The duchess watched with amusement as I turned and preened. At last I said wonderingly, when I could discover no angle from which the reflection was flawed, “I think you are a djinn after all, ma’am.”
“Oh, come. There is nothing magic about a pretty dress, with a pretty girl in it.” She glanced at my face as I stood staring at my reflection and said more gently, “Someone has taught you that you are plain. Am I not right?”
I nodded. That was a mild way of describing the lesson I had learned, but I did not correct it.
“But you see now that they were wrong, don’t you?”
“I… I suppose so.”
She gave me a gentle shake at the doubt in my voice. “Look at yourself again—a real look! You are no plainer than you believe yourself to be. That is the real secret of beauty.”
I turned to her, flushed with gratitude and happiness. I could almost even believe her words.
“Thank you.” Shyly I embraced her, and she responded with an affectionate squeeze—carefully, so as not to crush our dresses.
“My dear child, such solemnity! One would think the girl had never had a new gown.” We smiled at each other, and then she returned to her former briskness. “Now, let us see to gloves. Becky, have you found my ivory fan?”
She was off again to sort through more finery. I turned back to the mirror, still in wonder. The duchess could treat this lightly, but it was the first time anyone had spoken so to me, and the first time I had felt that I might not be the homely creature I had always been treated as. I beamed at my reflection with genuine good feeling. Tonight, for once, I did not feel that I would disgrace my patroness’s efforts.
And the thought of what Herron would say when he saw me gave me a surge of secret exultation. Surely his icy, distant manner toward me could not help but melt under the influence of this mermaid gown. The breach that had grown between us would vanish, and he would come back to me; we would be as we had been, happy, as one. It might even be that the duchess’s prediction would come true, and by the end of the evening Herron would be asking the company to toast our happiness. I could see the scene as if it were unfolding before me now: Herron, gazing down at me with love rekindled in his eyes; the duchess and Lord Claude, smiling their delight; my father, confounded for once, looking as if he had swallowed a bad oyster…
“Come, dear, we aren’t finished with you yet.” The duchess was rushing back to me to proffer gloves, fan, and bracelets, and I turned away from the mirror and my fantasies to be bedizened even further.
A knock on the door announced Aminta and Miss Yates. Aminta was dressed in her usual quiet elegance in an amber watered silk that complemented her burnished hair. At her ears and throat she wore topazes that glowed like sunlight through honey. Both she and the duchess had nosegays of camellias—white for Aminta, pink for her aunt—while I was to carry orchids from the hothouse.
Miss Yates, though, was the most striking of us all. Her ensemble was an eye-popping shade of cerise, with (I counted quickly) twelve flounces edged in black lace and a plunging décolletage more revealing than my own. Her figure was splendid for a woman of her age and she wore the gown with assurance, but it seemed strangely at odds with her matronly greying hair. I wondered if, at her age, the pleasure she took in wearing what she loved mattered more than obeying the dictates of decorum. I thought of the jewel-colored velvet dressing gowns I wore only in my room, and felt as if Miss Yates and I had something in common.
“Felicity won’t rest until she can come in and see you both,” she informed us with a smile. “I must say I will be glad when this night is over; the only French I have been able to force into her head this week is dance steps and fashion terms. She may never recognize the subjunctive mode, but she has no difficulty at all with mousseline, peau de soie, and broderie anglaise.”
“I imagine that such a vocabulary will be perfectly adequate for her needs,” commented Aminta without rancor. “Should my sister ever travel to France, she will surely spend most of her time with modistes, discussing the cut of sleeves that season. Aunt, you are a vision. And our cousin! You should wear green more often. Not one woman in twenty can carry it off so well.”
Of course I had to return the compliment, and in the midst of our chorus of mutual admiration Felicity came charging in. When she was excited, as now, she tended to forget Miss Yates’s teachings in ladylike deportment, and bounced and bounded like a puppy.
“Oh, you all look so beautiful!” she cried, plumping onto the divan with a moan of commingled delight and despair. “Aunt Gwendolyn, that is the most utterly divine gown. You look just like an angel, like you’re going to simply float away on a cloud. Oh, can’t I come to the party? I’ll not even dance if you don’t want me to. I’ll stand behind a palm and just watch. Please, Aunt?”
“Ah, this flattery has a purpose!” The duchess planted a kiss on her forehead. “No, my dear, not this time. But it will only be a few more months before you’ll be going to parties every bit as grand as this one.”
“But—” Felicity caught her stepmother’s eye, which although affectionate was not to be argued with, and subsided. “Very well. But it seems terribly unfair that just because I’m not yet eighteen…”
“I know, dear,” said Aminta consolingly. “But we have all had to wait our turn, our cousin longest of all.”
Felicity’s indignation waned at once at this reminder. She might even have been blushing when she turned to me. “I am sorry, cousin,” she said, holding out her hands repentantly. “It was selfish of me to begrudge you your first ball. Aminta is right; surely I can wait another few months when you have waited so much longer.”
She was so obviously contrite that I could ignore the sting of that blunt reference to my age. “Indeed, it’s a kindness to me that you aren’t also debuting tonight,” I said. “With you in the room, I would never be asked to dance at all. Since you won’t be there to eclipse me, I may actually draw a few partners.”
“Oh, you’re just trying to quiet me,” Felicity scoffed, but her smile had reappeared. “Very well, you have shamed me sufficiently. I’ll behave; you needn’t perjure yourself further! But perhaps,” she appealed to her aunt, “I can have a dance with Charles in the hallway if we are quiet?”
“I think Miss Yates and I can manage to look the other way for the space of one dance,” said the duchess, generous in the face of this penitence. At the girl’s insistence, we paraded our finery before her, as she sighed in bliss. Finally the duchess said we should go down to meet the guests and beckoned me over to the dressing table for a final dab of face powder. Promising to stop by Felicity’s room later to tell her about the young men who attended, she glided out in a drift of pink tulle, and with hasty goodnights to Felicity the rest of us followed.
My memory of the long gallery as a place of dim drowned light and half shadow found nothing familiar in it tonight; like me, it had undergone a complete metamorphosis for the ball. The carpets had been removed, and most of the furniture as well, except for some chairs for chaperones and weary dancers (and wallflowers); the long expanse of floor gleamed in its new coat of beeswax under the dazzling light of the chandeliers. The walls were swathed in lengths of green and gold. The orchestra was tuning up at the far end, and Jenkins was directing the placement of punch bowls and champagne glasses in the smaller rooms opening off the gallery. The curtains had been drawn across the French doors that gave on the terrace, so that the early darkness did not intrude on the warmth and light of the festivities. Potted palms and huge floral arrangements created the illusion of summer in the midst of winter.
Aminta heard my gasp of pleasure and turned to me with a smile.
“It is a sight, is it not? On occasions such as this I think Ellsmere must be the loveliest place on earth.”
“It is to me,” I said simply. In truth, even had it been a poky little hut with a smoking fireplace, Ellsmere would have been beautiful to me because it was the place where I had discovered how to be happy.
Although the duchess was doing me an honor by letting me receive with her, I was impatient to dance, and my heart lifted when the orchestra started to play in earnest. I craned my neck to search the room for Herron—he had not received with us as he should have—but I had not seen him by the time Charles came up to lead me into the opening dance. Herron had been more outwardly tractable since his confrontation with his mother, but still took every opportunity to disappear from company. As we took the floor I sent one last glance around the crowd, but I did not greatly mind standing up with Charles for the quadrille. He was a considerate partner, and coached me in an undertone through the difficult figures.
The dignified tempo of the music allowed me to observe the other dancers. I saw Lord Montrose partnering his wife, ungainly but doggedly perseverant, while she murmured encouragement. Lord Claude, benignly handsome, was leading the duchess in obvious pride; tonight he, too, had cast off his agitation and looked almost like his former self. I could almost believe that my father had never arrived to cast a shadow over us.
After the quadrille came waltzes, and to my surprise, which was quickly submerged in delight, I did not lack for partners. Lord Claude and Lord Montrose asked for dances, as I expected, but even had duty not impelled them to partner me I would not have been neglected. Indeed, so busy was I that for long stretches of time I forgot to look for Herron at all.
True, some of my partners were elderly gentlemen who wheezed and breathed punch into my face and stepped on my feet, but there were plenty of young men who came to claim dances as well, and in their eyes and voices I saw that it was not duty that impelled them. For the first time in my life I knew what it was to be noticed and admired. Instead of retreating into the shadows to become no more than a sort of extra coat rack, I stepped confidently into the light; I gathered eyes instead of shunning them or, worse, repelling them. It was a heady feeling, and I was aware of a giddiness that had nothing to do with the champagne I sipped between dances.
My strange new clothes and adornments—and perhaps, as well, the alien sensation of being observed with real interest and pleasure—seemed to heighten the acuity of my sense; my bared throat and bosom tingled in response to every current of breeze; the bob and sway of the jewels in my ears made me hold my head with a new self-awareness that was far from unpleasant. The grip of the corset, so uncomfortably tight at first, had become a snug embrace, making me conscious of the slenderness of my waist. Every inch of my skin was newly aware of itself, as my ringlets bounced silkily against my shoulders, as the warmth of my partner’s hand met my body through satin and kid.
For that was most intoxicating of all. The admiration that lit up the eyes of the young men—eyes that looked into mine with a smile and an intimacy as tangible as their gloved hands lightly clasping my waist and hand. Their eyes moving over me left a warmth on my skin as if from a touch, and I guessed that this sensation agreed with me; when Charles came to ask for a waltz he told me he had been forced to rout a number of rivals.
“I practically had to horsewhip my way through,” he said lightly. “You are quite the belle this evening, Oriel.”
I laughed and shook my head, setting my earrings swaying. “Only this evening? Do you mean to say you’ve been oblivious to my charms all this while?”
“Not at all; I have always known you are beautiful. The only difference is that tonight you seem to have discovered it yourself.”
“Flatterer. I can well see why you are so popular with the ladies, if you say such things to them.”
He shrugged. “Please yourself, if you wish to think I do. In any case, I spoke only the truth.”
Truth to tell, I had seen no evidence of the flirt in his behavior; he had danced frequently with his relatives and Miss Yates (making time for a surreptitious waltz with Felicity in the empty hallway) and no more than once with any of the female guests. But in my heedless happiness I could not resist baiting him, if only because I had never done so before.
“Just what a true gallant would say!” I teased. “Next you will tell me I dance as if I had winged heels.”
His surprisingly deep laugh rang out. “That would be vaunting myself, since I take credit as your instructor.”
“And a very fine instructor you were.”
“Now who’s the flatterer?” But he smiled at me with an affection I did not often see in his candid blue eyes. “This is a transformation indeed. I’m glad to see you so happy.”
Even when my father came to claim a dance, my spirits did not quail. I had not been able to see him without a twinge of revulsion since that revealing conversation with the duchess, but at the same time I felt newly free of him. Now I knew him for what he was, and knew that I owed him no allegiance. I was finally released from the guilt he had forced on me for so long.
But even without this new perspective on my father I believe I would have faced him without dread. That night I could have waltzed with Cerberus and bantered with Hades—the latter situation, in fact, having many of the same qualities as conversation with my father.
“You’re doing well for yourself this evening,” he greeted me. “I see that you’ve discovered how to make men forget your lack of beauty.”
“You are pleased to be chivalrous,” I said lightly. “Perhaps you abandoned hope of me prematurely.”
“Perhaps I did,” he said. And that was the closest my father ever came to paying me a compliment.
My triumph, however, was not yet complete. Dancing with Charles had reminded me of the one I had not yet been partnered with, whose approbation meant more than all the praise a regiment of young blades could heap on me. I had caught only glimpses of him as the night progressed, and he was never among the dancers; always he stood apart, watching.
At last, during the last waltz before the supper break, I found Herron at my elbow. He cut a handsome figure in his evening dress, the stark white and black setting off his olive complexion, and my breath caught with love and awe.
“There you are at last!” I exclaimed, unintentionally parroting the duchess. “What a truant you’ve been. I’ve been waiting all evening for you to ask for a dance.”
“Have you? You were quick enough to dance with everyone else.” His voice was gruff, and now that I looked closer I could see that his face was flushed with what might have been temper. Or perhaps he had been indulging in too much champagne.
“I didn’t want to be left sitting alone all night,” I said, surprised. “And I could hardly refuse every gentleman who asked me, could I?”
“Perhaps not; refusing men does not seem to be something you are capable of doing.”
This was a new and unpleasant mood. Could he be jealous? If this was jealousy, I could not understand why so many women exulted in being the cause of it. Had it been manifested in someone else, I might have called it petulance.
“Well, are you going to ask me to dance or not?”
He did not answer, but seized my arm and led me into the waltz. What was the matter with him? Why was he not exclaiming over my transformation, gazing at me with the delight and adoration I had expected? I could feel my euphoria ebbing away.
“Isn’t this a lovely company?” I said brightly, hoping to wake him out of this mood. “I didn’t expect to have such an agreeable time. I was afraid everyone would ignore me but you, and Charles. But all the guests seem so amiable. I’ve been enjoying myself tremendously.”
“I noticed”—curtly.
“Not that I could really enjoy the evening until I danced with you,” I hastened
to add, but I don’t think he even heard. He was steering me around the floor as if under sentence by law.
I gave up and fell silent, defeated by his ill humor. I had never seen him like this. Suddenly the room seemed hot and overcrowded. The babel of voices and the clamorous music battered my head, and I realized that my feet were sore from dancing. The weight of my skirts seemed to drag at me.
He said abruptly, “That dress is obscene.”
“But I thought you would like it,” I said, astonished. “I’ve had so many compliments on it, and even your mother said it suited me. Don’t you think so?”
“It would be better suited to an actress, or a Paris courtesan.”
“You must at least approve of the color,” I persisted, trying not to be hurt by his coarse comment. “It’s so like the sea—just the color for an ondine.”
Again he made no reply. I searched his face, trying to discern the cause of his strange behavior. “Herron, won’t you tell me what is troubling you?” I said finally. “You act like a different person tonight.”
“A different person!” That, for some reason, halted him completely. “That is a fine thing to hear from you of all people.”
Still in waltz position, we stood facing each other as the tide of dancers swept past us; they cast curious looks at the couple rooted to the spot. He darted a grim glance around the room, then propelled me through the crowd toward the doors to the terrace. “Come. I cannot tolerate this.” When I hesitated, he seized my wrist in a surprisingly hard grip and pulled me through the doorway so violently that I stumbled.
He was moving with rapid strides, almost running, and my hoops jounced wildly as I tried to keep up. The cold night air was startling after the heat of the dance. He flung open another door from the terrace, pushed me roughly inside, and shut it behind him with a bang. Still he had said nothing.
Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense Page 22
