sigh. “I mustn’t dance. Again!”
Arabella laughed. “It won’t be for long. You go to Almack’s this week, do you not?”
Anne nodded.
“Well, then. But I will stay with you if you like.”
“No, indeed.” Anne looked about them. Gentlemen were choosing partners around the room. One appeared to be approaching their group, but Anne suddenly saw Laurence standing nearby, with Mrs. Branwell and a large beefy man Anne took to be the bishop. Lydia had left them and was joining the dancers on the arm of another massive churchman. Smiling slightly, Anne beckoned to Laurence. He noticed at once, excused himself, and came toward them. Anne unobtrusively indicated Arabella, and Laurence nodded slightly, earning the girl’s admiration. No word was spoken between them. Laurence simply stopped before Arabella, bowed, and requested the pleasure of a dance. Arabella, smiling, agreed, and Anne watched them walk onto the floor. Her pleasure was not lessened by the fact that Lydia Branwell threw them an exceedingly sharp look before the music began.
This gave Anne another idea. Turning, she looked again for the Branwells. The bishop had moved away when Laurence did, leaving Mrs. Branwell alone in a gilt chair by the wall. This was exactly what Anne had hoped. She rose and went to join her. “Good evening, Mrs. Branwell,” she opened brightly. “May I sit with you for a moment? As you can see, I am still barred from waltzing. I find it a trial; it looks so lovely.” She pretended to gaze out over the dance floor, but looked sidelong at the older woman beside her.
Mrs. Branwell seemed very nervous, almost unbelievably so. She kept her eyes on the floor and fidgeted with a handkerchief in her lap, saying nothing.
“Lydia dances very well,” offered Anne, thinking that a compliment to her only child must rouse the woman to speech. But Mrs. Branwell merely raised her eyes quickly, then looked down again with something that might be construed as a nod. Anne stared at her. She had never met anyone so timid. Could the woman really have reached such a mature age and established social position and still be so painfully shy with strangers? It didn’t seem possible. “Do you enjoy these balls?” she asked, determined to force at least one word from her timorous companion.
Mrs. Branwell looked around as if hoping for rescue, then seemed to capitulate. “Oh, yes,” she murmured, so low that Anne could hardly hear, “of…of course.” Her voice was thin and high, and it somehow made even the positive opinion she expressed sound tentative and worried.
“I admit I do,” replied Anne cordially. “But that is because of the dancing. I should hate sitting here the whole evening.” She got no answer to her i
nquiring pause. “Lydia is making her debut this season, is she not? I suppose it is your first in town for some time, then?”
Mrs. Branwell made a distressed sound, though Anne could not see why her rather commonplace question should have elicited it, and murmured, “I have never been to London before.”
“Indeed? We are in the same case, then. What do you think of town life?”
The other squeaked again, and before she could do anything else, a resonant bass voice intoned, “Elvira.” Mrs. Branwell started visibly and jerked her eyes upward, reminding Anne of a rabbit cornered by a pack of dogs. She too looked up, to find that the bishop had rejoined them. “Pray present me to your charming companion,” continued this gentleman, smiling a broad professional smile.
Mrs. Branwell managed to whisper Anne’s name. The bishop bowed over her hand. “My dear Lady Anne,” he boomed. “A pleasure, a true pleasure. My daughter has mentioned you.”
“How kind of her.” Anne examined the bishop with interest. He was indeed a large man, tall and with a matching bulk. His impressive figure seemed to cry out for a surplice and chasuble, and she would have wagered a good deal that he was high-church. He had Lydia’s black hair, noticeably thinning, a narrow prominent nose, and comfortable jowls. But the most striking thing about him at first acquaintance was his voice. He had just the sort of voice one imagined a bishop should have—melodious, deep, and possessing a broad range of tones.
Just now, it was confiding. “You are the foster sister of our dear Laurence. We have long looked forward to meeting you.”
“Thank you.” Anne ventured a glance at Mrs. Branwell, and saw that she had once more retreated into silence and handkerchief-twisting.
The bishop followed her gaze. “Elvira,” he said, at once soft and somehow cutting, “you are ruining your kerchief.”
Mrs. Branwell started violently again, raised her eyes, dropped them, and hurriedly let go of the cloth.
