Belle of the ball

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Well, no. She wasn't sure she even liked him as a person. He was abrupt and rude and didn't seem to care about her at all other than as a sort of trophy. The thought of being his lover made her stomach queasy, and the unavoidably intimate nature of being his nurse could only be worse. Affection and respect were definitely not among the emotions she experienced when she thought of her prospective groom-to-be.

  Knowing how she felt about the man, would she love the children they created together? She supposed she would. Was that not a mother's job? Did it not come naturally to women?

  But Lord Pelimore himself—good Lord, she did not even know his given name. It was at that moment, just hours after the scene with Marcus and her mother, as Arabella contemplated her future life, that Lord Pelimore, the unnamed gentleman, was announced.

  Lady Swinley sailed into the parlor behind him, completely recovered from her earlier indisposition. "My good sir," she said, curtsying deeply before him as if he were royalty. "How welcome you are in our home once more."

  She was using the voice Arabella privately called her "baroness" voice. It was cultured and perfectly modulated, unlike her usual "mother" voice, which was by turns badgering and whiny. The "mother" voice had always grated on Arabella's nerves, but she dismissed the thought as unworthy.

  Pelimore cleared his throat, handed his cane to Lady Swinley, and said, "Quite, quite. Mind if I have a few moments alone with your gel?"

  Lady Swinley's dark eyes glistened like obsidian. "Oh, yes, my lord, yes. Take all the time you need. I shall be ... oh, around somewhere should you need to speak to me." With that she backed from the room, closing the door behind her.

  So this was how her fate was to be sealed, Arabella thought, stiffening her spine. She would be betrothed before he left the room; she was sure that was what he came for. It was in the fusty frock coat from a previous decade and his formal manner. It was in the determined set to his heeding brow—oh, horrors! She had never truly noticed that particular part of his face before. Would her son have that same obstinate, overhanging brow? Best not to worry about that. After all, looks were only a small part of a man's person. And she would endeavor to ignore Pelimore's shortcomings, concentrating instead on her thankfulness to him for helping her mother and her out of their predicament. Surely gratitude was not a bad place to start a marriage?

  She sat down calmly on the couch, the same one Marcus had knelt in front of hours before. This time she would not put the baron off. If it was to be done, it was best done quickly and gotten over with. Was that not a paraphrase from Macbeth? Not good luck to think it even, perhaps, but then—

  "Ehem, Miss Swinley, it cannot have escaped your attention—"

  A quick surge of panic rose within her like floodwater. "Lord Pelimore," she said, hastily, "would you care for refreshments? Wine? Tea?" Despite her resolution, it would be impolite to not offer him something.

  "No. As I was saying, Miss Swinley, it cannot have escaped your attention that I have bin most assiduous in my attend—"

  "Or a plate of cakes. Cook is a maister baker and produces the lightest, most delicate—"

  "Now see here, Miss Swinley, let me have my say. All well and good to be modest, but I thought, you bein' older, I wouldn't have to put up with none of this girlish nonsense"

  Silenced, Arabella nodded.

  "Now, where was I?" He frowned, stared down at his shoes for a minute, and then looked up again, a relieved expression on his face. He scratched his nose and har-rumphed once, then said, "Miss Swinley, it cannot have escaped your attention that I have bin most assiduous in my attentions . . . attentions, yes. I am looking for a wife; you are looking for a husband. Seems to me we oughta hitch our teams together and make a go of it. What do you say?" He stuck out his hand. "Shall we call it a deal and shake on it?"

  So that was it! That was to be the proposal she would accept after having rejected ones where the gentleman poured out his heart, swore undying love, offered to lay down his life for the fair Arabella. One of her devoted swains had even penned sonnets which he read aloud to her in a flowery arbor one May day three years before.

  But they had all been rejected for reasons as frivolous as their hair color, or some trivial annoyance they caused her, good men, some of them. Worthy men. Men with whom she could have found, perhaps, some modicum of happiness if she had been less haughty, more accommodating, sweeter-natured. And now, as punishment, she would take the only proposal she was likely to elicit this Season. She would wed a man who spoke as if she were a horse to hitch up with. He wanted to shake on their proposal! If she should have a daughter, and that daughter said, "Mama, how did Papa ask you to marry him?" would she tell her the truth? Arabella shuddered. Better to lie, she supposed.

  "What do you say. Miss Swinley?" Pelimore broke into her thoughts, his voice querulous. He dropped his hand and stared down at her.

  Rebellion stirred in her heart. "No. No, I cannot m— marry you, sir. I am sorry, but I cannot!" She twisted her hands on her lap and swallowed hard.

  Her voice and words startled even her, but Pelimore was apoplectic. "A/b?" he roared. "No?"

  Arabella stiffened her backbone and raised her chin. Her voice more settled, she met his eyes and said, "I am sorry, sir, if I have caused you any pain, but I do not think we should suit."

  "Now see here, m'girl, if you think to get a better settlement—"

  Arabella rose. "I am sorry sir, but I must repeat, I just do not think we would suit."

  Pelimore gazed at her suspiciously. "I understood you and yer ma were cleaned out. She gave me to understand you were at low tides and in need of a pretty purse."

  Coloring, Arabella realized that her mother had been stage-managing the whole affair, from beginning to end. She was being sold to the highest bidder, as it were, no different than a piece of horseflesh at Tattersall's. It shouldn't have surprised her, but it did; it left her mortified and saddened. Marcus's words came back to her. "He will use you as a brood mare." How right he was. There had to be another way. She would find another way!

  "You misunderstood, sir. I thank you most sincerely for your kindness but still say no. I will bid you good day." Chin up, Arabella sailed from the room as regally as her mother ever would and headed upstairs immediately to her own chamber.

  Mere minutes later the door to her room burst open and her mother stormed in.

  "Annie, leave us!" Lady Swinley, panting and red-faced, ordered away the maid, who was preparing Arabella's hair for the Moorehouse ball. The girl scurried away, closing the door behind her.

  Arabella had known this was coming, had known Lady Swinley would not leave this matter alone to her own discretion. But she would just explain to her mother that she could not, after all, marry without at least some affection for her future husband. It was too much to ask. She was still young, attractive, and the Season was not done yet. Surely someone would want to marry her, someone who would make her feel something other than distaste, someone she could come to love?

  But instead of the screaming and hysterics she expected from her mother, there was nothing. She turned in her chair and gazed up at the woman who had given her life. Lady Swinley stood staring down at the floor and tears were streaming down her seamed face.

  This was unexpected and Arabella felt a jolt to the heart. "M—^mother? What—"

  "I cannot believe," Lady Swinley said, slowly, her voice breaking, "that, knowing our situation, understanding it as you must, still you will not take a kind, generous offer when it is made—one that would have brought us around and made life worth living again. What have I done that you hate me so?" The last word was sobbed rather than spoken.

  "I don't hate you Mother; whatever can you mean?" Arabella stood and held out one hand, appealingly, to her mother.

  " 'How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!' " Lady Swinley cried, and slapped her daughter's outstretched hand.

  From Macbeth to Lear, Arabella thought, dryly, slumping down in her chair on
ce again. They really were in a Shakespearean mode that day. But then her conscience smote her at the real signs of distress on her mother's face. The tears ran rivulets along the fine net of wrinkles under Lady Swinley's dark eyes and her nose was red from emotion.

  "Mother, please," she pleaded, clutching the soft fabric of her dress in her fists. "Hear me out. I ... I just want a chance to find a husband I can respect, someone I can hold a bit of affection. Lord Pelimore is, well, repugnant to me, and I—"

  . "Repugnant? How is he repugnant?*' Lady Swinley's voice had risen to a screech and she paced back and forth, pausing to glare down at her daughter every few steps. "He has thirty thousand pounds a year! He has three homes and a town house! He would have settled all of our debts and allowed me to keep Swinley Manor! And you call him repugnant?" She finally stopped and stood in front of Arabella. "Foolish, wicked child!" she hissed, the gap in her teeth creating a sibilant whistle. "What have I done that you hate me so much? What have I ever done that you want to see me old and poor and thrown out of my only home of thirty-five years? Why do you hate me?"

  Later, Arabella would remember her mother's words—how well she knew the baron's financial situation and what the man would be prepared to do for them should he and Arabella marry—^and came to understand that the first approach had been made to Lady Swinley. Lord Pelimore was taking no chances on a rejection, it seemed. He had secured the mother's agreement in a coldly businesslike transaction.

  But at that moment all Arabella thought of was her mother's words and the pain in her voice. She took her mother's hands in her own and rubbed them. "Mama, please! All I want is to be able to like my husband, to come to care for him in time. I do not see that happening with Lord Pelimore. He just—I just don't."

  "It is that Westhaven ruffian, isn't it," Lady Swinley snarled, her tone venomous. 'I've seen you dance with him, stars in your foolish eyes! I heard he took you out to the terrace at the Vaile ball; it was quickly retailed to me exactly how long you stayed out there, you may be sure, my girl! He has been romancing you and turned your head. You risked your reputation, and for what? He does not have tuppence to his name! I have looked into it, and he does not have a single feather to fly on; nobody is even sure where he came from! His parents, if they are the Westhavens people think they are, died debtors! He is nothing and nobody—an insignificant son of an inferior family! Have you been making imprudent mistakes with that pandering knave?"

  Arabella started to deny her mother's accusations, but found the words would not leave her mouth. Her refusal to marry Pelimore was because of Marcus, if not in quite the way her mother suspected. What did she feel when she thought of him? Surely amidst all the fury he engendered, and the confusion, there was a growing tenderness along with treacherous desire. When she thought of him it was with a warm glow suspiciously like love in the region of her long-dormant heart. He said unforgivable things sometimes, but he also told her home truths, and made her think. Her rejection of Pelimore was because of what he had said about affection and respect for one's mate. Was that such a bad thing, this contemplation she had been forced into?

  "What have you done?" Lady Swinley whispered, after a long silence.

  Arabella looked at her mother and saw with shock that the woman's face had bleached to a snowy white. "Mother, what is it?"

  "What have you done with that jacknapes? I know you met him once, away from London. You were seen coming back into London with Eveleen O'Clannahan and that. . . that infamous hedge bird was riding beside your carriage. You planned a little rendezvous where I could not see, eh? What did you do with him? Have you made yourself unmarriageable?"

  "How can you ask me something like that?" Arabella gasped, shocked and chilled that her mother could say . . . could even think something like that about her.

  "Well, have you?"

  Arabella was tempted—sorely tempted—to say yes, that she had lain with Mr. Marcus Westhaven and was tainted goods now. But her mouth would not form the lying words.

  "I have not," she said, stiffly, hating that she even had to say that to her mother, who should have trusted her not to do anything unseemly.

  "Good. I feared your association with Eveleen had perhaps corrupted you. I have heard things—but that is to no end. You will marry Pelimore, if I have to accept for you!"

  "I will not! I have already said no to him, and he quite understood me!" Arabella turned from her mother and picked up a shawl that lay across the bed.

  "But I spoke to him after."

  Arabella turned and gazed in consternation at her mother.

  "Do not look at me that way. I'm thinking of what is best for you. There is still a chance; you will marry him. If you do not marry him, I will set you adrift; you will no longer be my daughter!"

  "You cannot disown me! I am your daughter whether you like it or not."

  The argument raged on and was not set even as they left for the Moorehouse ball. Arabella would have preferred to stay home, but she wanted badly to see Westhaven. She needed to see him. With Eveleen gone he was the only one she could talk to about this.

  She was so very confused. When Pelimore had entered the room she had fully intended to accept his proposal of marriage, and yet she found herself saying no without a single thought of what she would do if she did not marry him. And beyond some vague idea of finding someone more to her liking, she still did not know.

  Eveleen had said "Marry Westhaven." As if that were an option! What should she do, propose? And then run off to Canada with him, leaving her mother for the moneylenders to deal with? It was ludicrous, and yet—

  And yet the picture still held its charm in her mind. She could see Marcus leading her, holding her hand as they climbed some high Canadian promontory with the fresh breeze in their faces. And canoeing! It sounded thrilling, paddling down a rushing stream in the narrow, swift boat Marcus had described as a native water craft; how much more exciting would that be than paddling that old punt she had used as a child at the squire's millpond near the vicarage. Almost she could see herself, her restless nature finally with enough movement and activity to give her respite. At the end of every day she would know what she had done, rather than wondering what had frittered away the hours.

  The carriage pulled up in front of the Moorehouses' London home, bringing her out of her reverie. It was a ridiculous dream, anyway. Marcus had not asked her to run away with him, nor had he shown any sign he was serious about her in any way. And she certainly would not be the one to ask him!

  What would he say, she wondered, when she told him tonight that she had rejected her elderly suitor? She fully intended to apologize for the abrupt manner in which he was shown the door that morning. Then maybe they would go out on the terrace, and this time she would not slap his face. Something had changed; some part of her wanted to experience again the deeply passionate kiss that had so startled her the previous evening. She was still afraid, but oh, that fear had an edge of thrilling desire to it!

  Lady Swinley, who had been silent since their argument in Arabella's room, disappeared immediately once they entered the Moorehouses' ballroom. Arabella spoke to a few acquaintances, then looked up as someone tapped her arm. She whirled, expecting to see Marcus, but it was Captain Harris.

  "Miss Swinley, a delight to see you here tonight. Have you seen Eveleen? Is she here?"

  "N—no," Arabella stuttered. Had Eveleen left London without telling her beau? After their behavior at the picnic Arabella had half expected to hear an announcement of some sort from them, despite Eveleen's vehement denial that she ever wanted to marry.

  "Can't seem to track her down," Harris said, a frown on his handsome face. "Knocker is down off her door. Where is she, do you think? Has she gone to visit her aunt for a few days again?"

  Arabella considered her answer, but saw no way to avoid what she must say. "Captain Harris, I am sorry. I really thought you knew. She and Sheltie have left London for at least the rest of the Season. I understand that they are going to stay w
ith some relations on the Isle of Wight. That is the last I heard, anyway."

  It was a troubled and confused Captain Harris who left her a few minutes later and exited the ballroom.

  The evening dragged on, and still Marcus did not appear. Arabella danced a few times, she ate, she talked to her acquaintances, and yet always she was watching for Marcus. Madeline Moorehouse, a young woman of not more than five-and-twenty, was the hostess, and she drifted over to Arabella after the midnight repast was over. Lady Cynthia Walkerton was with her.

  "I cannot help but notice, my dear," she said, her golden eyes alight with mischief, "that you are looking at the entrance constantly. Are you, mayhap, keeping an eye out for a rather rugged, handsome gentleman newly arrived from the colonies?"

  Arabella flushed. "No, I—I—"

  Mrs. Moorehouse and Lady Cynthia exchanged a look. "Well, he is not coming tonight. He has disappointed us. Moorehouse had made a special effort to invite him since he has become the fashion—he tells such entertaining stories of the Canadas, you know, and of his savage friends—but he sent a note tonight that he was unexpectedly called out of town and cannot attend. Now what do you suppose was so urgent that he could not wait until the morrow?"

  The hint of malice in the young woman's voice was unmistakable, but Arabella was at a loss to understand it, nor did she try. She was far too disappointed.

  "I cannot imagine," Arabella said, faintly.

  "Well I can," Lady Cynthia said, her lovely eyes wide and her expression concerned. "It is rumored—just rumored, you understand—that he is to wed a country squire's daughter, a girl with ten thousand pounds. Perhaps even now he is pressing his suit. What say you to that?"

  Fifteen

  What was she going to do? Arabella felt as though the world were on her shoulders, and there was no one in whom she could confide, no one to whom she could turn. She started to write a letter to her cousin. True-love. True embodied the essence of common sense. She would tell her what was right, what would solve her own dilemma without destroying her mother. She poured her feelings out on paper, all the confusion she felt over her duty to her mother, all the pain of Marcus's desertion just when she needed to talk to him most, all of her fear of the future.