by Laura London
“Twice,” said Christopher, regretfully. “Only twice. But then Jeffrey didn’t hit it at all. But I did hit the bull’s-eye in entertainment terms, Princess. Squire Macready is having a ball this weekend and your humble servant here is going to escort you.”
“Banbury tales won’t mend torn sails,” I remarked tartly if obscurely. “The Macreadys would never invite me into their sacred portals. Why, the squire won’t even let us in to see his thoroughbreds—probably thinks we’ll contaminate them with our vulgar peasant ways.”
Christopher grinned and pulled from his pocket a card of invitation, addressed to me. The envelope was perhaps a little shopworn from such a close acquaintance with the inside of Christopher’s pocket, but the contents, in an elegant gilt scrawl, confirmed Christopher’s words. I was bereft of speech.
“I can’t understand it,” I said, studying the invitation with awe. The Macreadys’ social ambitions were the byword of the village, and I could readily understand what a social triumph it would be for them to have Lord Dearborne and Christopher on the guest list. I could well imagine that the marquis would become “Dear Lord Dearborne” to Mrs. Macready and that for months to come she would regale her friends with the story of his visit to her house. But why had she felt impelled to include me in the invitation? I sighed and decided “impelled” was probably the right word. Christopher looked like a mischievous kitten climbing a curtain. I wondered if this was part of his plan to show me that I was not “nobody.” I folded the invitation, stuffed it resolutely inside my tight sleeve for safekeeping, and looked up at Christopher.
“There’s no purpose to discussing it further because it will come to nothing anyway. There are a million reasons why I can’t go to this ball,” I pronounced dampeningly.
“Fiddle” said Christopher. “Name two.”
“I have nothing to wear and I don’t know how to dance.”
“Paltry details. I’ll teach you how to dance. Tolerable dancer, m’self, not wishing to boast,” boasted Christopher.
“And are you a tolerable dressmaker, too? I can barely sew a hem. Forget making a new ball dress.”
“Well, you can forget making a new ball dress,” Christa retorted. “Lord Dearborne came back from London last night and what do you think he brought with him?”
“Trouble!” I said shortly, my encounter with the marquis fresh in my mind. I saw Christa’s eyes widen and hastily turned the subject before she could seek elaboration on my remark. “I hope that he’s brought a new cook. Poor Mrs. Goodbody trembles at the thought of cooking for Lord Dearborne.”
“Well, he did bring a new cook, but that’s not all. Our new clothes are here; Robert carried the trunks over to the cottage this morning and Mrs. Goodbody hardly knows where it’s all to go. It’s beautiful stuff, too. Mrs. Goodbody says you can tell it’s made in the finest shop—and there are good dresses made of real silk! Think of it, Lizzie—you and real silk.” Christa paused for a moment, apparently overcome by the power of her vision of me in real silk.
I suppose that these revelations should have made me feel more grateful to Lord Dearborne. But I remembered his curt tones and the fingers that could be so gentle one minute and hurtful the next. Did he think that because he gave me dresses he had the right to insult me? “Startled sheep” still rankled. The less I saw or heard of Lord Dearborne, the better for my peace of mind.
“Right, sweet, you’ve given two reasons for not going to the ball. You said there were a million reasons. What are the other nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-eight?” said Christopher.
“How did you say all that without one stumble, Kit?”
“Hidden talent. No need to worry ’bout how to go on at the ball. I’ll stick close to you and play the mentor. Don’t be obstinate.”
“I was hoping that you’d talk me into it.” I was laughing now. “All right, mentor, I have complete faith in your ability to prepare me for any situation that might arise at a ball.”
“Such touching naïveté,” Christopher said, chucking me under the chin with his fist. “M’sister would be horrified if she knew I’d taken it ’pon myself to ready a young girl for her come-out in society.”
Christopher was true to his word. That week, the lessons I received from him would have done credit to the strictest duenna. In fact, it did cross my mind that there was quite an astonishing scope to his knowledge of feminine behavior. Once, as he was teaching me the stops in a quadrille, he told me:
“Lord’s sake, ’Lizabeth, don’t bend over so far. Your gown will gape so at the bodice that people will see clear to your waist.”
“Christopher Warrington!” I said, shocked to receive this sophisticated tip. “Where did you ever…? I mean, how do you…? You know, something like that would never have occurred to me.”
“Don’t know how I know, must have heard about it somewhere.” His eyes twinkled. “And ’course I know that it would never occur to you. That’s why I told you, m’dear. A greener girl I’ve never met in my life.”
By Friday night, Christopher was so pleased with the progress of my dancing lessons that he pronounced me “graceful enough to please the severest critic.”
“Of all the bouncers! Just after I trod on your toe, too, during the last country dance we practiced. And you know that half the time I forget the steps and wind up curtseying to the wrong side.”
“Dash it all, Elizabeth, you’re so lovely that there ain’t a fellow alive who’d notice if you dance the whole set standing on his instep.” He grinned. “Oh, don’t color up so. A girl must allow one compliment per dancing master, at least.”
As for the trunks of clothes that came from London, I can only say that they contained a wardrobe of which the most stylish young London lady would be proud and, yes, my silly Christa was able to gaze at the spectacle of me in real silk. To me, the cheerful donner of many a hand-it-down and make-it-over, this was heaven. I won’t describe all the dresses that arrived, though; what could be more tedious than a catalogue of someone else’s wardrobe?
I thought of seeking out the marquis to thank him for the outlay of what had obviously been a very generous sum of money; but somehow, I couldn’t. What if he tried to touch me again? Perhaps I should have slapped his face, that morning in the library. Christa, an avid novel-reader, had once assured me that was the proper treatment for overly familiar gentlemen. Wryly, I remembered the strength in Lord Dearborne’s grasp, the bright hostility of his gaze. Had I slapped him, I don’t doubt that he would have retaliated in a very unpleasant manner. I decided against thanking him—Mrs. Goodbody had already done it once and he would probably just treat me to the rough side of his tongue anyway.
The night of the ball arrived too soon. I was to have more attendants to prepare for that night than Queen Caroline needed on the day of her wedding. Actually, it was only the twins, Mrs. Goodbody, and Jane Coleman, but Janey and Mrs. Goodbody were so solicitous and attentive, and the twins were so wild and underfoot, it seemed as though I were getting ready in a marketplace. Four times Janey tried to put my hair up before she was satisfied with the effect. The first three tries looked as though I had a recent narrow escape from a pack of head hunters—not that they would have wanted a head looking like that.
Yet with all the trouble of getting ready, I was set to go a full ten minutes before Christopher was to call for me. The assembled multitude had chosen a gown for me from the London arrivals which they deemed appropriate for a country ball: a willowy creation of coral pink sarcenet with tiny puff sleeves and a narrow buoyant skirt trimmed in a double pleating of winter-white ribbon. Caro’s contribution was a pair of white rosebuds from the garden to ornament the low bodice. She forgot to excise the thorns from the sprig and I was nearly maimed for life. I wondered if this was what they meant by the hazards of fashionable life.
Too agitated to await his arrival, I ran up to the manor to show Christopher my finery. Roger, Lord Dearborne’s valet, met me at the door and, after paying kindly
tribute to my new gown, informed me that Master Christopher could be found in the library. I tripped excitedly down the hall and pirouetted through the door. Christopher was standing by the window; his mouth dropped open when I entered. I saw it. I was silly with excitement.
“Oh, Kit, I had so much fun getting ready. You should have seen the first way Janey did my hair with the topknot askew and hanging over my right shoulder. Isn’t this gown a dream? And look at this, real satin gloves. But do you think this bodice shows too much of my bosom? I recall that you said when women bend over that they…”
Christopher was laughing and at this last he raised delightedly scandalized eyebrows and clapped one hand over my active mouth.
“I can see one area I’ve definitely neglected. That’s one thing you can’t talk about in public and I hereby declare this public. Now make your curtsey to Uncle Nicky; no young lady on her social debut should omit her courtesies to a marquis. No, sweetheart, he’s right behind you. Won’t she make the ladies go green, Uncle Nicky?”
Uncle Nicky? Christopher had pulled me around to face Lord Dearborne before I knew what was happening. The marquis was regarding me through eyes as critically slitted as Kit’s were openly admiring. I wondered if he disapproved of Christopher’s taking me to the ball; perhaps he thought I should have stayed put in my cottage like a good little milkmaid.
Both Christopher and the marquis were dressed in fine evening clothes, worn with the natural confidence of the wealthy and well-bred. Christopher looked almost as much an Adonis as the marquis. I felt like a dandelion in a daffodil garden.
“No need to take your lip between your teeth like that, infant, I won’t eat you,” Lord Dearborne drawled, coming forward to take my hand.
“Lord, yes, Elizabeth. You look as if I’d suddenly grown a pair of horns and a tail,” Christopher said.
“I’m sorry, Kit, it’s just that I never thought that you were good-looking before. Now what have I said to make you go into whoops? Christopher Warrington, if you don’t stop laughing at me this minute, I’ll stab you with one of the thorns from my rosebuds.”
“I’ve learned to be wary of young ladies with thorns in their rosebuds,” said Christopher, with a wink at Lord Dearborne. “I’m a wretch to tease you, Elizabeth, but you see it’s no secret to me that you’ve never paid attention to the way I look, one way or the other. And now, to my chagrin, you do notice and disapprove.” He made a mock-sad face and held out his arm to me. “Well, then, since you’re not disposed to admire me, I might at least have the honor of escorting you to the coach. There’s no quicker way of putting Uncle Nicky in a temper than to keep his horses waiting.”
Thus I left for my first ball.
The setting sun played through the curtains of the carriage, glazing the cranberry velvet of the interior with a deep red fire. I was sitting next to Christopher and the marquis sat across from us. I felt the sun hit the side of my face and it was a touch too bright, so I turned a little from it. The velvet, as velvet will, made a change of color when rubbed the wrong way. To pass the time, I tried writing my nickname in the pile. L-I-Z shone in the sun. When I raised my eyes I saw the marquis looking at me. I turned to Christopher and said hurriedly:
“I expect there will be many people there tonight I’ve never met before.”
“Does meeting new people make you nervous, m’dear?”
“No-o. Well, perhaps it does sometimes. It depends on how they act toward me. Janey said that Mrs. Macready hired extra help from the village because she was having houseguests. Did Jeffrey tell you who they were?”
“Godfrey Woodman, for one. He’s a friend of Jeffrey’s. Fancies himself a poet. Lady Doran stays there as well. Did you know that she is some sort of cousin to the squire’s wife, Uncle Nicky?”
“I believe they have mutually discovered a family tie,” agreed Lord Dearborne drily, relaxing against the coach’s seat.
“I’ve seen Lady Catherine once before, Kit,” I said. “She came to Barfrestly in this very carriage. Of course I didn’t know that she was Lord Dearborne’s betrothed until later. And this carriage. I never thought that I would ride in anything like it or wear such lovely clothes or go to a real ball. It’s just as though I were a real lady.”
Christopher frowned. “Back up a little, Elizabeth. Figuratively, I mean. What did you just say?”
“Um, about being like a lady?”
“You are a lady, sweetness. Before that.”
“I said I never thought I’d ride in a carriage like this.”
“Before that,” pursued Christopher patiently.
“Did you have too much wine at dinner, Kit? I was talking about Lady Catherine. I said I hadn’t known that she is Lord Dearborne’s fiancée.”
“Right,” approved Christopher. “Wherever did you get a foolish idea like that? She’s no more Uncle Nicky’s fiancée than she is mine.”
“Mrs. Blakslee said, when Lady Doran and Lord Dearborne stayed at the inn that she…” I stopped. Lord Dearborne was regarding me with a fascinated air and Christopher’s hand flew to his brow. Perceiving that I had erred grievously, I tried lamely to correct my mistake. “I mean, since she was staying at the same inn as Lord Dearborne I thought that meant they were engaged to be…” My voice trailed off into unhappy silence. I think that I remarked earlier that I am the world’s worst sinner. Some people gossip like magpies in the morning and never fare the worse for it, and I hear one snippet of scandal and blurt it out in the presence of one of the parties concerned.
“First Mrs. Plumford and now Mrs. Blakslee.” The Marquis of Lorne tipped his bicorne to the back of his head with the tip of his cane. “The village goodwives should take care who is listening before they let loose with their on-dits. Kit, I salute your courage in endeavoring to shepherd this lamb through the weedy pastures of society. Careful her bleat doesn’t bring the wolves down on you.”
Christopher grinned at his guardian. “My lamb will melt the heart of the hungriest predator.”
“Perhaps she will,” returned the marquis, lightly. He reached out his hand to give one of my springy ringlets a good-humored tweak. “Keep a guard on your artless tongue tonight, my pet. Discretion is a valued accomplishment.” The smile that accompanied his words was so attractive that I began to understand the reasons behind Lady Catherine’s midnight ramblings at the inn.
The rest of the ride was spent with Christopher regaling me with anecdotes about the many elegant horses that were, he assured me, stabled at Lord Dearborne’s principal estate in Sussex. Upon learning that I had never so much as sat on a horse, he promised that he and “Uncle Nicky” would procure suitable animals and teach my sisters and me to ride. Gratified though I was, I dismissed his promise from my mind, thinking that it was mere civility. How much I underrated Christopher.
Walking through the squire’s ridiculously overdecorated hallway, I clutched Christopher’s arm a trifle tightly. The squire and Mrs. Macready came forward to greet the marquis and Christopher with the same gobbling enthusiasm a pair of tom turkeys might bestow on a fresh scattering of grain. I was perfectly satisfied, not to say relieved, with the degree of tepid courtesy in the Macreadys’ welcome for me. I had never quite convinced myself that Christopher hadn’t forged my invitation.
Jeffrey Macready broke away from a chattering crowd of well-scrubbed, tony young people and bore Kit and me off to join them. I was introduced to so many people at once that I didn’t absorb their identities, though some of the names were familiar as local land-owning gentry. I was gratified with their friendly acceptance of me, but wondered if it was just good manners or if Christopher’s introduction of me was entrée enough. After a few minutes of conversation, the musicians picked up their instruments and the dancing began.
The room whirled around in the soft yellow candle-glow as about thirty couples performed. Jeffrey claimed my hand after Christopher and, later, in the most gallant fashion, several of Jeffrey’s friends asked me to dance. The music made time pass alar
mingly fast; I was afraid the sparkling melodies would be over before I had time to savor them fully. Dancing, listening, exchanging smiles with my partners, I wished it would all last forever. Once Christopher passed me in a movement of the dance and gave me a wink and nod. I saw, far on the other side of the ballroom, Lady Doran and the marquis dancing together. They made a stunning couple. Lady Catherine was wearing a gown of clinging silver silk which sent dazzling, mobile reflections from the candles. And the marquis—well, you never really notice what he’s wearing—it’s the general effect, like a thoroughbred at the racetrack.
A young man named Godfrey was about to ask me for another dance when Christopher appeared, more or less requisitioning my company. He said I looked flushed, what I needed was a glass of lemonade and a breather. He led me to a divan by the wall, sitting me next to Jeffrey’s younger sister, Cecilia, and then disappeared in search of the refreshment.
“Miss Macready, Christopher tells me that you are cousins with Lady Doran,” I said politely. Cecilia giggled and rolled her eyes expressively.
“Oh, yes, indeed, my dear Miss Cordell,” she replied, fluttering her pudgy hands as she spoke. “Why, Lady Doran never cared two pins about us or our relationship until Lord Dearborne inherited the old admiral’s estate. Poor Mama had been trying to get Lady Catherine’s attention for years; for all that she’s as fast as she can be, she moves in the highest circles. Dear me, she’s been the talk of the town ever since she was widowed two years ago, though so careful never to make an open scandal, until now. Mama says she’s as indiscreet as a Covent Garden strumpet over Lord Dearborne. That’s why she’s come to stay with us.” Cecilia gave another one of her warbling giggles. “You see, Miss Cordell, she admires our geographical position.”
Now how was I supposed to respond to that? Kit, where are you? The last thing I wanted to hear was more gossip about Lady Catherine. And so I told Cecilia, who nodded in good-natured assent. As an alternative, she suggested we gossip about Lord Dearborne. Snapping her ivory fan and blinking her sparse eyelashes like a chicken in a windstorm, she warmed to her theme.
