by May Burnett
“I agree.” The voice of the old count was raspy from his constant pipe smoking. “But don’t spend too much on the project. If we find a good husband for either of the girls, the other one and the mother should go and live with her.”
“Indeed. In any case, I want them out of the house by March,” Armando said. Emily stiffened in dismay. Armando, as his father’s heir, had great influence on his parents’ decisions.
“Are your negotiations with Count Sigmaringen so advanced?” the old Count asked. “Is that when you are planning to wed?”
“The negotiations are done, but for some reason the girl’s mother insists on waiting until her next birthday, in March. Sigmaringen indulges her fancies more than I can understand, he insisted on the delay as part of the agreement.”
“I don’t see why you want my granddaughters gone, just because you are about to marry again,” the Contessa said. “Young Cecilia would probably welcome the company of girls close to her own age.”
“Possibly, but these English girls are too independent and outspoken. I do not want their influence on my wife. A seventeen-year old can still be moulded, but it is important to regulate her contacts and experiences.”
Emily shivered. Armando was forty-three. The idea of his marrying a seventeen-year old bride filled her with disgust, although her uncle was a handsome man and the practice was not uncommon.
“I see what you mean,” Guiseppe said, not disagreeing with his brother’s selfish outlook. “Let us hope we can settle them soon. Maybe this English cousin can be persuaded to carry them back to their own country.”
“I would not bet on it,” Armando said cynically. “If he is as rich as Mother said, he can do a lot better.”
“Even if he does not want to marry one of them, he might offer them a home in England.” Guiseppe seemed determined to look on the bright side. “They should welcome the chance to return to their own country. Only Emily has even bothered to learn Italian properly.”
Discerning from his tone that the conversation was nearing an end, Emily quickly fled down the corridor towards the staircase. She was not ashamed of having eavesdropped. If the situation was this dire, she had to know. Only, what could she do? And should she tell her mother and Margaret what she had learned? It would depress and alarm them to no good purpose. There were still several months until March, all the long winter. Some solution might yet present itself, other than being married off to some old man whose relatives might be just as hostile and unwelcoming as Armando.
She would not be asking her grandmother for the loan of any necklace, however. Her pride rebelled against taking additional favours from her cold-hearted Italian kin.
Besides, did she want to mislead potential suitors regarding her poverty? That would only cause misunderstandings and disappointment.
Chapter 6
Music and dancing can lead to a dangerous loss of inhibitions, especially when alcohol is added to the mix.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, Vol. 2, by a Lady (1824)
Emily made an effort to put aside her worries when Sir Conrad and his friend arrived to carry them off to the ball. They should really have had some older married lady in the party, to make this outing entirely respectable, even if Sir Conrad was related to them. But Mrs Bellairs was in no condition to attend, and the Contessa had better things to do than watch over her English granddaughters.
Once again Mr Wetherby was dressed very correctly, but less flamboyantly than Sir Conrad. The latter’s admiring gaze immediately fixed on Margaret. Her sister’s white and gold gown set off the mahogany sheen of her heavy tresses, piled high on her head and secured with ivory combs. Emily fleetingly wondered how she had been able to afford those combs. Margaret had a miraculous ability to make their pittance of an income stretch much further than Emily managed with all her frugal stratagems.
Emily was content to play second fiddle, but Mr Wetherby immediately drew her into conversation. “What kind of dances can we expect tonight? After my long travels abroad, I am rather out of practice.”
“I fear I shall be the inexperienced one,” Emily confessed. “This is my first dance. We have only just put aside our mourning.”
“Then let us hope it proves a pleasant experience,” Wetherby said. “I had rather expected your mother or grandmother to come to the ball as well. Of course it is gratifying that they place so much trust in Sir Conrad and me.”
“My aunt is not in good health,” Sir Conrad explained. “I can understand that she would not feel up to the strain of such an evening, and yet unwilling to deny it to her daughters.”
“Indeed, she is frailer than I could wish,” Margaret said. “The past few years have been very hard on our mother.”
“I am sorry,” Sir Conrad said. Was he apologizing for his own family’s neglect? More likely he merely wanted to look good in Margaret’s eyes. He had hardly glanced anywhere else since they first set eyes on each other in the hall of the Casa Mardiglio.
“How long do these balls last?” Wetherby asked. “Do you have some kind of curfew, an hour when you are supposed to return home?”
“Like Cinderella, you mean?” Emily grinned. “Public balls last until about three in the morning, I am told, sometimes longer than that. Nobody has ordered us to leave early.”
“We have taken a table of six where we can eat and drink, and rest between dancing,” Wetherby said. “I understand that there are two intervals for artistic performances, when the dancing is interrupted.”
“I look forward to it all,” Emily said. “If I am clumsy at first, I trust you gentlemen not to be too hard on me.”
“You move gracefully enough, I doubt you will have any trouble,” Margaret said impatiently. “I am more worried about unknown fellows asking us to dance. Without a chaperon who knows local society, we might easily accept the wrong kind, as these public dances are not particularly exclusive.”
“I shall keep an eye on you,” Sir Conrad assured Margaret. “If you move your fan sideways, I shall come to your assistance and drive away anyone pressing unwanted attentions.”
“Or I could pretend to feel faint, close to swooning,” Margaret said. From the high colour in her cheeks, Emily judged that excuse to be less than believable, but who knew what the evening would bring. She could feel Mr Wetherby’s gaze on her face, but he refrained from making any promises to look after her. Well, they were not related, after all. There was no reason why he should not please himself and dance with all the prettiest girls at the ball after doing his duty to his friend’s cousins.
Her first dance in Wetherby’s arms was a waltz and went better than she had expected. Despite his earlier words he proved to be highly adept, sweeping her around in masterful fashion. The two times she placed her feet wrong, he simply lifted her slightly off the floor, maintaining a cheerful conversation all the time. At the end of their dance her head whirled.
He bowed. “Thank you, Miss Emily, for the honour of your very first dance. I greatly enjoyed it.”
She curtseyed, more deeply than necessary to a mere commoner. “So did I, Mr Wetherby.”
He extended his arm to lead her back to their table, and as she sat, poured sweet white Muscatel from the jug into her cup. She was thirsty, but only took a small sip; it would not do to get drunk.
“Good evening, Miss Bellairs - may I have my dance now?” That Austrian officer, Hauptmann Ehrenblatt, materialised next to their table.
“If you please,” Emily said, and put her hand on the sleeve of his splendid dress uniform. Wetherby amiably waved them off. Margaret was still partnered with Sir Conrad as the tall officer and she took their places in a quadrille.
“You look very pretty in green,” her partner said in accented but fluent English.
“Thank you,” she switched to her own language. “I am partial to several other colours, red, blue and orange, but not all of them are suitable for gowns. Your own Hussar uniform is as eye-catching as any of the ladies’ gowns.” The shiny epaulettes made
his shoulders look impossibly broad. If he shaved off that moustache Ehrenblatt would be a very handsome man. Of course he probably thought it added to his allure.
“That is its purpose, like the plumage of the peacock,” he replied with a smile. “Does it work?”
“I understand officers are successful with many girls.”
“But?”
“But some of us are not immediately susceptible to splendid feathers, and try to look deeper.”
“Very wise of you,” he said with a chuckle. “Just as a wise man will look past a woman’s fine gown and pretty face, to try and guess at her true intentions. In your case that is no difficult task. Your innocence and good nature are written on your features, like an open book for anyone to read.”
“Indeed?” Her voice cooled.
“It was not meant as disparagement, but as a compliment,” he said, noting her reaction. “Forgive me if it was clumsily delivered. If you knew how much I detest scheming, selfish women, you would realize that I was only expressing my admiration of you.”
“Scheming and selfishness may be the result of necessity. We women have so few possibilities to better our circumstances,” she replied, unwilling to hear any part of womanhood maligned.
The dance separated them. “You are young, and naturally generous in your judgements,” he said when they came together. “It is a charming attribute.”
Emily made no reply, and they only exchanged a few inconsequential phrases until he led her back to the table, where Sir Conrad and Margaret had returned just before them. The Hussar led off Margaret, while Emily next danced with Sir Conrad, whose exuberance dimmed only slightly at the exchange of partners. Wetherby remained seated, picking at a platter of fine Parma ham and olives as he watched the proceedings with an inscrutable expression.
“Your sister and you are in excellent looks tonight,” Sir Conrad told Emily. “I am happy to see you out of blacks.”
“Yes, they are depressing.” Emily thought of adding that they were also highly practical when you could not afford anything else, but did not wish to sound pitiful to her rich cousin.
“I myself had to wear black armbands as recently as three months ago, for my father. Your late Uncle, that would be.”
The uncle who had cast their mother out of the family. Emily said nothing as she danced away in the ladies’ line.
“It is my impression that your mother is not happy here in Italy,” Conrad observed when they next came together and joined hands.
“This is hardly the best place to talk of that – but indeed, Mother is homesick for England, as is Margaret to a lesser extent.”
“I guessed it was so, and can fully enter into such feelings, after my own long exile from our home country.”
“We must all make the best of our circumstances,” Emily said, unwilling to accept sympathy from her cousin. “Italy could be very pleasant, at least I think so. It has much to recommend it.”
“You are admirably resilient and adaptable, Cousin Emily.” It did not sound like a compliment.
“Not by choice,” she said drily.
“Of course, Margaret has such fine sensibilities,” he went on. “As a cousin, I cannot help feeling great sympathy for her plight.”
Emily pressed her lips together, to avoid what her grandmother would have considered a pert rejoinder. If he was taken with Margaret, so much the better, and she should encourage him in that vein, rather than betray her exasperation with her sister’s changeable moods. “Margaret has always felt things deeply.”
“Yes, I could tell that at first glance. Yet she bears everything with exemplary fortitude. She is a most extraordinary girl.”
“Mmh.”
He glanced away, towards Margaret, who gracefully twirled around the Hauptmann. “No wonder she excites admiration.”
“I doubt that officer is seriously interested in either of us.”
“No, and I am glad you are so sensible, Emily. Officers can be very dangerous to romantic young girls.”
“Nobody has ever accused me of being romantic.”
“What of Margaret, though?”
“She is more romantic than I, but not a fool for all that, Cousin.” He seemed thoroughly smitten; it was almost amusing to watch his head constantly turning in Margaret’s direction, like a compass needle towards the North. But would it last? Some men fell in and out of love at the drop of a hat.
“Mr Wetherby has a great deal of address,” Emily said. “What do you know of him?”
“Rather little, actually, except that he is a splendid fellow and from what I could observe, not wanting in blunt. He is clearly a gentleman of breeding, and mentioned once that he has studied at Merton College in Oxford. I shouldn’t wonder if he had taken a first, he is very clever.”
“What about his family?”
“He recently mentioned that his closest relative is a married elder sister.”
“Yet Wetherby is still not out of his twenties,” Emily said. “It is sad to lose parents prematurely.”
“Well, such is the way of life. I am also orphaned, and quite a bit younger than Wetherby. You are lucky to still have your mother.”
“I know.”
Chapter 7
If something seems too good to be true, it generally is.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, Vol. 2, by a Lady (1824)
Ehrenblatt introduced a number of fellow officers to their party, and somewhat to her surprise, Emily danced nearly every dance. Her proficiency at waltzing increased under the young men’s enthusiastic tutelage. Overcoming her initial shyness she soon engaged in light badinage with these sprigs, insofar as they spoke Italian, relishing the occasion to match wits with anyone outside the austere Mardiglio household.
Sir Conrad and Mr Wetherby danced with a few young Veronese ladies, but regularly returned to their table. At midnight the orchestra paused and they watched a performance of jugglers and mimes in glittering Venetian fancy dress, drinking and eating all the while.
Still avoiding the wine, Emily was very thirsty. Wetherby must have noticed, for he ordered a jug of lemonade delivered to their table. When it arrived and he filled her cup, she quietly but sincerely expressed her thanks. Considerate and attentive men were all too rare in her experience.
“I commend your prudence,” he replied with a smile. “A lady should always keep her wits about her, especially at such a mixed affair as this.” He looked around the huge hall with a somewhat critical air.
“And gentlemen as well,” she replied, keeping her voice low. “Italians can generally hold their wine, but then at this time of night I am rarely out in society.”
Neither Margaret nor Sir Conrad had moderated their consumption of wine, and if they had not also partaken of a substantial quantity of food, might be in the beginning stages of inebriation by now. Her sister’s colour was even higher than at the beginning of the evening, reddening her usually rosy lips; there was an almost febrile gleam in her fine dark eyes that made Emily uneasy.
After the midnight performance, the atmosphere gradually changed – the quantities of alcohol consumed loosened constraints, and though there was nothing overtly alarming, Emily could not like the way people danced more wildly. Another officer begged for a dance, and Margaret encouraged her to accept, following her on the arm of yet another dashing Hussar.
When that dance ended Emily found their table deserted. Where was Margaret? Would Sir Conrad remember his promise to keep an eye on her? Emily searched for her sister in the withdrawing room, in vain. There were a number of side rooms yet to search, and the vestibule – she set off, determined to give her sister a piece of her mind when she ran her down. To desert Emily like this, risking both their reputations – Margaret was no fool, what on earth could she be playing at? Emily would insist on returning to the Casa Mardiglio as soon as practicable.
“What are you doing out here, all alone?” A slurred male voice interrupted her angry thoughts as she stood in the middle of a side room, scanning i
ts sparse furniture. Emily started; an officer was lounging on a settee near the door that she had overlooked in the dim light. He was leisurely standing up, not taking his eyes from her.
“I am looking for my escort, he cannot be far.”
“He is probably busy with some other woman,” the man said. His uniform was green rather than white like those worn by most of the other officers. “I’ll let you go after you pay a ransom – a kiss will do for a start.”
“Sir!” She drew herself up to her full, lamentably unimpressive height, and threw him a glance of cold contempt. “Have you no shame? No gentleman would demand that!”
“Little you know about it, you green girl,” he grinned, looking at her gown, “the question is rather, are you a lady?”
He advanced upon her, clearly intent on stealing that kiss, when a cold voice behind his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.
“What are you doing with my young relative, Sir?”
Wetherby had found her. Emily breathed a sigh of relief. “Here is my escort now – I suggest you leave,” she told the drunken officer, moving close to the Englishman’s side. He put out his arm for her right away, bless him.
“Can’t blame a fellow for trying, when you wander around all alone.” The officer sounded aggrieved. “What kind of escort allows that?”
“Just go,” Wetherby said. “Your inane observations are not wanted or needed. Find some other woman who finds you more tolerable.”
Though half a head shorter than the drunken officer, Wetherby dominated the scene with his quiet authority. Of course he was still sober, that might have something to do with it. Emily watched in silence as the officer lurched towards the doors.
“We should not be here alone, either,” Wetherby said when he was gone at last. “I suppose you were searching for your sister? Miss Bellairs and Sir Conrad are both at the table now, and worried for you.”
