by Brenda Joyce
Lizzie wanted to smile at him, she did, but the expression simply would not form on her face. What could she say? Her infatuation with a young man who did not even know she existed had been amusing when she was a child of ten. It had been the cause of raised eyebrows and some concern when she was a blossoming adolescent of thirteen. The following year, espying him in town with some beautiful noblewoman, Lizzie had realized how absurd her feelings were. Such an infatuation was no longer acceptable and Lizzie knew it, especially as she was being launched into society alongside her older sisters.
But he would be there at the masque, because he was there every All Hallow’s Eve, as he was the earl’s heir. According to her older sisters, he was polite and charming to all of his family’s guests—and the object of a great deal of feminine pursuit and speculation. Every marriage-mad mother of the ton’s uppermost echelons foolishly hoped to somehow snag him for their own daughter, never mind that the world knew he would marry for duty as his family wished. Lizzie had only to close her eyes and Tyrell de Warenne’s dark, noble image filled her mind, his gaze piercing and intense.
The thought of seeing him at the ball tomorrow made it impossible for her to breathe. Absurdly, her heart raced. Absurdly, she could see him sweeping a courtly bow and taking her hand…. and suddenly she was on his white charger with him and they were galloping off into the night.
Lizzie began to smile, realized she was daydreaming and she pinched herself. Even though she was going to the ball costumed as Maid Marian—Robin Hood was one of her favorite tales—he was not going to notice her. But she didn’t want to be noticed, not really. She didn’t want him to look at her with a complete lack of interest, as her sister Anna’s gentleman callers seemed to do. She would stand by the wall with the other wallflowers and discreetly watch him as he flirted and danced. Then, when she had returned to her own home and her own bed, she would dream about his every look and gesture, his every word and even his touch.
He halted the charger abruptly, wrapping his arms around her, his breath feathering her cheek….
Lizzie’s pulse accelerated and her body ached in that terribly insistent way, a strange yearning she had come to accept but barely understand.
“Lizzie?” Papa interrupted her brooding.
She bit her lip, eyes flying open, and somehow smiled at him. “I wish,” she began impulsively, and she stopped.
“What is it that you wish, my dear?”
She was far closer to Papa than she was to Mama, perhaps because, like her, he was an avid reader and a bit of a dreamer. On too many cold, rainy days to count, Lizzie and her father could be found in the parlor, curled up in big chairs before the hearth, each engrossed in a book. “I wish I could be beautiful, like Anna,” she heard herself confess in a whisper. “Just once…just for tomorrow night.”
His eyes widened. “But you’re so pretty!” he exclaimed. “You have the most striking gray eyes!”
Lizzie smiled slightly at him, aware that he could offer no other possible praise. And then she heard Mama racing down the stairs, calling her name. “Lizzie!”
Lizzie and Papa exchanged a look, understanding Mama’s strident tone. Something was amiss, and Mama wanted Lizzie to fix it. Lizzie hated conflict of any kind, and more often than not, played peacemaker in the family. Now she stood, quite certain she knew what had happened.
Mama sailed into the parlor, almost at a run. Her cheeks were flushed and she was wearing an apron over her striped day gown. Like Lizzie, she had strawberry-blond hair, but hers was cut fashionably short and curly in the style known as La Victime, while Lizzie’s long, unruly hair was haphazardly pinned up. Mother and daughter were both of a medium stature, and Lizzie rued the fact that from a distance, their round figures were so similar they could be mistaken for each other. Now Lydia Jane Fitzgerald laid eyes upon her sixteen-year-old daughter and she halted, almost falling over in her haste. “Lizzie! You must speak with your sister, as I cannot make headway! She is the most stubborn, ungrateful girl! Georgina has decided she will not attend the ball! Oh, my! The scandal! The disgrace! The countess, bless her saintly soul, will never forgive this! And for goodness sake, Georgina is the eldest. How will she ever find a suitor if she refuses to go to the social occasion of the year? Does she wish to marry a butcher or a smith?”
Lizzie got to her feet, holding back a sigh as Georgie came downstairs more slowly, looking determined, her color high. Georgie was darkly blond and very tall and slender. Now she gave Lizzie a look that said, there was no compromise. Lizzie sighed. “Mama, I will speak with Georgie.”
“You must do far more than speak with her,” Mama cried as if Georgie were not present. “We are invited to the earl’s exactly two times a year! It would be the worst insult should my entire family fail to appear!”
That first declaration was true. The earl and countess of Adare opened up their home twice a year, on All Hallow’s Eve, when they held a costume ball, and on St. Patrick’s Day, for a lavish lawn party. Mama lived for these two events, as they were opportunities for her daughters to mingle with the elite of Irish society, and they all knew she prayed to God that just one of her daughters would land a wealthy Irish nobleman, perhaps even one of the de Warenne sons. But Lizzie knew her mother was in a dream of her own making. Although Mama claimed her family descended from a very royal Celtic line, the de Warennes were so far above the Fitzgeralds that the difference might have been that between peasant and royalty. No one would care if Georgie declined to attend.
But Lizzie knew that Mama only meant well. She knew Mama was devoted to her daughters. She knew Mama was afraid that they would not marry well—and terrified that they would never marry at all. And she knew how hard Mama struggled to clothe and feed her daughters on Papa’s limited pension and present them to society as if they were not impoverished gentry. And Georgie knew it, too.
Georgie spoke, her manner firm, as it usually was. “No one will notice my absence, Mama. It is delusional to think otherwise. And given Papa’s pension and the fact that Anna will surely marry first, taking up all available funds for a dowry, I doubt I will do better than a butcher or a blacksmith.”
Lizzie gasped at Georgie’s effrontery and quickly hid a smile. Mama was speechless; it was a rare moment indeed.
Papa coughed behind his hand, trying to hide his own amusement.
Mama burst into tears. “I have devoted my entire life to finding you and your sisters husbands! And now you refuse to go to Adare! Now you speak of marriage to—” she shuddered “—the lowest sort of man! Georgina May!” Weeping, she rushed from the breakfast room.
A silence fell.
Georgie actually looked somewhat guilty.
Papa gave her a reproachful glance. “I will leave you two to sort things out,” he said to both sisters. To Georgie, he added, “I know you will do what is right.” He walked out.
Georgie sighed and faced Lizzie, her expression resigned and grim. “You know how I hate these society fêtes. I thought I would at least try to avoid this one.”
Lizzie walked over to her beloved older sister. “Dear, didn’t you tell me just the other day that marriage serves a very distinct social purpose?” No one could rationalize a subject to a more proper conclusion than her oldest sister.
Georgie closed her eyes.
“I believe you also noted that it is mutually beneficial to both parties involved,” Lizzie said, knowing she was repeating her sister’s exact words.
Georgie looked at her. “We were discussing Helen O’Dell’s engagement, Lizzie, to that old, foolish fop, Sir Lunden!”
“Mama is so devoted to her duty to us,” Lizzie said softly. “I know she is silly and a bit absurd at times, but she always means well.”
Georgie went to the table and sat down, appearing glum. “I already feel terrible, do not rub my nose in it.”
Lizzie sat beside her, taking her hand. “You are usually so stoic! What is this really about?”
Georgie faced her seriously. “I
merely thought to avoid this one event. I was hoping to spend the evening with Papa’s Times. That’s all.”
Lizzie knew that was not all. But it could not be that she wished to avoid Mama’s matchmaking, because on two occasions Mama had brought a marriage prospect home for her and Georgie had been dutifully polite when another woman would have cringed.
Georgie sighed. “I will never meet anyone at Adare. Mama is mad to think so. If anyone can snag a husband there, it is Anna, as she garners all the attention, anyway.”
That was true. Anna was so beautiful and carefree, not to mention very flirtatious. “You’re not jealous?” Lizzie asked in surprise, suddenly sensing that was the case.
Georgie folded her arms across her chest. “Of course not. I adore Anna, everyone does. But it’s true. Anna will have any highborn suitors tomorrow night, not you and not I. So what is the point?”
“If you really wished to stay home, you should have pleaded a migraine, or even worse, extreme indigestion,” Lizzie said.
Georgie looked at her, finally smiling. “I never have migraines and I have the constitution of an ox.”
Lizzie touched her arm. “I think you’re wrong. Yes, Anna is a coquette, but you are so clever and so proud! You’re also the handsome one, Georgie, and one day you will find true love, I am sure of it.” She grinned. “And it could even be at Adare!”
Georgie shook her head, but she was smiling. “You have read too many ha’ penny novels. You are such a romantic! True love doesn’t exist. Anyway, I am taller than almost every man I meet, and that is a serious offense, Lizzie.”
Lizzie had to laugh. “Yes, I suppose it is—but only until you meet the right gentleman. He could be a head shorter than you and, trust me, he will not care about your height.”
Georgie sat back in her chair. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Anna did marry very, very well?”
Lizzie stared and their gazes held. She could read her sister’s mind. “You mean, someone terribly wealthy?”
Georgie bit her lip and nodded. “Mama would be so pleased and our financial worries would be eased. I shouldn’t mind too much if I were to remain a spinster. Would you?”
“I know you will find a beau one day!” Lizzie cried, believing her words deeply. “I am plain and fat and I have no choice but to remain unwed. Not that I mind!” she added quickly. “Someone will have to take care of Mama and Papa in their older years.” She smiled again, but Tyrell de Warenne’s image had come to mind. “I have no delusions as to my fate—just as I am convinced of yours.”
Georgie was quick to protest. “You aren’t fat—just a wee bit plump—and you are very pretty! You simply refuse to think about fashion. In that way, we are very much alike.”
But Lizzie was thinking about Tyrell de Warenne and his fate. He deserved to find true love and surely he would, one day. She wanted him to be happy, very much so.
Her mind veered. She had been told that last year Tyrell had attended the ball as an Arab sheikh. She wondered what costume he would wear tomorrow night.
“Well, I never really thought I could get out of the ball,” Georgie was saying.
Lizzie looked at her. “Do you like my costume?”
Georgie blinked. Then she smiled, slyly. “You know, many women would die to have your figure, Lizzie.”
“What does that mean?” Lizzie asked with some heat, knowing her slender sister was referring to her voluptuous figure.
“Mama might have an apoplexy when she sees you in that costume.” Georgie snickered with some glee, then grasped Lizzie’s hand. “You look lovely in it.”
Lizzie hoped Georgie was being truthful. She reminded herself that Tyrell would never glance her way, not even once. But if he did, she did not want to look like a cow. She prayed he would not notice her and think her a sorry sight indeed.
“Well? Are you going to tell me why you are blushing?” Georgie demanded, laughing.
“I am hot,” Lizzie said abruptly, standing. “I am not blushing.”
Georgie leapt up. “If you think I have been fooled for one moment, then you are wrong! I know you are on pins and needles because you are going to your first ball at Adare.” She was smiling.
“I am not infatuated, not anymore,” Lizzie insisted.
“Of course not. I mean, last St. Paddy’s Day you did not ogle Tyrell de Warenne for hours on end. Oh, no. You do not prick your ears and redden every time his name comes up in social conversation. You do not gaze out of the carriage window when we pass Adare as if you are attached to it! Of course that silly schoolgirl crush is over.”
Lizzie hugged herself, silently admitting the truth of Georgie’s words.
Georgie put her arm around her. “If you think to claim that you are not in love with Tyrell de Warenne, then think again. Mama and Papa may believe your childish infatuation over, but Anna and I know better. We are your sisters, dear.”
Lizzie gave up. “I am so nervous!” She wrung her hands. “What should I do? Will I look like a fool in that costume? Is there any chance he will notice me? And if he does, what will he think?” she cried.
“Lizzie, I have no idea if he will notice you in the crush of a hundred guests, but if he does, he will think you the prettiest sixteen-year-old debutante there,” Georgie said with a smile and a firm tone.
Lizzie didn’t believe her, but Mama chose that moment to enter the room. She glared at them both. “Well? Has your sister talked some sense into you, Georgina May?”
Georgie looked contrite as she stood. “I am sorry, Mama. Of course I will attend the ball.”
Mama cried out in delight. “I knew I could count on Lizzie to save the day!” She beamed at Lizzie, then went to Georgie and embraced her. “You are the most loyal and deserving of daughters, my dear Georgina! Now, I do want a word with you about your costume—and Lizzie needs to get ready to go to town, anyway.”
Lizzie gasped, realizing that time had fled and it was almost ten o’clock. She devoted five or six hours every week to the sisters at St. Mary’s, never mind that the Fitzgeralds had not been Catholic in two generations. Her work was with the orphans there, and as Lizzie loved children, she looked forward to it. “I must be off,” she cried, racing out of the room.
“Ask Papa if he can drive you,” Mama called after her. “It will save you the walk!”
Lizzie was on her way home. It had rained for several days and the streets were ankle-deep in mud. She did not give a fig for her appearance, but it was a five-mile walk back to the house and the journey would take her twice as long as usual. The family could only afford a single horse and had but one two-wheeled curricle. While Papa had driven her to town, he was not able to pick her up, as Anna had some calls to make that afternoon. Instead of fighting for her turn or spending a precious shilling on a hired coach, Lizzie preferred to walk home.
Now the gray skies were brightening and Lizzie felt certain that tomorrow would be a remarkably pleasant day—perfect for the masked ball. She was about to step into the mud to cross the street when she felt a tug on the hem of her gown.
Lizzie knew it was a beggar before she looked down at the old woman, damp and wet and shivering from the cold.
“Miss? Spare a penny?” The woman pleaded.
Lizzie’s heart broke. “Here.” She emptied her purse, giving the woman all of her coins, never mind that Mama would be distressed to no end. “God bless you,” Lizzie whispered.
The woman gaped. “God bless you, my lady!” she cried, hugging the coins to her chest. “God will bless you, for you are an angel of mercy!”
Lizzie smiled at her. “The good sisters of St. Mary’s will find you a bed and a meal if you go to their door,” she said. “Why don’t you do that?”
“Yes, I will,” the woman nodded. “Thank you, my lady, thank you!”
Hoping the woman would do just that, and not go to the closest inn for a pint, Lizzie stepped into the street. The moment she did, a horse-drawn coach careened around the corner. Lizzie heard it first, the
n quickly looked that way.
Two black horses pulled a very fancy carriage at high speed. Three gentlemen were in the back, which was open, and another two were in the driver’s high seat, whipping the horses on. All were laughing and shouting and waving a wine bottle. The coach was coming directly toward her. Lizzie froze in disbelief.
“Watch out!” a buck shouted.
But the driver whooped, as if he had not heard or did not see her, and whipped the horses. Their pace increased.
Lizzie realized what was happening. In sheer terror, she leapt back toward the sidewalk to get out of the way.
“Turn away!” one of the gentlemen suddenly shouted. “Ormond, turn away!”
But the carriage kept coming. Terrified, Lizzie saw the whites of the horses’ eyes, the pink of their flared nostrils. She turned to run—only to trip instead.
Lizzie fell on her hands and knees in the muddy street.
The wheels sounded, a harsh grating noise; hooves pounded. Mud and rocks sprayed over her back. On her belly, Lizzie somehow looked and saw iron-shod hooves and iron-rimmed wheels, dangerously close. Her chest exploded in fear and she knew she was about to die even as she desperately tried to crawl away from the oncoming coach. Suddenly, strong hands seized her.
Lizzie was hauled to the safety of the sidewalk just as the coach passed by.
Lizzie could not move. Her heart was pounding with such force and speed that she thought her lungs might burst. She briefly closed her eyes, dazed with shock.
Hard, powerful hands still gripped her beneath her arms. Lizzie blinked. She lay on the sidewalk now, her cheek scraping stone, her face level with a man’s knees as he knelt on the sidewalk with her. Utter comprehension sank in. She had just escaped a certain death. This stranger had saved her!
“Do not move.”
Lizzie barely heard the man who had saved her life. She still found it hard to breathe, as her heart refused to slow. She was also in some real pain, her arms felt as if they had been pulled out of their sockets. Otherwise, she thought she was in one piece. Then an arm went around her shoulders. “Miss? Can you speak?”
