Rules for Engagements

by Laura Briggs

  With her arms wrapped around the bundle of fabric, Flora was already reviewing the next step of her campaign. New gloves would be necessary to match–would her white slippers at home do? For if she was determined to make an elegant appearance at this ball, even a small misstep could prove fatal to her attempts to attract the notice of the company from the moment she entered the room. And perhaps encourage the host himself to engage her arm for a dance, instead of the fair Miss Harwick's.

  But it would all be for naught, perhaps, if Miss Harwick arrived in a gown no amount of pocket money saved could ever procure for the likes of Flora. And Miss Harwick's accessories were all costly, her jewelry expensive and stylish.

  Rule number three: A simple but elegant appearance may be more pleasing to the eye than even the most expensive finery when compared to excessive splendors.

  She hoped fervently that rule was true. For hadn't she seen it herself, time and time again at the parties of her youth, where a simple muslin gown and striking necklace had drawn more attention than the feathers and finery of richer girls present?

  Every step must be considered before the night of the ball. Every effort must be made to keep her personal feelings contained when near Roger. His interaction with Hetta must be weighed and scrutinized to determine if he was falling in love–and if so, how deeply. For a sincere attachment by a man like Roger Easton could not be broken easily by even the most elegant of charms. But if he was still unattached, he might find himself attentive to her charms for an evening, instead of Hetta's.

  "Whatever are you thinking about?" her aunt asked, with a smile of curiosity. "There is such an expression on your face–I would half-suspect a gentleman to be present in your thoughts."

  "But you always know better," Flora reminded her as they moved through the bustling crowd.

  *****

  The subtle details in dress are almost as important as the fabric and style of her garments.

  This Flora repeated to herself as she opened the little box on her dresser that afternoon. Inside lay the few pieces of jewelry she possessed, most of them worth only a trifle. She glanced over the handful of necklaces, the decorative pins for her hair. The piece she wanted was not visible at first, but she found it at the bottom.

  A small gold star, tarnished slightly with age. Its loop was a trifle bent from Roger's young fingers as he tried to force the ribbon through its hole. Bits of shiny wood lying around it were all that remained of the gilded walnut shell box.

  She lifted it out, gingerly. With a little polishing, would it not be the perfect choice? Such an ornament would no doubt inspire his curiosity and recall this memory from their past. As carelessly as he told the story of the ribbon, the mere fact that he recalled it so readily would make the star all the more noticeable.

  Rule number eight: Be a little reserved, a trifle mysterious, that he may desire to know more of you. A book whose cover reveals only a hint of what lies within may attract curious readers.

  Looking from the star's metallic twinkle to the mirror before her, she studied her appearance. A trifle too tan, perhaps, but complexion creamy enough for society's standards. Grey eyes without the sea of freckles that once drifted below.

  How does one inspire mystery when the past gets in the way? She dropped her eyelids lower, then raised them again, mimicking the sweeping glance of Miss Harwick. The glow in her eyes suggested a heart full of love, which would be a mistake. She must do her best to put aside such thoughts and keep her emotions a mystery whenever their eyes met at the ball.

  Rule number six: A brief glance or lingering look in a gentleman's direction may attract his notice and inspire thoughts of a young lady long after her eyes are engaged elsewhere.

  There was a knock on the bedroom door. The knob turned to admit Marianne, who surveyed Flora with curiosity.

  "You look as if you are practicing for something," she said, her free hand adjusting an old curtain that was wound around her like a veil, its tattered green suggesting the baize cloth from the shop.

  "Where did you find that?" Flora asked. "Oh, never mind, I suppose you should have it, for it is too faded out for display anymore." She tucked the star back into the box and closed it.

  "But what are the faces for?" persisted Marianne. "Are you going to use them for a novel?"

  Flora grimaced at this reference to her work. At this moment, she preferred not to think about her future as a lady author. "I am practicing being ladylike," she answered. "Which is something that would benefit you as well." She rose from her dressing table and took a small music box from its drawer, winding it tightly by key.

  "And now here is something we can practice together," she said. Opening the lid, she allowed a pleasant tune to escape. She held out her hand to Marianne.

  "Shall we rehearse for the ball?" she asked. "So I shall not fall in my elegant gown, that is."

  With an eager grin, Marianne wound her curtain more closely around her shoulders before switching to a somber expression. In a deep voice, she asked "May I have this dance, my lady?"

  Taking her hand, Flora guided her through the steps of the country dance. The tune from the music box was too slow for Marianne, who leaped into the moves with eager speed.

  "Slower, Marianne," she said. Flora swept her skirts out of the way and attempted to match her sister's haste. They bumped into each other, their lively forms fumbling their way through the turn.

  Below, the ceiling rattled in Sir Edward's library from the impact of stomping feet and shrieks of laughter. A loud squeak as the two girls collapsed on the bed after Marianne tripped on the dressing table's leg.

  Rule number twelve: The dance, perhaps, is the most important display of one's charms. It is the game of courtship on display at its fullest. Every glance or touch is significant; every movement is a symbol of love's twists and turns.

  *****

  The open pages of Flora's journal fanned softly in the waves of warmth traveling from the open grate. A bit of paste had seeped from the repaired binding to add waterstains along even the unused pages, which Flora's pen filled eagerly before bed.

  My dear, dear journal, if there is still time, if there is still hope, then I will not see Hetta triumph over his heart in this way. For I believe that any marriage between them would be unhappy; for he would be in love with her and she would care only for his fortune and title.

  If love was as powerful as feminine arts, then I might have the upper hand. But, of course, he can never marry me, given the difference between our stations. My feelings are best left entirely out of the picture. I become merely another peacock whose feathers are rivaling another bird's for the admiration of our audience.

  How cold it sounds! How tasteless and vulgar! Yet it is an art practiced every day, an art which I detailed with each stroke of my pen for the little book. May our Heavenly Father help those of us who do not practice it well, for we our lost in a society that offers no hope except the fortune of marrying good or ill.

  Heaven help young Lord Easton, should Miss Harwick's charms prove more alluring than my own. For my heart is destined to break either way; but he will be trapped with his mistake forever!

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The quintet's instruments hummed softly as they warmed their strings for the dance. The setting of the Easton ball was elegant indeed. The lady of Landly house had seen every detail to perfection, from the wood floors opened completely for dancing to the spacious supper room for dining in between.

  Guests were seated or standing around, showing off their most elegant finery. Mrs. Fitzwilliam herself was arrayed in feathers and pearls as she escorted a rather timid granddaughter amongst the company–who was not yet "out" but invited due to the goodness of Lady Easton.

  At the fashionably late hour of half-past time, the Stuart carriage drove through the entrance of Landly. Inside, Flora sat calm and cool, preparing herself for the evening yet to come.

  Dear Lord, I know it seems silly, but make me graceful tonight. Do not let me
fail myself.

  Crossing the threshold, they were announced to Lady Easton and her son, who were greeting their guests in the ballroom doorway. Flora tucked her fan close to her gown and held her head high as she followed Sir Edward in his formal coat.

  "Sir Edward, how lovely to see you," Lady Easton received her guest's bow with a warm smile. "You have not come to see us as often, now that my son has taken our affairs in hand; a terrible shame it is to be absent our dear friend these days."

  "But I would have it no other way, Ma'am," Sir Edward answered. He offered a bow to Roger, who shook hands with him and added to his mother's kindness.

  Lady Easton's gaze was drawn to Sir Edward's daughter, her eyes brightening with admiration at the sight of Flora in the doorway.

  "Why, Miss Stuart," she said, her voice soft. "How lovely you look tonight!"

  The white dress swept the floor in a short but elegant train, the folds of the skirt winding in a becoming fashion to the waistline. Here and there, it was embroidered with silvery threads designed to catch the light. But the overwhelming impression was the simple sheen of white.

  A crown of red hair curled into small, fine locks was decorated with miniature flowers made from petals of silk and pearl beads. A single ornament hung from her neck: a miniature gold star suspended from a chain.

  "You are too kind, Ma'am," Flora answered, with a gentle curtsey. She turned towards Roger next, with a smile carefully practiced to leave no trace of her true emotions.

  He was silent as he studied her appearance for a moment, his lips slightly parted as if to speak. His glance had fallen on her necklace, giving her the brief hope that he recognized it.

  "I must share in my mother's compliment," he said, slowly. "Your appearance is ... almost beyond words. It is a very becoming gown that you wear, Miss Stuart."

  "I'm afraid it's far more grown-up than the grass-stained frocks you remember from my youth," she answered, in a teasing voice. "Perhaps I am too different now?"

  "No," he answered. "You are much the same as ever, I believe."

  She felt the color vanish from her cheeks momentarily at the warmth in his voice; but she curved her lips into a demure smile in response.

  "I have always said myself that a simple white dress is the most elegant," said Sir Edward, with a touch of pride. "Lady Gladys, when she was alive, favored white muslin over all other choices."

  Two days before, Sir Edward had groaned over the extravagant cost of the fabric and Flora's decision to impetuously spend her savings on such a gown. Even the mention of the modest revenue from the book had not reconciled him the way the admiration of their respected friends did.

  "I scarce believe that any young man can resist asking you to dance tonight, my dear" said their hostess. "You must take care not to tire with so many partners waiting for acceptance." This was followed by a warm laugh from Lady Easton at the expense of her young guest's blushing cheeks.

  The arrival of more guests necessarily ended their conversation, so Flora and her father proceeded to join the others already present. Despite her longing, Flora resisted making the mistake of glancing over her shoulder to see if he was watching. Instead, she claimed the arm of Lucy Easton, who was eagerly approaching.

  "You look so elegant," Lucy whispered. Although her own dress was worth far more in terms of fabric cost and style. "I have simply despaired of my hair tonight, for all the ringlets grew tangled when my maid dressed them."

  "And no one shall ever know, for it is by far the most elegant hairstyle I see here," Flora answered, with a smile. Her friend steered her towards the middle Miss Phillips and Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who were deep in conversation near the fire.

  "There is Miss Harwick," said Lucy. "Is not her gown very fine?"

  Flora followed her gaze to the other side of the room, where Hetta and her mother were seated on a sofa with Mrs. Russell.

  Hetta's gown was a showy display of vibrant blue, accented with an overlay of sheer green fabric that reminded Flora of the shades of a peacock's feathers. Her elegant gold curls were wound together and pinned with costly ornaments and a few feathers of metallic sheen.

  She was indeed a peacock–an overdressed one in a roomful of startling fabrics. While the outfit was the most vibrant present, it was surrounded by other colorful and shiny garments. With a small laugh of relief, Flora congratulated herself on her own calculated decision.

  "It is very elegant, isn't it?" said Flora. "I believe, upon consideration, blue is Miss Harwick's color."

  "Is it not too much, do you think?" pressed Lucy. "Is she not breaking the Advice for Young Ladies, which says that it is possible to be overdressed for the occasion?"

  "If only Miss Harwick had read the little book," Flora said, "she might agree." As they joined their friends near the mantelpiece.

  "How splendid you both look!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "And the very gown is here which I desired Miss Phillips to see–for her sister, the elder one, is to be married and they are quite at a loss as to what her cousin should wear who is not of the bridal party. White is best for the young, you know," she confided to Lucy.

  Flora suppressed a laugh over her aunt's impulsive remarks as the debate on fabric and color for wedding attendees continued. Her gaze caught sight of Roger and Hetta conversing across the room, Hetta's eyes trained upon him in modest attentiveness.

  It was a test of her willpower to refrain from letting her own face grow troubled. But she was saved by a distraction in the form of Colonel Miles approaching. A welcome sight, since she had not seen her great-uncle in the two weeks which followed their visit to Brawley Court.

  "Well, here we are–my pretty young niece and my fair sister," he declared, surveying her and Mrs. Fitzwilliam with a grin. "I suppose that you are giving advice to the young ladies on how to conquer hearts tonight, eh, Charlotte?" he asked. "Although I suspect none of them need the help."

  "It is too good to see you," said Flora. "Are you both well in town?"

  "Indeed we are, for already Mrs. Miles is in the humor to give a dinner party," he answered. "So your family must be prepared for an invitation soon."

  His wife joined him in pressing their niece with regards to the best date for such a party, their conversation lively enough that Flora lost sight of Roger. She spotted Hetta making her way towards Lady Easton, who was mingling with their guests. But only a glimpse of her hostess was visible and no sign of her son at all.

  "You must come and see us before long," Mrs. Miles said. "The house is charming, although the dining room is in such need of improvement." The Miles's did not own a townhouse, instead renting one yearly for the London season.

  The musicians struck up their notes again, in a signal that the dance was about to begin. Lucy Easton was claimed by a young gentleman, as were the Miss Phillipses, save the eldest, now-engaged daughter.

  Flora was still engaged in conversation with her relatives when a strange smile appeared on Mrs. Miles's face.

  "I do believe that a young gentleman is going to ask you for a dance, Flora," she said, in a low voice. "He has been watching you with some interest ever since you entered the room."

  Something in the good lady's voice made Flora turn around. Behind her, Roger Easton approached. He offered her a short bow.

  "Are you engaged for this dance, Miss Stuart?" he asked.

  "I am not," she answered. Her heart was pounding, although she controlled her expression.

  He held out his hand. "Then would you do me the honor?"

  Without speaking, she took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the open floor. The opening notes played as the dancers took their positions for a reel. Across from him, Flora held her breath as they faced each other.

  The dance began: the two lines of partners moved slowly forward. Although they were not facing each other at the moment, she was aware that he was glancing at her with each movement, as if planning to speak. Despite her gloved hands, she felt the same thrill as when they touched before. When the dust o
f Donnelly Hall's forgotten ballroom swirled beneath the skirts of her yellow dress.

  She addressed him in casual tones, forcing herself to speak. "Is this party to your liking, Lord Easton? For your mother claimed this occasion to celebrate your return."

  He smiled. "I can think of no better pursuit in London than dancing. For I suppose I associate the city with the Season, as if the two are never apart."

  "That is why so many of us long for the world outside London," she answered. "I suppose you have had a taste of it well beyond our modest borders by now." She meant it as a compliment to his family's interests, but he interpreted it differently.

  "I hope to never be away from its borders again," he answered, with a laugh. "I believe it is time to find another pursuit in life than merely overseeing my father's income."

  They moved further apart, making further conversation impossible momentarily. His words had a deeper meaning which Flora recognized immediately. Her heart beat quickly at the notion of what he might say next.

  "Whatever do you mean?" she asked him, when they were close again. Their stance and touching fingers allowed her full view of his face. "Unless it be the opening of Donnelly Hall again, perhaps? Or is it something more serious?" she surmised, with a teasing smile.

  He blushed, with a boyish look that reminded her of his childhood self. "Perhaps it is the same endeavor of every eligible young man in England, Miss Stuart. The most delicate pursuit of the heart."

  "Possessing greater consequences, you mean," she answered. "For not all such pursuits end happily, as many friends have shown us."

  Her tone was playful, but his face grew somber in response. His eyes glanced away from her and she wished passionately to follow his gaze and see where it led. To Miss Harwick? Or to the room in general? To watch him too eagerly would give the wrong impression.

  The couples wove their way through the dance's lines, until each partner was face to face again. Roger's gaze no longer roamed, but was fixed on hers with a solemn expression.