“Shall you dance with lots of men?” asked Patrick with a frown.
“Of course I shall.”
“But what of Timothy?”
She could tell this wasn’t an idle question. Patrick had always liked Timothy and expected her to marry him. She’d have to set him straight. “First, I am not betrothed to Timothy,” she said gently. “Second, your grandfather wants me to grow accustomed to the glittering society you’re going to be living in the rest of your life. Dancing with other men is quite acceptable.”
“I’ve finished with the pinning, miss.”
Carefully holding up her skirt, Evleen stepped down and went to her mirror. “Oh,” she said with a gasp, unable to contain her delight. Her nearly completed gown was of white silk, high-waisted, low-cut, and adorned with clusters of pink roses around the hem, accompanied by wide bands of white lace trim. Best of all, this gown was practically all her own creation. She chose the pattern and fabric herself, and if she did say so, it had turned out perfectly. Wait until Thomas sees me, she thought, then caught herself. These past few days, she’d had great difficulty keeping her mind off Thomas and their hot, breathless, totally unexpected kiss in the darkness of the coach. So utterly wrong. “Highly improper,” Lydia would say, but for the life of her, she couldn’t work up any guilt. Instead, she felt deliciously wicked. If Lydia could have seen into the back of that carriage, she would be so scandalized!
But there was something else, too, that kept her thoughts on Thomas, something beyond a frivolous kiss. She’d felt it when, trembling, he’d taken her in his arms, and when his lips found hers, she could have sworn there was more than lust on his mind, there was something deeper, as if he meant his kiss to tell her something. Oh, it was so hard to know what he was truly thinking.
But this was wrong, thinking so much about him. If Mama wanted her to marry a rich, titled Englishman, she would try, and in the process forget about Thomas.
Lydia entered as the dressmaker was leaving. “Well, Evleen, I see your dress is nearly complete. Let me look at you.”
Evleen dutifully turned and stood quietly as the older woman examined her with a critical eye. “Hmm, that should do for the ball next week.” Her remark carried all the warmth of a frost-covered tombstone.
“If only it were ready for tonight,” Evleen said wistfully.
“Charlotte’s gown is perfectly suitable for tonight,” Lydia replied, her voice devoid of sympathy. “I trust you’re aware Lady Claremont’s ball is one of the most important events of the Season. Everybody who is anybody will be there, and I advise you act accordingly.”
Evleen stiffened, sensing immediately the implied insult.
“Just what do you mean by ‘accordingly,’ Mrs. Trevlyn? That I not spit on the floor? That I not rip my clothes off and dance in my chemise? That I—?” Oh-oh. She had gone to far. She could tell because Lydia’s mouth had dropped open and her face was turning purple.
“You know what I mean,” snapped Lydia. That she was annoyed was an understatement. “You would be wise to stay away from Montague. And might I suggest you say as little as possible? That way, no one will know you come from Ireland.”
I’ve done it now, thought Evleen, regretting her impudent answer. She must keep reminding herself of her vow to maintain good relations with the Trevlyns, no matter what. She didn’t want to apologize but knew she must. “I am truly sorry for my frivolous answer, Mrs. Trevlyn. Have no fear, I shall be as circumspect as a nun.”
“That’s good to hear, Evleen.”
Hearing a trace of softening in Lydia’s voice, Evleen decided to go a step farther. “I want you to know how sorry I am about... well, everything. It must have been very difficult—I mean, expecting your husband would be the heir to Lord Trevlyn’s estate, and then here came Patrick, without so much as a warning.”
After an awkward moment of silence, Lydia’s face twisted with emotion. “You have no idea how difficult. We’ve lost our fortune. If we’re not careful, the girls won’t marry nearly as well. And I... I...” She gulped, rigidly holding tears in check. “All these years I expected that some day I would have a title. My dear friend, Mrs. Drummond-Burrel, expects a title. Some day she’ll become Lady Willoughby de Eresby, but will I ever become Lady Trevlyn? No! Because of Patrick, I am doomed to being nothing more than plain Mrs. Trevlyn—” her voice began to rise “—for the rest of my life.”
How amazing. Evleen found it hard to believe Lydia’s main concern in life appeared to be the loss of a title she never had. How shallow to put such value on a mere word in front of one’s name. And yet, it was clear her anguish was genuine. Evleen had never expected she’d feel sympathy for this bitter, mirthless woman, but now she did. “I am so sorry,” she began, but Lydia raised a hand to silence her.
“Don’t. There’s nothing you can do about it, is there?” In complete control of herself once again, Lydia squared her shoulders. “Was there anything else, Evleen?”
After allowing that one brief crack in her armor, Lydia was obviously back to her old self again. To say anything more on the subject would be useless. Instead, Evleen decided to voice a small fear that had been nagging her. “In Ireland, we did the country dances. Is it the same here?”
For a fleeting moment, Evleen could have sworn she saw a tiny glitter of triumph in Lydia’s eyes, but she must have been mistaken because the older woman smiled and said, “You’ll do fine. You shouldn’t have a bit of trouble with the dances. They are all quite easy and you can simply learn as you go along.”
“Then I shall do my best,” Evleen said, greatly relieved.
“I’m sure you will.” Lydia’s jaw tightened. “Remember, our family’s reputation is at stake. We cannot tolerate another of your little escapades.”
“Now you’ve done it,” said Patrick after Lydia left. He had listened silently, still perched on Evleen’s bed.
“Yes, I’ve made her angry, haven’t I?” Evleen answered thoughtfully. “It’s my own fault, too.”
“You shouldn’t have been so impudent.”
“That’s quite perceptive of you, Patrick,” she answered, not happy hearing the truth from an ten-year-old. Hands on hips, she advised, “Well, let that be a lesson to you, my future Lord Trevlyn. It’s usually best to hold one’s tongue.”
“I don’t want to be Lord Trevlyn, I want to go home.”
Surprised, she said, “But I thought you liked it here.”
“Yes, I do like it. Grandfather has been wonderful to me, but I...” Patrick bit his lip. He appeared to be on the verge of tears. “I miss Mama, and Darragh, and all of them. I want to go home.”
Patrick’s tears started to flow as Evleen, fancy ball dress and all, knelt and took him in her arms. “Twill be all right, little brother,” she crooned as she rocked him, “we must not give up. Mama wants you to stay, remember? Her last letter said she’s much better. I, too, want to go home in the very worst way, but we’ll stay and see this through, won’t we?” Patrick nodded, wiping tears away. “And we won’t let the English get the better of us, will we?”
“No, Evleen, we won’t.” Patrick smiled through his tears. “If I stay, you must stay.”
“Of course.” She forced a bright smile. “And I shall marry a very rich and ever-so-titled Englishman, just as Mama said.”
Patrick eyed her with suspicion. “Mama said you should never love an Englishman. You wouldn’t, would you?”
“Of course not. Are you daft?”
As Patrick smiled, relieved, Evleen asked herself, how does the child know? Uncanny, how he sensed the doubt that had begun to cloud her thinking these past few days, and especially since Thomas’s kiss. But that was nonsense. She knew what she had to do, and she, honorable woman that she was, would do it.
* * *
“You look pretty, Evleen,” said Amanda who had just entered Evleen’s bedchamber.
They were about to leave for the ball. Evleen looked down at the mud-colored gown and knew she didn’t look pre
tty at all. She hated this gown. Worse, Celeste, occupied with the sisters’ demands, had no extra time, so Evleen had been compelled to do her hair herself. Adequate could best describe her up-swept coiffeur, she thought with dismal certainty.
“You look pretty, too,” she said to Amanda. And indeed, the girl looked charming in a lavender lace gown, her hair caught up in a mother-of-pearl comb.
Amanda shook her head. “Charlotte and Bettina say I’m too fat.”
“Not at all.” Evleen had heard with her own ears the outrageous manner in which Amanda’s sisters constantly criticized her. Truly, she wasn’t fat. She simply wasn’t as scrawny-looking as her mother and sisters. She was very pretty, in fact, and if she hadn’t been so browbeaten all her life, she could easily be popular and sought-after. “You’re not too fat. You’re just right, and you mustn’t let others convince you otherwise.”
Amanda remained unconvinced. “I wish I could be more like you, Evleen. You are so beautiful. And you have such spirit, and you always seem so sure of yourself.”
“Perhaps on the surface.” Evleen sighed, thinking of the enmity directed at her from the elder Trevlyns. “Underneath I worry as much as anyone. I must be on my best behavior tonight. Heaven help me if I do anything wrong.”
“You won’t.” Amanda regarded her with admiring eyes. She noticed Evleen’s empty hands. “But where is your fan?”
“I don’t have a fan. It’s chilly tonight. I shall have no desire to stir up a breeze.”
Amanda giggled. “Silly, you don’t carry a fan to really fan yourself. I noticed you didn’t carry one at the rout, but tonight you absolutely must have one for the ball.”
“Well, I don’t. I shall go without.”
“You can’t.” For once, Amanda appeared to take a firm stand. “The fan is a most important fashion accessory. I shall loan you one of mine and I shan’t take no for an answer.”
Without another word, Amanda left and shortly returned with a satin-lined fan box made of finely polished wood, filled with fans. “Take your pick, although I think the lace-and-ivory is the perfect match.”
“If I must, I must, but it still seems silly.” With reluctance, Evleen selected the small, lace-and-ivory fan. “They’d be laughing their heads off in County Clare if they saw me waving this around.”
“You don’t just wave it, you must learn the language of the fan,” said Amanda, ignoring Evleen’s complaint. “If you carry it in the left hand, thus, that means ‘desirous of an acquaintance.’ If you carry it in the right hand, that means—”
“Never mind,” Evleen interrupted with a smile. “I shall do my own speaking tonight, and not through a fan. Carrying it will be more than enough.” She tugged at one of the long white gloves she was wearing and grimaced. “I’m not accustomed to these. Must I wear them all evening?”
“Of course you must.” Amanda giggled again. “There’s also a language of the gloves. If you bite the tips that means, ‘I wish to be rid of you very soon.’ If you drop both of them, that means—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Evleen replied, laughing even harder. “Suffice to say, I’ll wear the silly things, but I won’t be speaking through my fan or my gloves.”
Amanda’s expression grew solemn. “Evleen, I...”
It seemed as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t get the words out. Evleen asked, “What is it, Amanda?”
The girl started to blush. “I want more than anything to be just like you.”
Evleen was taken aback. “I?” she asked, pointing at herself. “I am not exactly your mother’s ideal of female perfection.”
“I don’t care what mother thinks. I admire you because you don’t simper. You’re strong and independent, and you think for yourself.” She sighed. “I would give anything to be like you.”
“Then be like me,” said Evleen.
“How?”
“Well, it’s very easy. You hold your head high, keep your shoulders back, and do what you think is right, not what other people want you to do.”
“I shall try.”
“Good. That’s all there is to it.”
Evleen was proud of herself for sounding so completely confident. Underneath, all she could hope for was that her insecurity didn’t show, not only to Amanda, but later tonight, to “all those people who count” at Lady Claremont’s ball. Would Lord Thomas be there? She should not be thinking about him, but, all the same, she was.
* * *
The ball was well underway when Evleen and the Trevlyns stepped into Lady Claremont’s ballroom. At first, Evleen felt overwhelmed. Never had she seen so many tiers of lighted candles flickering on crystal chandeliers, heard such stirring music, seen so many people so elegantly attired. In truth, “everybody who was anybody” was here, just as Lydia predicted. May I not commit any gaffes tonight, Evleen sternly resolved as she stood with the Trevlyns, near a row of chaperones. Her conduct would be so impeccable Lydia Trevlyn would find not one little thing to complain about. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about knowing the dances. In the ugly dress she was wearing, there was little chance any man would ask her to dance.
“Don’t forget your fan,” Amanda whispered from behind her own fan.
Evleen held her fan clutched to her side. She considered placing it in front of her mouth as Amanda had done, but it was just too silly. She left it where it was.
Montague appeared and gave them both a warm greeting. Evleen knew she shouldn’t ask but couldn’t resist. “And where is your brother tonight, Lord Eddington?”
“My brother has left for Tanglewood Hall, his estate near Abingdon.”
Her heart sank. She knew she should not be disappointed, but she was.
“You will have to make do with me,” said Montague with a supercilious smirk. “Would you care to dance?”
Not really. Not with this vain, overdressed fop, but what could she say? It was beyond her that he was actually Thomas’s brother, the two were so different in so many ways. But this was the night she must be flawlessly correct, no matter what. She gave him her most gracious smile. “I would be delighted.”
He led her onto the dance floor, but when the music began, she froze in dismay. A waltz! As her thoughts churned, Montague placed one hand on the back of her waist, while with the other, he held her arm straight out. He stepped forward to begin the dance, but she, not knowing which way to step, stood rigid, feeling at once both awkward and gauche. Panic swept through her as she looked around at all the graceful dancers floating by. No use. She would disgrace herself if she even made an attempt at the unfamiliar steps. Only one thing could she do, no matter how humiliating. “I... I am terribly sorry, Lord Eddington, but I don’t know how to waltz.”
“Would you care to try?” he asked. “I should wager one twirl around the floor and you’ll catch on.”
“I think not,” she replied, knowing it would take more than one of Montague’s twirls for her not to make a fool of herself. “Please, may we leave the floor?”
Montague appeared nonplused, but only for a moment. “Quite all right, Miss O’Fallon. I shall return you to your chaperone. Perhaps later, when the orchestra plays something... uh, more simple, we shall dance.”
Evleen could feel a blush of shame creep over her cheeks as Montague led her to the sidelines. When they arrived, he added to her humiliation when he proceeded to ask Charlotte, “Would you care to dance? It appears Miss O’Fallon, doesn’t... er, care to waltz.”
As if the whole world wouldn’t know that socially inept Miss O’Fallon did not know how to waltz!
Numb with embarrassment, Evleen stood at the edge of the dance floor and watched as Montague swept Charlotte into his arms and whirled her away. As the two dipped and twirled to the strains of the lively waltz, she saw how skilled they were, how exceedingly graceful, thus making her mortification so much the worse.
She wondered why Lydia Trevlyn had mislead her. Quickly she found the answer. To make a fool of me–discredit me in the eyes
of Montague and all the rest.
Evleen found a chair in a remote corner where she sat, wishing she could make herself invisible. The orchestra struck up another waltz, followed by a quadrille, which she also couldn’t dance. She felt dowdy, clumsy, awkward and awful.
It was going to be long night.
“Good evening, Miss O’Fallon.”
Lord Thomas! Looking exceedingly handsome in his formal clothes, he stood before her, bending in a smooth little bow.
Startled, she leaped to her feet and blurted, “But I thought you weren’t coming.” She regretted her words instantly, not wanting him to know she thought of him at all.
“I changed my plans, obviously.” His forehead furrowed in an inquisitive frown. “Why aren’t you dancing?”
“I... have a headache.” She hated to lie, but she’d be even further humiliated if he learned the truth.
“A headache?” he asked, obviously unconvinced. He smiled with beautiful candor and said, “You look lovely tonight. I cannot imagine why you’re hiding in a corner. In fact, I would have thought you’d have captured every man’s heart by now and become the belle of the ball.”
“Obviously not.” She knew he was just being polite because how could he think she looked lovely when her hair was awful and she wore this ugly dress? She knew she’d sounded cool, but her thoughts were chaotic as she tried to decide what to say next. If she was too friendly, he would ask her to dance, perish the thought.
“Do you realize we’ve never danced together before?” He extended his hand. “Let us remedy that lamentable state of affairs right now, shall we?”
The orchestra struck up another waltz. Oh, no. How many times tonight could she die of shame? What to do? She did not want to be rude, but on the other hand, she most definitely did not want Thomas to witness her making a fool of herself.
“I do not care to dance with you, Lord Thomas.”
For a fleeting moment, Thomas looked as if he had been struck. Quickly his face became a mask. “Well, then,” he said, obviously giving himself time to arrange his thoughts. He gave her a slight bow and with effortless grace continued, “Delightful to see you again, Miss O’Fallon. Good night. Have a pleasant evening.”
The Irish Upstart Page 18
