by Mary Nichols
She did not want to knock them all out, only one in particular. She knew she was playing with fire, that there could be no possible liaison between her and the Viscount. She was twenty-five years old and resigned to spinsterhood and doing what good she could for the community in which she lived. He was an aristocrat, the son of her implacable enemy who wished only for her ruin, and by all accounts was courting Miss Verity Somerfield. She was laying herself open to having her heart broken if she did not keep herself and her emotions in check.
* * *
She could hardly concentrate on getting Saturday’s paper out, for thinking of the evening to come. She could not remember the last time she had been to a dance—certainly not since her mother died. Life since then had been nothing but work with the occasional lecture or tea party, nothing so grand as a ball. She was filled with trepidation. Would she be making a fool of herself? Perhaps she ought to revert to her original intention and go in the interests of the paper and nothing else. All day she wavered, right up to the time for getting dressed. She stood in her bedroom in her petticoat and looked from the shimmering bluey-green gown draped across her bed ready to put on, to Betty who was standing ready to help her into it. ‘I can’t do this,’ she said.
‘Whatever do you mean, miss? You ha’ spent two days making that gown and it hev turned out as good as any that I hev seen in the Ladies Magazine. What’s wrong with it?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘But will everyone think it pretentious of me to go dressed in such finery and expect to dance when I am only there to report proceedings?’
‘You can do both. Come on, miss, let me help you into it.’
Helen allowed herself to be persuaded and when at last she was ready, her hair brushed and a tiny headdress of silk flowers fastened in her curls, she had to admit she looked very well. In her mother’s trunk was a small box containing a few trinkets and she took from it a necklace of green stones in a silver filigree setting. She did not suppose they were real gems, but they went well with her dress and she fastened them about her neck. A gossamer shawl of her mother’s completed the look. Slipping into her shoes and picking up her reticule, she went downstairs and into the street to join the crowds flocking to the Assembly Rooms. Luckily it was a fine night.
The largest room had been decorated in bunting and little flags of the various regiments that had been at Waterloo. There was a large portrait of Wellington on the wall above the dais where the musicians were gathering and tuning their instruments. Large vases were filled with flowers, which must have denuded the gardens of the committee members. In a second room, plates of cakes, pies and buns supplied by the committee ladies were being laid out on tables, alongside a punch bowl containing she knew not what. For those who did not care for punch there was ale and cordial. The ills of the country, the dreadful weather and the prospect of another bad harvest were to be set aside for one night.
The tickets had been expensive and there were those who could not afford to attend, but any profits the evening made were to go to the relief of the poor, though how they were to be distributed Helen did not know. She looked about her. The dancers were for the most part from the middle orders: farmers, shopkeepers, Dr Benton and his wife and daughters, the two millers and their families, gentlemen and officers, both army and navy. And a few ordinary soldiers like Jack Byers, who had brought his wife. But there was no sign of Miles. Her disappointment was profound. He had not meant it when he said he would come. He had been teasing her when he said he wanted to dance with her. She should have known better than to believe him. No doubt Miss Somerfield had claimed him. The little green god sat on her shoulder and tormented her.
The dancing began and she was soon inveigled into joining in a country dance by Edgar, who had smartened himself up, slicked back his hair and cleaned the ink from his fingers. ‘I’m glad you came,’ he said. ‘I feared I might have no one to dance with. But I felt I had to come to support a worthy cause.’
‘I am sure there are any number of young ladies with whom you can take a turn,’ she said, hoping he did not expect to monopolise her, though if the Viscount did not come, she would have no other partner.
* * *
As the dance ended she saw Miles. He was standing just inside the door and looking about him. His arrival caused a sudden silence to descend on the room; even the music faded and everyone turned towards him. He had chosen to wear his dress uniform and magnificent he looked in it. The red jacket with its yellow facings, its gold epaulettes and gold buttons and the white breeches and stockings would have made him stand out in any crowd, even if he had not been so tall.
Aware of the tension, he smiled. ‘Carry on dancing,’ he said. ‘Do not mind me.’ Then he crossed the room to join the mayor and mayoress, who were sitting in seats reserved for the dignitaries near the dais. Helen watched him go as a concerted sigh went up from all the ladies.
‘My, he do look grand,’ Edgar said.
‘Does look grand,’ she corrected him. How could she expect him to write good reports if he persisted in using the local dialect?
He could not have liked being corrected out of working hours and drifted away. The master of ceremonies announced a country dance and Helen found herself once more on the floor, this time with Jonathan Benton, one of the doctor’s sons.
* * *
Miles watched from his seat beside Alderman Warner, the Mayor. He had spotted Helen as soon as he came in the door. She looked so lovely in that gown she took his breath away. If it had been the grandest ball of the London Season, she would not have been out of place. She was tall, graceful and ladylike. Considering the previous occasions when he had been in her company, the transformation was unbelievable. Miss Grey Gown, who did not mind getting muddy, or nursing grubby children, who could fight like a wild cat, who threw whatever came to hand in temper, had become as ladylike as you please. And uncommonly beautiful. His heart gave a sudden and unexpected lurch.
He wanted to dance with her, but he did not dare attempt the more robust of the country dances for fear of looking foolish. Neither did he want to single her out before all the other ladies, knowing she would hate that. When the more sedate dances were announced, he stood up with Sarah Benton, one of the doctor’s daughters, and then with Mrs Byers, which had that lady blushing and stumbling, but which pleased Jack no end. And then the master of ceremonies announced a waltz. Miles made his way over to Helen and bowed before her. ‘Miss Wayland, will you dance this waltz with me?’
She took the offered hand and he led her onto the floor. He bowed, she curtsied and then his right arm was about her waist and his left hand clasping her right and they were moving to the rhythm of the music. She was in a kind of seventh heaven of delight, a setting aside of reality for a dream and was hardly aware of the whispers of the matrons who were sitting on the sidelines, making barbed comments. He really should not be holding her so close, she knew. Twelve inches was the accepted distance.
‘You are looking very beautiful tonight,’ he whispered, so close to her ear his breath made her shiver, but it was not cold but warmth that spread all over her body.
‘You are bamming me.’
‘Goodness, no. I meant it. Has no one ever told you how lovely you are?’
‘No, and it would not be true. I beg you to desist.’
‘Very well. I will not pay you compliments. Will insults do in their stead? Let me see, how can I insult you without having something thrown at me? Do you know, I cannot think of a single one? I fear we shall have to dance in silence.’ But he was laughing and so was she.
They continued to waltz and he discovered he had not forgotten how, but he was struggling not to let his limp hinder him as he guided her into the turns. ‘Miss Wayland, I beg your pardon. I am clumsy.’
‘You are far from clumsy, my lord, just a little out of practice, I think.’
‘Bless you for that. I have not dared to attempt to dance before tonight, but you have inspired me to try.’
‘Have
I?’ she asked in surprise.
‘Oh, yes. You are the only person who has never commented on my limp. You do not tread warily round me as if I am different from everyone else because if it.’
‘I do not regard it,’ she said. ‘Why should I? You have shown me in any number of ways that you can do whatever you want to do.’
‘Even dance?’ he queried with a smile.
‘Even dance.’
‘All the same, shall we take a turn about the room instead?’ He stopped dancing, took his arm from about her waist and offered it to her. ‘It will be easier to talk.’
‘Do you wish to talk, my lord?’
‘It is always a pleasure to talk to you.’ She laid her fingers on his arm and they left the floor to perambulate its perimeter. ‘May I congratulate you on the outcome of your court case,’ he said. ‘I knew if anyone could get you off, James could.’
‘Thank you, my lord. I was mightily relieved, but I wish I knew who paid for my defence. I should like to thank him personally.’
‘I thought it was a group of people.’
‘So Mr Mottram said.’
‘There you are, then. I am sure James will pass on your message.’
She let that pass. ‘The Earl was not pleased.’
‘No, he was not.’ He paused before continuing. ‘I wish I knew why he and your father were so at loggerheads.’
‘As I told you before, I thought it was my father’s zeal in championing the downtrodden that did not please the Earl, who saw it as a personal criticism.’
‘Which it was.’
She chuckled. ‘Yes, I suppose you are right, but not without justification.’
The music had faded and the dancers were moving towards the refreshment room. As neither of them had come with a partner, they drifted there together. He found two seats at a small table in an alcove and left her to fetch food for them both. When he returned, he sat down and continued the conversation as if there had been no break. ‘We will not argue about the rights and wrongs of what both parties did, but I am curious as to why it became so personal.’
‘I have no idea.’
He watched her eating for a minute or two, ignoring the food on his own plate because he had dined with his parents before coming. They, of course, would not have dreamed of attending anything like a dance at the Assembly Rooms to which anyone with the price of a ticket could go. ‘My father told me that your mother’s parents lived at Ravensbrook Manor. Did you know that?’
‘The Manor?’ she repeated in surprise. ‘Are you sure?’
‘That is what he said and he would know.’
‘Yes, I suppose he would. Whoever lived there would have been his neighbour.’
‘You never knew your maternal grandparents?’ ‘No, nor my father’s parents, for he became an orphan when very young and was brought up by a spinster aunt in Yorkshire. I met her once when I was small, but the journey became too much for her in later years and she died before my father.’ She paused. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘Because I am interested in everything about you. You are not what you would have us believe.’ ‘What do you mean? I have deceived no one.’ ‘You have not, but perhaps others have. Your grandparents’ name was Brent, was it not?’
‘Yes, but I know nothing at all about them. Some of the family came to my mother’s funeral, but they did not stay for the refreshments afterwards. I was surprised how grand they were. They hardly spoke to me and ignored my father, though he was very cast down by his loss and needed consoling. He and my mother were devoted to each other. They seemed not to need anyone else.’
‘How lucky they were. It is rare to find such felicity in a marriage. Do you know why your mother’s family behaved like that towards your father?’
‘No, except that they must have thought themselves above him because of what he did for a living.’ ‘Your mother must have given it all up for love.’ ‘Perhaps. She never gave any sign of regretting it.’ ‘It is wonderful what love can do,’ he said softly. ‘It can overcome all obstacles.’
She looked at him sharply; his voice had sounded so wistful. ‘You believe that, do you?’
‘Of course. Don’t you?’
‘Yes, I suppose I do, but I have never been asked to put it to the test, so I cannot be sure.’
‘Has there been no young man eager to make you his wife?’
She laughed. ‘If there was, he never declared himself. Besides, I have been too busy learning the business, looking after my mother and, when she died, housekeeping and helping my father.’
‘But now?’
‘Now, my lord, I have been much occupied, as you know, what with the Record and the Co-operative and lately the court case…’
‘That is over now.’ He paused, wondering whether to say anything of his father’s latest threat, but he knew it would worry her and spoil the evening. ‘Do you think that was where the feud started? At the Manor, I mean.’
‘My lord, I have told you before I am not sure there was a feud.’
‘I am persuaded there was. Are you not curious to find out what caused it?’
‘Until you spoke of it, I was unaware of anything of the sort. I have grown up not knowing and since I have been on my own, I have been too busy with the present to think about the past. The newspaper occupies me to the exclusion of almost everything else.’
‘More’s the pity,’ he said softly. ‘Tonight you have shown me a different Miss Wayland, as far removed from a newspaper proprietor as it is possible to be, a lovely, feminine woman any man would be proud to escort. You should have time to dress up and enjoy yourself occasionally, meet new people, go visiting…’
‘I can do all those things and have done so recently,’ she said, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. ‘I have met Mrs Watson, the men who are going to work on the Co-operative land, even Mr Mottram and you, my lord. And tonight I am enjoying myself.’
‘I am glad to hear it. So am I, more than I would have thought possible.’
She turned to look at him and found herself looking into brown eyes that were far from mocking. There was a message there she could not interpret. Not for the first time she wished there was someone to teach her how to cope with the attentions of a gentleman. The conversation was becoming too deep for her and she could not gauge how much of it was sincerely meant and how much meaningless flirting. Not knowing how to answer, she concentrated on the food on her plate, though she had no appetite and all she did was push it about.
‘Have you ever been inside Ravensbrook Manor?’ he asked suddenly.
‘No, why should I go there? I did not know my mother’s family had lived there.’
‘It must once have been a lovely home. It seems a pity that it has been let go to ruin. If it could be restored, it would make a capital home. I need to set up my own establishment and have been thinking of buying it.’
The idea of him setting up home reminded her of Miss Somerfield and the rumour that they were to wed and it quite ruined the evening. What a fool she had been. He was not interested in her, but in the history of a building. No doubt, given its condition, he expected to buy it cheaply. That thought set her to wondering who did own it. Her mother had had a brother, she knew that because he had been at her mother’s funeral, along with his wife, a son and two daughters. All had been expensively dressed in the latest fashion. William, the son, was an adult, recently married, the girls just about ready to come out, something Helen herself had never done. Printers’ daughters did not aspire to such frippery.
She had never felt deprived until now when she would have given anything to be a little higher up the social scale. Then perhaps Viscount Cavenham might treat her seriously. As it was, she was simply someone he could argue with, set to work as a bookkeeper and to tease. And, oh, how he teased her! Every minute they were together and much of when they were not, she felt teased and confused by him. She could not make him out. What went on in his head? Was he deliberately seeking her out
or was it simply coincidence that they met so frequently?
Had there really been a feud between their families? Was she unwittingly perpetuating it? No, she told herself, her criticism of the Earl had been honest and fair. And the judge and jury had agreed with her. As for the Earl’s son…She shook herself. She must not think of the son; she must put him from her mind, forget he had ever called her beautiful, forget he had held her in his arms, forget she had ridden up behind him, clinging to his waist, her cheek against his broad back, forget it all.
‘The dancing is resumed,’ she said, pushing her plate away from her and standing up, obliging him to get to his feet, too. ‘I must not forget why I am here. I must return to the ballroom and make notes of who is here and what they are wearing. My readers will want to know.’ And with that she made her way out of the room, along the corridor and back into the brightly lit ballroom. With an effort to keep her runaway emotions in check, she took her notebook and a pencil from a drawstring bag on her wrist and sat down at one side of the ballroom and began to write. She described the room and its patriotic decorations, then the townsfolk who were dancing past her, the music and the refreshments, but the account was flat because she felt flat.
She was about to give up when there was a stir at the door and Roger Blakestone came in with his wife. The man was dressed in regimentals with the three yellow stripes of a sergeant on his arm. Helen remembered him saying the Viscount had caused him to lose his stripes, so he must have regained them or was wearing them when he had no right to them. He stood looking about him and then led his wife over to a group of other soldiers who were standing not far from where Helen sat.
He appeared not to have seen her or did not recognise her in her finery. Whichever it was, he barely lowered his voice as he greeted them by name, introduced his wife and then added, ‘I see the gentry are here. I wonder why. Spying, I shouldn’t wonder, trying to trap us into an indiscretion. But we’ll have him yet. He needn’t think his fine clothes will save him.’
