by A. E. Watson
Boys.
Stolen kisses.
Balls!
Dancing.
There are a thousand things I love and a thousand more I need to learn of.
Sitting in front of the mirror in my room I smile at the list I have tacked to the wall with pitch from my father’s favorite tree. If my mother sees it I may end up flogged, but it’s worth it.
“Kate!”
“In here!” I sigh but answer my pesky brother.
When he enters the room he’s completely dressed for the ball, his white gloves in hand already. “You aren’t ready yet?” He rolls his dark-blue eyes at me. “How can you possibly need more than half a day to get ready?”
Giselle scurries in with ribbons in hand, shooing him away. “She still needs a few finishing touches. Away!” She shoves him through the small space, not noticing the way he leers at her. He and all his friends do. It’s disgraceful.
In the mirror she smiles, taking my heavy dark locks in her hands and pinning them into a perfect coif.
“Have you spoken with your father about the Conrad boy?” She lifts her already high eyebrows inquisitively.
“No. I don't enjoy the company of boys who spit on their hands to shake them. And he chews with his mouth open. It’s dreadful.” I sigh longingly. “I’m only nineteen. I’m not an old maid yet. I refuse to settle.”
She winks. “Old maids aren’t so bad.” That makes me laugh as she finishes with my hair and repositions the delicate sleeves of my gown. My gray eyes sparkle with excitement when she pulls out her small bag of French makeup. “You have the fairest skin I have ever seen. You still need no talc. The women in Paris would die of envy.” Her accent is subtle now from ten long years with our family in England. She was only fifteen when she arrived as my governess. I was six at the time. Our nearly ten-year age gap is only noticeable in her maturity, but not in her looks. She has wisdom about men that I am certain I won’t ever have.
She dots a subtle amount of blush on my pale cheeks and lips and then lines the tops of my eyes softly.
“There! Magnifique!” She smooths my eyebrows with his thumb and nods. “You look like an angel.”
It’s one of the words commonly used to describe me. The feather-shaped birthmark over my left shoulder blade is the reason for that.
Every time my mother sees it she tells me of how she wept the first time she saw it, knowing I was a miracle. An angel who had accidentally come to earth with one feather from her wings still attached to her back.
She and Father had tried to have children for a very long time before I came, and then only a year later they had Frederick. She calls us both her miracles.
I stand as Giselle retouches several parts of the gown that arrived only yesterday. It’s a silvery blue dress with a sheen to it I don't understand. It glitters in a way fabric shouldn't. Father saw it and knew I needed the dress. The pale gray of it matches my eyes in the right light. He said it sparkled the way my eyes do, effervescently.
“It’s a lucky dress, cherie! You will meet a husband tonight. I know it.” Her eyes widen as she steps back, nodding at her efforts. She should have gone back to her family by now; I am grown. But she stays because I am not married. She will not leave before that blessed event occurs. Unfortunately, all the men I have met bother me.
Seeing her age without having children of her own troubles me as well. I want nothing like I want for her to find love.
“Thank you.”
She leans in, delicately hugging me. The embrace feels false, but I know she doesn't want to muss me. “Be nice. Be a lady. I know there’s one in there.” She swats my butt that's padded by layers of dress and crinoline.
I take my pen, dipping the ink carefully and writing “silver-blue dresses” on the list under dancing.
“You have always been the most grateful child I have ever known.” Her smile would suggest she’s proud of that. I suppose I am as well.
“I can’t help but be grateful. When we go to town I see the children who have hard lives and I know I am blessed. I just wish I could remember more things to feel blessed for.”
“Finding a husband in your beautiful gown.” She mocks me and shoos me from the room like she did Freddy.
When I get down the stairs my entire family is waiting. My mother looks a touch impatient but my father’s face tells me how I look.
“I knew that fabric was perfect for you.” He offers me his other arm, always saving me a spot.
“You do look lovely, Katherine!” Mother kisses my cheek.
“Worth the wait?” I wince.
“Of course, dear.” She rolls her eyes.
Michael, the butler, gets the door for us. “Enjoy your evening, sir.” He bows slightly to my father.
“You enjoy the night off, Michael.” My father slips him a grin and leads the way to the carriage.
Freddy climbs in first, helping Mother and I in before Father gets in last.
“So the Conrad boy visited yesterday.” My father gets a look on his face as he settles into his seat.
“Father, please. Not him.”
“You didn't enjoy the way he ate like one of the hounds?” He glances back at the yard as we jerk slightly as the horses get going.
“I dare say, Father, the hounds eat far quieter than that clod.” My brother wrinkles his nose. “Surely Kate can drag something better than that to Christmas dinner.” He winks as he teases me.
“I would die an old maid before I married someone like him.”
“I fear you will,” my mother snaps. “You are officially known as the choosiest girl in all the county. Even the Hampshire girl is married off now and her eyes are crossed.”
“Indeed.” Freddie snorts, nodding and enjoying it being my turn to be tormented.
Instead of being insulted or sulking and ruining the evening, I turn my head and stare out at the dark scene passing us by. The glass panes of the carriage are hazy, but I can still see the faint glow of houses and estates as we pass by them.
The conversation turns to something else. I don't listen. I rarely do.
My brother rattles on about a hunting party where a boy was injured. When I glance at my mother I see her eyes have glossed over the way mine do. Her stare flickers to me, causing us both to sneak a grin at one another.
Neither of us cares a lick for hunting.
When the carriage stops my father is laughing with my brother, both are incredibly jovial men. Freddy might be a pain in my side but he’s a gentleman, through and through. The woman who marries him will be lucky in every way. He’s handsome, with a spark of sassiness to him. He’s the best of both of our parents. The entire staff adores him, which to me is a true sign of a gentleman.
When Father is old, Frederick will be an excellent replacement.
Mother gives me the same hopeful look as we climb from the carriage. I receive it every time we arrive at any function where we are sure to meet gentlemen. She and Giselle have been plotting my marriage since I was a child.
But deep down I have to admit, they aren’t the only ones.
I desperately want love, but I feel as though it has to happen on its own. I must meet a man and there needs to be love in the air around us. I will settle for nothing less than a soul mate.
That is what I wish for.
Love like Romeo and Juliet.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The private ball is being held at an estate that has recently been acquired by a gentleman from London. He’s been the subject of gossip since summer ended and the ball is the first chance we shall all have to confirm the rumors he has inspired with his aloofness.
As we climb the stairs to the entrance of the large home, I’m struck by the glimpse of a man through the crowd in front of us. My heart beats quicker. My mouth sours as my cheeks water.
It’s the eyes.
Somehow I know he’s the infamous Count Basarab everyone has been speaking of, the owner of the home. I haven’t met nor even laid an eye on him sinc
e his arrival, but I would know his dark eyes anywhere.
A shiver crawls from my legs up to my neck, making me shudder.
Freddy gives me a glance. “Are you ill?” He whispers it, most likely because he wishes to stay and enjoy the evening.
“Just a shiver from the wind. Nothing more.”
He nudges me gently in the ribs; it’s something he does to be affectionate. Boys and girls have such different understandings of the word affection.
Straining my neck, I can just make out the top of the count’s face. He has a hue to his skin that suggests he’s traveled, maybe to the West Indies. He appears older, possibly ten years more than I am. And yet, the age suits him as if his looks might have improved by aging.
He smiles. I can’t see his lips, but I can see the way his eyes narrow with joy. The expression he gives the person in front of him makes my knees weak.
Sweat crests my brow and for a moment I feel feverish.
Hands pull me through the crowd as my father speaks, “Sir Arthur Casey at your service. And may I introduce my lovely wife Estelle and my son Frederick. This is my daughter, Katherine.” My father holds a gloved hand out at each of us as he introduces our family.
My eyes are low. I can’t look up yet.
My heart is filled with a fear, one I do not know I have ever felt before.
I force my gaze to travel up his body, pausing at his hands. They’re bare, not gloved, and strong looking. And as if they feel the heat of my stare, they clench into momentary balls before relaxing again. I gulp and continue the journey to his broad chest and handsome face.
I’m lost in everything. His stare, mine, the tightness of my dress, the way his lips toy with a grin but refuse to commit to it. It all holds me captive.
His eyes do not leave my mouth, as if one look upon my face has somehow transported him to another realm the way he has me.
“I know your face.” He exhales the words as if he has no control over his tongue.
“Perhaps from the market. Or town. She ventures to town twice a year, once in the summers for the masters and usually again to fetch dresses.” My father rolls his eyes like he doesn't understand the need for dresses, which is a lie. He’s the one always insisting I get new ones.
“I avoid the masters.” He mumbles again. He offers me his hand. “Constantine Basarab at your humble service, milady.” He bows, taking my hand, encompassing it with heat. My palms sweat inside my gloves as he presses his lips to the back of my hand. It’s a most invasive act. And yet I am swooning rather than being offended by his forwardness.
Milady rolls around in my head because the way he said it was “my lady.”
He drops my hand, straightening his back and nodding at the other members of my stunned-silent family. “Enjoy the party and welcome to my humble home.” His eyes stay on me for one last look before darting past to the next person in the reception line.
Catching my breath is nearly impossible as my heart is racing. My mother grips to my arm, leaning into me as she leads me inside. “I dare say I never imagined you would lose your heart to a foreign count. He’s nearly as old as your father.”
“I’ve not lost my heart, just my breath. My dress is too tight.”
Her dazzling eyes narrow. “I see.” I don't think she means it in the way that gives credence to what I am saying. I think she means she sees my flushed face for what it really is. “Let’s get you a refreshment then.”
My father has joined a group of men he hunts and drinks with. Frederick is next to him, smiling halfheartedly at the jokes being shared as his eyes are wondering about the extensive room, perhaps searching for a girl he is hoping will also be attending. If it’s the girl I expect it to be, she is in the corner behind him, mooning over him but stuck in conversation. Her name is Lila and she’s not what my parents would consider a prudent match for my brother, the heir. Her father was a gentleman, but her mother is from an obscure lineage. The marriage was one that ruined him financially and socially until his uncle gave him a parsonage of some means. The stain of his wife’s relations hasn't ever lifted from him, but the years have lessened the effect it has on their family in society.
Mother gets us both a glass of punch, her eyes darting back to the front of the room where the reception is. “The count is quite handsome, is he not?”
“Handsome enough,” I concur without being obvious that he is the most handsome man I have ever beheld. I don't want her getting ideas in her head. Especially when the man is a stranger who has only just now made our acquaintance.
Marguerite, my best friend, comes rushing toward us. “You’ve arrived at last. This house is impressive, is it not? Father says the count has done some major refinishing. That’s why it took him so long to host a ball. He’s not a recluse at all, just a perfectionist.” She sighs, staring in Count Basarab’s general direction. I suspect she’s wearing the dreamy look upon her face, the same one each of us females has, married or not. My mother is proof of that.
“The house is far more than I expected to find it.”
“I think we are all pleasantly surprised by the state of things here,” my mother adds to my sentiment.
The three of us sigh again as we watch him with his dazzling smile greet every person who comes to the door.
“Mrs. Miller says he’s a prince in his home country. Not the crown prince so he may wander to his heart’s content. But if anything were to happen to his eldest brother, he’d be called home to reign,” Marguerite whispers so we can just hear her.
“Fascinating.” My mother’s eyes drag her face around to me.
“Mother, he’s a stranger.” I don't know who I’m wishing to convince more—her or myself.
A smile crests my mother’s lips as she nods, not saying another word. She doesn't need to. The way he looked at me is firmly planted in my mind. The way our eyes met and the heat that was created when our hands touched. “Excuse me, girls.” She waves at a friend and joins a circle of women who look the way we do. Sideways glances at the count and blushing faces are filling the room.
I exhale, taking a sip of my punch. “It’s warm in here.”
“Indeed.”
My eyes won’t leave the spot where he stands, not even if I turn my head. They dart to the side and continue to stare at him inappropriately.
That is until his eyes make their way to mine. Then I look straight at my friend, noting the way both of our cheeks are flushed.
“Perhaps both our dresses are a little tight.”
She nods. “Indeed. Again, I think you are right.” A sly grin plants itself upon her lips.
“Fresh air?” I nod at the back of the room where a wall of windows and doors line the dance floor.
“Love some.” She smiles wide and offers me her arm.
We met when we were tiny children and have been best friends ever since. Our mothers have been friends since they were very young as well.
She is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Rosy cheeks, lush brunette hair, wide doe eyes, and plump ruby lips. There’s a slight gap between her front teeth adding character to her smile.
I don't know why but sometimes I catch myself staring at her, marveling at her beauty. I’m not envious of her looks, but I admire them anyway.
The cool air blasts us as we get outside the stuffy ballroom. She leans against the railing in her beautiful lilac dress, still craning her neck to see inside, to see him I suppose. “He really is a handsome man.” In the lanterns I catch the mischief twinkling in her dark eyes. “Do you suppose he’s come to the country to meet a wife?”
“Perhaps. I wouldn't know what else would draw a man who already has a title or two.”
She nods. “Exactly what I was thinking. If he’s got influence, wealth, titles, and breeding, why would he need another property in the country?”
“He could just like the country life,” I add with a wry smirk.
“I dare say, I like the country life.” She wrinkles her nose. “I went to town a fortn
ight ago, and I’m still recovering from the constant hullabaloo. There’s no room to breathe there now. London is officially overpopulated.”
“I can’t imagine ever liking the noise of the crowds.”
“I did however enjoy the company of a young man named Gillis. Samuel Gillis.”
It’s my turn to wrinkle my nose. “A Scotsman?”
“He was. A lord from the Highlands. It was interesting to see such strength in a man with so few years behind him. He’s beautiful. It’s the only way to describe him. Tall with a perfect face and a voice that stopped the world from existing.” Her cheeks flush with color, a deeper shade than they already are from the cold air and handsome count. “I do hope I will see him again.”
“Is he gone then?”
“Yes. Back to some place called Skye. He has a castle there.” She smiles wide again, looking hopeful. “I would like to visit.”
“That's very untoward, going to the place he is from.”
“He invited me.” She sticks her tongue out, also untoward. “I want you to come.”
“To Scotland?” I almost laugh at her request but the look on her face tells me I shouldn't. “Of course. I will.” I say it without thinking. Scotsmen frighten me with their savage ways of doing things. They do not have the gentility that we have here in the South. “When?”
“Ten days. My father is arranging the trip with his father as we speak.” The dazzling excitement that hasn't left her eyes since she started talking about it grows. “I think he might be the one.”
“I don't have words.”
“You do, but you’re keeping them to yourself.” She chuckles. “It’s all right if you’re upset. I understand. I would hate for you to move away from me.”
The realization she’s going to move away from me hasn't even hit, but when it does my dress feels even worse. “What sort of breeding does he have? Is he even educated?”
“Of course.” She scoffs. “Silly goose. He attended Oxford. He knows your brother.” She laughs harder.
My insides feel like they’re in a knot. She’s leaving me and she wants me to come and befriend the man who will take her away.
