The New England: ROMANCE Collection

by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris

  “If I am discovered …” Elizabeth touched her throat.

  “That will not happen. I assure you that your natural grace will be evident; and not everyone speaks French, so your limitations there should only prove the more engaging.” At last, the carriage drew near to the grand house where the latest in a series of balls would keep them dancing and frolicking like so many peacocks until dawn peeked through the tall windows of the ballroom. But tonight, Francesca would find a measure of interest in watching Elizabeth’s venture into society.

  Elizabeth’s hair had never known the heat of an iron, much as the young woman had spent hours helping curl Francesca’s own tresses. And Francesca had no skill in curling hair, yet somehow she had managed to curl Elizabeth’s hair into a passable style. Although Francesca’s robin’s-egg-blue gown—of last season—had been too long for Elizabeth’s more diminutive frame, the two of them had managed to shorten the gown and transform it into this year’s fashion. No one would be the wiser, especially since Mother remained at home with yet another headache.

  “Your mother will not approve,” Elizabeth said as if in response to Francesca’s pondering.

  “Ah, but she knows my brother and his wife will be present this evening, and it is not scandalous in the least for me to travel with my maid.” She tried not to wince at the mention of Elizabeth’s true station in the Wallingford household. And it was best not to think of what James and Victoria would say, should they recognize Elizabeth. She hadn’t considered that. Of course James might tell Mother, and then …

  “You look worried, miss.”

  “I am not the least bit concerned.” Francesca patted Elizabeth’s hand. “Tonight we shall both lose ourselves in the music, and you will remember this evening always.”

  The carriage stopped, and Francesca wouldn’t allow herself the childish luxury of ducking her head out the carriage window to see the line of carriages ahead of them. Sit up straight, Francesca. The impish voice that belonged to her mother hissed in her ear, almost as if Mother sat next to Francesca.

  Francesca braced herself as the carriage rocked. The driver appeared at the door a moment later.

  “Follow me.” Francesca smiled at Elizabeth, who looked as though her hands had frozen to her lap. “No one will bite you. I promise.”

  The door swung open, and Francesca waited for the driver to move the steps into place. Her heart gave a curious flutter, and she touched the top of her bodice. She stepped cautiously, taking care not to duck her head when leaving the carriage. A perfect exit, as she’d always been taught.

  Once exited from the carriage, she turned to face Elizabeth. The poor girl’s face had turned pasty white.

  “I … I …” Her shoe with its slippery sole touched the top step. Then it skidded.

  “Steady now, miss.” The driver’s hand on Elizabeth’s elbow steadied her.

  “Thank you kindly.” Elizabeth bobbed her head.

  “Elizabeth!” Francesca’s throat caught. “Are you quite all right?” Her maid tumbling down to the pavement in front of the main doors wasn’t the entrance Francesca wanted them to make. Had that occurred in Mother’s presence, Mother would have glided away into the grand house and left the poor young woman in a humiliated pile of silk and not spoken to her the remainder of the night. Francesca knew this from experience. But she wouldn’t desert poor Elizabeth, who gently shook her skirt as Francesca had instructed her.

  “Yes, miss.” Elizabeth stood tall. “Um, I mean, Francesca.” Her cheeks bloomed a shade of rose.

  “Good. Perhaps we’re in time for the first dance, although we missed the early supper.” Francesca had wanted to add, because Mother took forever deciding if she could bear the bright lights and music, but she thought better of it. The timing had been perfect to launch Elizabeth, as it were. They’d barely gotten away when Mother was on the brink of not permitting Francesca to attend at all. Except for the fact that Count Philippe de la Croix would be hosting the event, Francesca would have remained behind at the Wallingfords’ accommodations and attended to Mother.

  She took a few steps and nodded to the doorman, who swung the great doors open for them. Now, where was Elizabeth?

  Francesca glanced over her shoulder. “Elizabeth, are you coming?”

  “Yes, um, Francesca.” She trotted two steps until she drew even with Francesca’s right shoulder. The music of an orchestra swallowed them up as they entered the foyer.

  “Now remember.” Francesca leaned closer to whisper. “You must not follow behind me. Walk beside me. Tonight, you are not …”

  “I know.” Elizabeth nodded. “And thank you for letting me have this chance. I have always wanted to attend one of these fancy parties.”

  “I hope the evening does not disappoint you.” Or get them both into trouble. Francesca hadn’t considered that possibility. James liked to remind her about considering consequences presently to avoid a future grief. If they were discovered, Mother surely wouldn’t dismiss Elizabeth, whose family had served the Wallingfords for longer than Francesca had counted birthdays.

  Francesca sponged gloomy thoughts from her mind and instead nodded at several acquaintances she’d encountered at other parties that season, but didn’t stop to introduce Elizabeth. Just as well, since Elizabeth’s upturned lips seemed frozen in place. They needed to find the ballroom and the source of the music, as well as greet their host and hostess.

  “Meece Wallingford.” The accented voice speaking her name made Francesca pause.

  The voice’s owner had dark eyes, dark hair, a wide smile. Oh, Lord, I never thought a man could be so handsome. Count Philippe de la Croix stood before her. Francesca’s knees wobbled.

  “Yes.” Her hand was caught up in a strong one, and the man’s lips lingered a bit longer than exactly proper. She didn’t want to let this hand go. “You—you must be the count.” She remembered herself and gave a slight curtsy with a nod of her head.

  “Only at court, Meece Wallingford.” The count, still holding her hand, tucked it under his arm. “Here, in this grand place, I am but Philippe, and you must call me such, as my mama does.”

  “But, we haven’t been properly introduced.” Francesca bit her lip. She’d sounded just like her mother. The count’s presence addled her head. No wonder Mother had wished for her to attend tonight. A scheme involving Francesca and the count, no doubt.

  “Ah, but our mothers have spoken, and it is as if I know you already.” He drew her along with him toward the sound of music.

  “But …” She normally didn’t repeat herself like a chatting bird. The elegantly carved doors to the ballroom swung open—the count must have quite the influence at this home—and Francesca held her breath as they entered.

  No one announced their arrival, yet it seemed as if the room collectively paused. It was not on Francesca’s account, she knew that much. The man next to her held the room in his gaze.

  “See, Mademoiselle Francesca, they are as enchanted with you as I am. Now, you will do me the honor of first dance?”

  Francesca’s muddled mind fumbled. Elizabeth. She cast a glance over her shoulder. Her maid followed on mincing steps.

  “Go,” Elizabeth mouthed. “I will manage.”

  With that, Francesca was swept into the whirl of silken skirts and fine waistcoats. Peacocks on parade, all of them. Wasn’t that what she’d imagined? And poor Elizabeth. What if she became entangled in an unwelcome conversation and Francesca was nowhere near to rescue her?

  “I understand you are quite the artiste, n’est-ce pas?” The count’s voice sounded lower in this crowd.

  “Oui, but I prefer to think I merely dabble in paints.”

  “Your mama believes otherwise. Although,” and here Count Philippe gave a soft chuckle, “I think she holds your talent in far less esteem than she would like that I believe.”

  “That is probably true.” Francesca smiled at him, and his own smile increased in return. An ally? If he saw through Mother’s scheming, perhaps tonight
would not be so bad.

  A glimpse of dark red hair caught Francesca’s eye. The last time she’d seen hair that color was a painful memory. Barely out of childhood, a tearful departure. Promises of letters that never came. Whispers of scandal. A friendship she’d mourned and buried.

  “Are you all right, Mademoiselle Francesca?” Count Philippe’s brow furrowed.

  “I am fine. The room is rather full tonight, and I had to catch my breath.” Now she’d sounded rude, as if the dancing had caused her discomfort.

  The music ended, and the dancers surrounding them applauded. Francesca did the same.

  “Talented, are they not?” The count applauded as well.

  She nodded. The man with the dark red hair wouldn’t turn around. Perhaps it was just as well. Her mother had simply informed a then-devastated Francesca “that Finley boy” would be going away, and none of them would ever see him again.

  “You are looking for someone?”

  Francesca glanced at Philippe, who also scanned the room. “Yes. No. I am unsure. I thought it might be … an old friend. But never mind.” Undoubtedly Mother had instigated her and Philippe’s meeting tonight, and she mustn’t disappoint her. Not that she would find the task of becoming better acquainted with the count a horrible one.

  The orchestra at the end of the gilded ballroom struck up another tune, this time a waltz.

  “Shall we, then?” Philippe offered his hand.

  Francesca smiled up at him. No memories would mar this evening.

  After three songs, Francesca’s feet throbbed in her new dancing slippers. She thought of Elizabeth’s feet, probably comfortably tucked into her old pair, with a wad of cotton in the toe to make up the difference.

  Elizabeth! She’d nearly forgotten her maid. No sight of Elizabeth in the elegant blue dress she’d traded for her day uniform of dove gray.

  “You do that again, searching for someone.”

  “My friend, Elizabeth. We arrived together, and I wanted to see how she fared thus far.”

  Philippe drew her off the dance floor and toward a pair of empty chairs beside the wall.

  “Forgive me. I should have thought … I should have introduced her to someone.”

  “No, it’s all right. I am sure she is fine.” Well, she hoped, anyway.

  A familiar face emerged from a cluster of chatting women. But not Elizabeth. Rather, Francesca’s cousin, Lillian. With her demeanor, she could have been Francesca’s mother’s daughter. The young woman swept up to them, her skirts swishing with each stride.

  “Francesca.” Lillian trilled her r, and that set Francesca into a coughing fit. She’d heard Mother affect the same pronunciation in the past. “It is good to see you this evening.”

  Francesca wouldn’t allow herself to lie and express pleasure at seeing Lillian. “Thank you. Mother is home with a headache, but she insisted I attend anyway. And so I have.”

  “Un-accompanied?” Lillian sounded as if Francesca had decided to spend the evening running barefoot and clad in her dressing gown through the Paris streets.

  “No, of course not.” Francesca bit her lip. If there were one person who would prance into their drawing room on the morrow and reveal everything to Mother, that would be Lillian. Francesca ought never to have allowed Elizabeth one evening, like the Cinder-girl in the fairy tale.

  “And you.” Lillian blinked at the count and wiggled one shoulder. “You must be the Count de la Croix.”

  “Oui.” Philippe inclined his head in the slightest of nods. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure—”

  “Lillian Chalmers.” Up went her hand.

  Francesca watched the introduction. She could hear Mother now, exclaiming over Lillian “wresting” the count’s attentions away from Francesca, especially after Mother’s obvious attempts to make an excellent connection.

  A trickle of perspiration wound its way down Francesca’s back. Her nose itched at the scent of Lillian’s perfume.

  “Why, yes, of course,” Lillian was saying.

  Francesca missed the rest of the exchange. She had the urge to stick out her foot, just a teensy bit, enough to send Lillian headfirst onto the ballroom floor. But she kept her feet tucked beneath the hem of her gown.

  “The next quadrille, Count?” Francesca’s cousin asked.

  “Oui, Mademoiselle Chalmers.” Then Philippe bowed to Francesca. “Mademoiselle Wallingford, may I sit beside you when next we dine?”

  “Yes, of course.” She smiled at him and then at Lillian, whose lips sealed into a thin line. They joined the other couples for the dance, and Francesca sank onto the empty chair at last.

  She almost felt her feet sigh with relief, but her heart pounded. Where was Elizabeth? She tried to spot the shade of robin’s-egg blue amid the silk and taffeta that spangled the already opulent room.

  Despite Count Philippe’s request to dine next to her, Francesca wanted to stomp from the room. Her orchestrated plan had crumbled. She’d lost Elizabeth, her feet had been sorely abused, and Lillian’s watchful eyes glared at her from the dance. Someone’s giggle made Francesca grit her teeth.

  But then she smiled. There was Elizabeth at the opposite end of the ballroom, her hands clasped in front of her as she stood before a vivid mural. Nary a hair had escaped its proper place, and her face glowed as she spoke with someone. Francesca couldn’t see the speaker because of a woman’s elaborate feather headpiece that blocked her view.

  Elizabeth chatted as if she’d found an old friend. This did not bode well. Had her maid forgotten their carefully constructed plan, which involved Elizabeth trying to remain inconspicuous? Francesca didn’t know whether to dash across the room at once, or pray for help. Or do both at once. She could find an excuse to whisk Elizabeth out the nearby glass door that led to what she assumed was a balcony. The air in here was full of perfume, and warmth radiated from silk-covered figures promenading around the ballroom.

  Then, the wearer of the fabulous feathers moved. A figure with hair the color of dark copper and wearing an elegantly cut waistcoat bowed to Elizabeth, then walked toward the large glass double doors that Francesca had selected as an escape route.

  Francesca stood. She needed air. She also needed to find out how Elizabeth fared and get a glimpse of this mystery man.

  “Elizabeth, are you all right?”

  “Yes, miss.” Elizabeth’s glance darted to either side. She placed one of her gloved hands over her mouth.

  “No matter. I don’t think anyone heard you, with all the music.” Francesca moved closer.

  “Has anyone discovered you?”

  “I don’t believe so. Two women who addressed me only spoke French, and another pair, well, I wasn’t sure if I answered their questions correctly.” A line appeared between her eyebrows.

  “What did they ask you?”

  “How long I was staying in Paris, and if I’d been to any recent parties.” She wrung her hands. “I’m afraid I sounded rather dull. I don’t even know whose home we are at.”

  “This is the home of Count de la Croix and his mother. I thought I had told you. But you did well. Except …” Francesca frowned. “Who was that man you were speaking with just now?”

  “A Mr. Finley, I believe. Most friendly. But somehow, he seemed to know I don’t belong here.”

  The night air greeted Alfred Finley as he exited the stuffy ballroom. He shouldn’t have come, but Mother had insisted, and when she insisted on something, only God could stand in her way, and she wouldn’t argue with Him. So Alfred humored her and brought her to the ball. Last he knew, she sat comfortably, chatting with Countess de la Croix.

  Mother, the sweet woman, was trying to marry him off before she left this life. She’d even said so. The thought made him smile even as the thought of losing the one person in this world who loved him most made his throat hurt. Not that her health was a real concern, although she seemed to get out of breath easily and likely would not dance tonight.

  He had danced but one dance, the
n waited beside a painted wall. A number of dances passed, and he found himself speaking with a young woman who reminded him of a young filly, ready to bolt from the room. She nearly tripped over her hem of her blue dress more than once.

  After a hesitant introduction, he discovered she did not speak French, and she spoke quite plainly. What made him pay even closer attention was the fact that the Miss Elizabeth McGovern had accompanied a Miss Francesca Wallingford that evening.

  He also knew that the name McGovern was the name of the family who served the Wallingfords, and Miss McGovern had calloused fingers that clasped and twisted a worn pair of gloves. What had Fran gone and done?

  The young girl Francesca had moods as unpredictable as the wind, and both Alfred and her brother James had enjoyed taunting her when they were children. But the idea of bringing a maid to the ball? Nothing good could come of the escapade. And poor Miss McGovern would return to her mundane life on the morrow.

  A light breeze lifted Alfred’s wonderful auburn hair as Francesca approached him. She felt thirteen again, all legs and arms and feet, and well aware of the childish infatuation she’d had with her one-time family friend. His dark eyes seemed to know her and sense her slightly improper thoughts about his hair. And the scar on the left eyebrow marring an otherwise appealing countenance? She’d been responsible for that scar once upon a time.

  “Mr … Mr. Finley?” Her first impulse had been to shriek the man’s first name and embrace him as if he were James. Mother would be proud of her self-control tonight, if perplexed at her letting the count speak to any woman but her.

  Alfred reached for her gloved hand and raised it to his lips, barely brushing them on the back of her glove. “You are well?”

  “Yes, yes, I am quite well, thank you.” Unspoken questions battled in her mind until they silenced each other. She clutched her hands in front of her.

  “Fran—”

  “Alfred—”

  They both spoke at once then laughed. The noise made a man and woman walking along the balcony turn and stride the other way.