Belle of the ball

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Marcus was silent. He remembered Arabella's eyes when he said he was about to inherit, the way the green had deepened to jade. So she truly was nothing more than a money-grubbing little schemer, he thought with disappointment, and his burgeoning feelings for her must be nothing more than physical attraction, and the tendency to imbue the desired object with graces and attributes.

  Eveleen O'Clannahan was watching him, he could feel it, and he met her steady gaze.

  "You blame her for her ambition?" the young woman asked.

  "How can I help but blame her for fortune hunting? You yourself called the mother mercenary. I despise people who only care about wealth. It was one of the reasons I was not sad to leave this country."

  "And no one anywhere else in the world does this, or something very like it? Do parents in other lands not wish their children to marry well, to be wealthy and happy, whatever that means in another culture? Somehow, I cannot believe it."

  "But we have made a sport of it," Marcus protested. "Like hunting. In England we hunt for the inedible merely for the sport You will not find anyone in Canada doing that. There, we hunt to eat. There is so much about this country I do not like." He watched Arabella sail by again, her whole focus on the young man holding her in his arms. He felt his stomach convulse in a queer twist of jealously and revulsion. "How can she," he burst out, crossing his arms across his chest. "She is so intelligent and witty and beautiful and lively and—and she is worth more than that, damn it, so much more!"

  "Do not condemn, sir, what you do not understand. I urge you to get to know her before you decide what she is. You could be surprised." Eveleen, with one last look at Marcus, turned away from him and drifted off to join other friends.

  Five

  Arabella buried her nose in the massive bouquet of white roses that sat on a table in the hall, and sniffed deeply. What a glorious scent! She eagerly read the card and felt a jolt of disappointment. They were from Lord Bessemere. She should be in alt, for such an offering meant she had made an impression on him, though a personal visit would have been better. And she had liked the young marquess. He was not bad-looking, she supposed, and his character was one of studious gentleness. For the longest time he had seemed almost frightened by her gay chatter until she had hit on the subject of books, not something she knew a lot about, but that was never a reason to shy away from a subject, she had learned, since gentlemen invariably wanted to lead the talk anyway. Then his eyes had lit up and the rest of their dance, a waltz, had gone well.

  No, her disappointment was not because she had not liked him; she had. But she had hoped a floral offering would come from another gentleman she had spent some time with. She searched among the bouquets and cards. Sanders, MacDonough, Lewisham, Andrews— not there.

  Nestled among the larger bouquets, though, she saw a tiny basket and fished it out. It was small, just the size of her two cupped hands, and it was made of some strange white bark and with a twig handle, all lashed together with what looked like leather thongs. It had a kind of rough, sturdy beauty all its own. Nestled in the basket, in moss, was a small bouquet of golden buttercups. A moment of fierce longing swept over her, a longing for her childhood. These were the very same flowers she and True and Faith, True's younger sister, had been used to gather down by the river when they were all children at the vicarage where True's father made his home.

  Tears pricked the back of her eyes as she turned the basket around, noting the fascinating texture of the bark and how it contrasted with the soft waxy petals of the buttercups. Who sent this? She saw a note slipped down in the basket and pulled it out. It was damp from the moss, but she could still read it.

  "To the Belle of the Ball, from a secret admirer."

  Her heart thudded. It had to be from Westhaven; the rough bark was as unique as he was, rugged yet attractive. Somehow she knew it was his offering, and her heart was touched. As she stared at it she relived the thrill of his hands touching her, his gray eyes looking deep into hers, as though he were seeking her very soul. She had never been stirred like that, had never felt as though—

  "What is that you have there?"

  Her mother had come upon her, her slippers silent on the marble floor of the hall of their borrowed May-fair town home. Flustered, Arabella said, "Oh, 'tis nothing, just a ... a small basket with a nosegay of buttercups from . . . from a secret admirer, it says."

  Lady Swinley grabbed the basket, glared at it, and said, "Paltry offering! Who would send such a piece of trash?"

  "I ... I don't know."

  "Buttercups? Must be a poor man."

  "I think it's rather pretty, don't you. Mother?"

  "Pretty?" Lady Swinley's hard eyes narrowed. "My girl, any man who was really interested in you would send something more than mere country flowers. He must know you will be besieged with offerings, and any man who wanted to fix your interest would try to dazzle you. Buttercups? Ha!"

  Frowning, Arabella considered her mother's words and reluctantly decided they held a great deal of sense. Should a man not be trying to impress her? Was that not the game men and women played, until each could single the other out from the crowd?

  Lady Swinley threw the basket down on the table and sailed away, calling over her shoulder, "Come, Arabella. We have much to do today, so no dawdling."

  But Arabella could not resist rescuing the small basket "Brock," she said to a footman passing, "could you have this taken up to my room, please? Have Annie set it on my bedside table."

  "Yes, miss," he said, taking the basket.

  For the rest of the day Arabella was on tenterhooks, wondering if he would visit. Gentlemen came and gentlemen went, but Westhaven did not make an appearance. Oh, well, she thought. She had mentioned that she was to attend the Tredwell musicale that evening; maybe he was invited, too, and she would see him there. She did not want to think why she was so intent on seeing him again. He was an infuriating man, alternately teasing and maddening and charming. And there could be no future. He had said himself he was poor enough that a couple of hundred pounds seemed like a lot of money to him.

  But he was not at the Tredwell musicale that evening, nor at the Silkertons' Venetian breakfast the next day, nor at the Smythe-Jones ball the next evening. But Bessemere was, and so was Lord Pelimore.

  Lady Swinley, impressed by the massive bouquet of white roses Bessemere had sent to Arabella, advised her to try for the younger, wealthier man, but if there was no definite sign within days that he was attempting to fix his interest with her, she was to transfer her attentions to Lord Pelimore, who was, after all, a baron and quite wealthy. She sat with Lord Pelimore, danced with Bessemere, and spent some time talking to both.

  With Lord Pelimore she merely listened while he retailed story after story of his youth and the high adventures he had had. By his own admission he had been a rascal, a bon vivant of the old king's time, when every gentleman still wore a wig, and men's clothing was silk and lace to rival a lady's. She could not help but let her mind wander to the memory of a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in sober black, so masculine as to make all other men in the room appear effeminate. Could she picture him rigged out in lace and satin, carrying the de rigeur gentleman’s accessory of the last century, a fian? No, she could not, but if he did he would somehow contrive to make it look manly, like the brilliant feathers of a peacock beside the dull plumage of a peahen.

  The next night at the Connolly ball, Eveleen sought her out in the withdrawing room while Arabella removed her shawl and left it with Annie, her maid. Lady Swinley had already hurried off to accost a crony she had not yet seen that Season. After a brief hug of greeting, Eveleen said, *'And has your rough-hewn swain come to visit you since the Parkhurst ball?"

  "My—" Arabella colored. "I do not know who you mean. Eve."

  The older woman chuckled as she took Arabella's arm and strolled with her into the ballroom. It was already full, and the noise of a hundred or more chattering people echoed from the high vaulted ceiling as the he
at from their bodies created a swirl of air. "Oh, Bella, how can you say that with a straight face? You are looking around the room for him this very minute, are you not? I thought perhaps he told you he was to be here."

  Arabella's color deepened and she stopped her quick scan of the ballroom. "I will not pretend to misunderstand you; you mean Mr. Marcus Westhaven. I have no more interest in Mr. Westhaven than he has in me, so you can stop fishing for information."

  "So little interest as that, hmm? I happen to know that he was invited tonight."

  "Really? Is he here? Have you—" Arabella stopped abruptly, cursing her unruly tongue.

  Eveleen fought back a smile. "No, he sent regrets, apparently. 'Unavoidable business' was the excuse, I think. He has a letter of introduction, you know—I have that from Lady Connolly herself, who is some sort of aunt or cousin to me—^which is why he is invited. Some regimental captain from the Canadas, very well connected, etcetera, begs Lady Connolly to 'be kind to him.' "

  So that explained his forays into the upper echelons of society, Arabella thought, with disappointment. He must have asked all of his contacts in the regiment for letters to people they knew in London. She realized that she had been cherishing secret hopes that he would prove to be the long-lost scion of some noble house, but that was clearly ridiculous, given his poverty.

  "Let us not talk of men tonight," Arabella said. She looked her friend over, from the jeweled headpiece of emeralds in her hair to the tips of her slippered feet. "I have missed you these last couple of days. You look marvelous in that green, Eveleen. It becomes you."

  With a humorous smile, she replied, "And that lavender becomes you. Now we have canvassed clothing, what else shall we speak of?"

  Arabella knew what she wanted to ask her friend, but she could not bring the subject up. She must turn her mind away from such unprofitable lines and concentrate on the business of the Season, which was to find a gentleman and marry him. Preferably not old Lord Pelimore. They took a place at the edge of the ballroom, near a magenta draped window that was open just a little to let in the still-cool spring air. The room was already hot, and before long it would be stifling from the body heat of hundreds of energetically galloping couples. The Connolly ball was well attended and would likely be called a "squeeze" the next day in the papers. That would be considered a compliment.

  Sighing, Eveleen said, languidly, 'T suppose you really must marry this Season?"

  "Yes. It is imperative that I find someone and attach him before too long. We . . . my mother is depending on me, Eve." Arabella smiled and nodded at a couple of young ladies who passed her, arm in arm. She scanned the crowd and saw Bessemere with his mother, the formidable Lady Haliburton, formerly an intimate of Lady Farmington. Would she have heard? Could the Farmington debacle ruin her chances with young Lord Bessemere?

  And there was still Lord Conroy to be worried about. He always attended the Season; it was life and meat to him. Why was he not yet in London? Was it because of his mother's indisposition? Could she count on his continued absence? Surely not. After all, the woman would recover sometime. But even when he did come, could Arabella perhaps hope that he would be as little willing to have his private affairs bandied about society as she was, and so he would stay silent and not ruin her? It was her best hope for salvation.

  "And what has your mother ever done for you that you are now responsible for her?"

  There was a fierceness in her friend’s voice. Startled,she gazed into Eve's blue eyes and said, "What. . . what do you mean?"

  "I mean, why is it up to you to repair the family fortune when it was not you who lost it but your parents? Does it not seem unfair to you? How can you go like a lamb to the slaughter?" Eveleen waved a fan in front of her face, hiding her scowl.

  Shocked, Arabella said, "Well of course it is up to me! Is that not what has always happened? Many a young man has married an heiress he was not fond of just to 'repair the family fortune,' as you said it."

  "And what about love? What about finding that one man who makes your heart pound and your palms damp? You should not seek a fat purse at the expense of your young life!"

  Arabella's mind immediately flew to Westhaven and how his mere presence sent her senses reeling. She shook her head. She must teach herself not to think like that. It would hardly be fair to her future husband if she did, and it was certainly not seemly in a maiden to think of his square shoulders and muscular body and—She turned her mind away from such thoughts. "I am surprised at you, Eveleen. I had thought you did not even like men, and here you are speaking of love like some green girl, dewy-eyed and in her first Season." Her voice sounded acid, even to her own ears. Love was for other women, not for her. She had never felt it for any man, and doubted she would at three-and-twenty if she had not as a susceptible girl.

  "I do not dislike men, quite the contrary. I just do not think there are that many good ones out there. But have you never seen an example of love, my dear?" Eveleen's voice had gone from fierce to gentle, so soft it was almost drowned out by the increasing noise of the crowd and the sound of the orchestra tuning up in the gallery above them.

  But she heard her. Yes, Arabella thought. She had seen true love, quite literally. Her cousin, Truelove Becket, had found the real thing with Lord Drake, the man she, Arabella, was supposed to marry. She could not understand it herself. Drake was good-looking, certainly, with the kind of "golden god" looks that women swooned over, but when Truelove fell in love with him he was also crippled from the war and suffering through a period of mental turmoil, nightmares so horrific he screamed the house down most nights. Arabella had been appalled and frightened, but True had fallen in love with him despite his problems.

  Such self-sacrifice was not for her, though. She was far too practical to fall for mere manly good looks, though to be fair True had fallen in love with her husband's character, she claimed, not his tide or his looks. That was Truelove, though, not her. She needed a more pragmatic reason to give up the single state. She needed cold, hard cash, a title, and land. Love would not pay off her mother's debts, nor keep her in the style in which she preferred to live.

  She frowned at her friend. "Of course I know that true love does exist. I suppose I am only surprised that you would believe in it, Eve. You seemed so cynical the other night, about affairs between men and women."

  "Not cynical, my dear, but I do think that society has warped relations between men and women. I acknowledge the need for a degree of financial comfort, but society has made that into the way we separate the worthy from the unworthy."

  "How can that be, that this is wrong? Have we not created society? It is a reflection of the strengths and weaknesses of both sexes, is it not? We need men's protection. We need their income to support us, and they need . . . they need our, well, our children."

  "Why do we need their protection?"

  "Well, other men—"

  "Exactly! Society has dictated that an unwed woman is in need of protection from other men! Is that not deplorable?" Eveleen's eyes were dark with anger. "Why is it that a woman alone is seen as suitable prey for men's depredations? That we are somehow lacking in morality if we choose to be alone?"

  "Well, setting aside that, women need a husband to take care of them financially."

  "And why is that? I will tell you; it is because society^ has dictated that a woman of quality cannot look after her own money, nor make her own way in the world except among the lowest paid and most looked-down-upon professions, like governessing or teaching, or as companion to other women. They think we are not capable of handling money, or government, or of succeeding in any of the paying arts beyond a little genteel piano playing or sketching. It is abominable, I tell you! We should be free to pursue our interests and make our living just as any man is." Her azure eyes blazed with fire.

  If Eveleen's vision of the perfect world—a world where women were on an equal footing with men— were only the reality, Arabella thought, allowing herself a glorious dream for just a mo
ment. Then she could travel, like Westhaven, to the far-flung reaches of the empire. She would go west, to the Canadas, and explore those lofty peaks and cavernous gorges, she would traverse mountain passes, making her own way free and unfettered by societal disapproval.

  It sounded thrilling, but—ah, there was the rub. It was not and never would be the way of the world. She shook her head. "I do not understand half of what you say. Eve," she said, dismissing it all from her mind. She was too practical to regret what could never be. "To return to our original topic, though, I know that love is possible, but for someone like me, not probable. I do not have the luxury of time, you see, and I have never found anyone I could love. So why should I not benefit myself in marriage like everyone else does? It is the way of our world."

  "Perhaps you are right," Eveleen said, musing. "But," she finished, with an arch smile, "have you really never found anyone you could love? Honestly?" A gentleman in scarlet regimentals, a Captain Harris, came to claim Eveleen for a dance, and she drifted away with one long, lingering look at her friend.

  The evening progressed, and Arabella forgot—or at least, attempted to forget—her conversation with Eveleen. She danced most dances, trying to master the art of not looking too desperate when she felt like time was dwindling and she must make every second count. Her social education should have stood her in good stead, but she felt awkward and did not know why. She felt suddenly like she did not belong, as if her desperation were a leprous disease that made her unfit for good company. Bessemere, now that his mother was present, was tongue-tied and inarticulate in her company, and nothing Arabella could do would set him at ease. Had he heard of the Lord Conroy embarrassment? Just thinking of it made her feverish all over.

  Lord Pelimore was courted by many, now that it was known he definitely would be choosing a new bride this Season. All of the mothers were throwing their plain daughters at the baron in the hopes that his standards would not be too nice, so Arabella did not push too hard, relying on her looks—^which in all modesty she knew to be good—to attract his attention. He might be old, but he was still a man.