A Debutante in Disguise

by Eleanor Webster

  This in itself irritated. It was irrational. Even her proximity unsettled. Granted, he was glad that they did not have to use a foghorn to communicate, but her location so close to him gave the evening an intimacy he had not intended.

  It was strange. After months of feeling nothing, now the merest sensation caused discomfort.

  Perhaps it was similar to the pain of returning indoors after a snowball fight with Edgar when they were children. Their hands and faces would get so cold that homecoming and the hot nursery fire caused considerable discomfort.

  He became aware of Miss Barton’s scrutiny as she sat to his left, leaning forward slightly.

  ‘Your expression is quite interesting,’ she said. ‘I cannot decide if you are happy or sad.’

  Neither could he. A mix of everything with every feeling intensified.

  ‘I was thinking of snowballs.’

  ‘Snowballs? Really, I used to play with my brother. And Father, occasionally.’ Her face softened with reminiscence. ‘Ramsey always won, which was disheartening.’

  ‘You are competitive.’

  ‘No, but Father and I always based our strategy on science. Indeed, we would plot force and momentum. I am always sad when science is outdone by brawn.’

  He laughed. He couldn’t help it. She looked so disheartened. ‘I have never heard of anyone making a snowball fight into a scientific experiment. You do know there are some things which cannot be plotted and dissected into scientific strategies?’

  ‘I am not convinced. And to date I haven’t encountered anything else which is reassuring.’

  ‘There are other things.’

  ‘Really? Like what?’ She leaned forward, so that her gown gaped just slightly.

  Lovemaking, he thought. He would like to see to see her lose that restraint and become aroused, not by logic and reason, but by passion. There was something intriguing about this love of logic, this adherence to sense superseding emotion which both intrigued and challenged him.

  What would she be like without this tight control? If constraint were lost—

  Damn—he put down his wine glass so suddenly that it almost slipped from his grasp.

  Dobson and the footmen entered, carrying trays of soup.

  ‘Ah, good soup!’ he announced unnecessarily with the boring banality and bluster of some of the men he used to see in his club before the war.

  He frowned, studying the servants’ movement with apparent intent, ensuring that his gaze kept away from Miss Barton.

  This afternoon he had experienced a stirring of interest. It had been like the echo of something he had felt before his accident when such feelings were appropriate. Now, that stirring was huge, like a hurricane or cyclone.

  The soup was delivered and Dobson and the two footmen left. The door closed behind them with a click. A candle in one of the huge chandeliers flickered and fizzled out with the breeze.

  He tasted the soup, as did Miss Barton. There was the click of spoon on porcelain.

  ‘It is good,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed,’ she agreed. ‘Tomato with a hint of basil.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Now he was ludicrously tongue-tied as though the blasted bullet had lodged in his mouth and not his ribcage.

  ‘I apologise. I am not good company,’ he said, laying down his spoon and picking up his glass.

  ‘Do not worry. I think we are feeling awkward because we almost kissed,’ Miss Barton said as though discussing the bloody weather.

  Again he almost dropped his wine glass, putting it down so abruptly that the liquid spilled, running down the cut crystal and forming a tiny puddle on the white linen at its base.

  ‘I did as well,’ Miss Barton continued amiably. ‘But then I realised that men have these...inclinations or urges and decided not to take the matter personally. Indeed, it likely occurred because, as you said, you have not been socialising since your injury.’

  He gaped. He wondered that she had even managed a single Season, never mind any time in London. ‘I said nothing about my injury. I do not talk about my injuries or—or anything else.’

  Certainly not his bloody urges!

  ‘Then your mealtimes must be rather quiet.’

  ‘I eat alone and prefer it that way.’

  ‘Yes,’ Miss Barton agreed. ‘I don’t mind my own company either. And it is much more time efficient to eat without having to chat. Plus, better for the digestion. However, I think Lady Elsie feels we are both lonely and has decided that we should socialise. I am certain you are only here because she entreated you and I know I only agreed to this dress for the same reason.’

  ‘My God, you are blunt.’ He laughed. He couldn’t help it. She was disconcerting in the extreme, but also refreshingly forthright.

  ‘I find it saves time.’

  ‘Then you must be extraordinarily efficient. Although I still wonder how you survived the Season. Never mind your time in London.’

  ‘Generally in silence or under my mother’s strict supervision,’ she said.

  He thought he saw an expression of wistful sadness flicker across her features.

  ‘And what would you discuss if it were not for your good manners?’

  ‘Oh, I do not suffer from them,’ she said.

  He gave another chuckle. ‘You mentioned that in our first meeting. It would appear you have not changed so very much and, given this afternoon’s events, that you still have an interest in medicine.’

  Her fork clattered to her plate. He heard her slight gasp as she leaned back in her chair in an almost physical withdrawal. He felt again a confusing mix of emotion; there was a certain satisfaction at her discomfort, although he was surprised by it—for someone so able to talk of urges.

  But also regret that this tentative connection with another human might be jeopardised.

  ‘A childish dream which I gave up soon enough.’ She spoke in a staccato rush of words, her tone sharp.

  He watched the nervous movements of her fingers rubbing against the grain of the fine linen cloth. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t be. As I said, it was a youthful and foolish notion.’

  ‘And you just accepted that.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You just accepted a reality you hated.’

  ‘Yes. I help the villagers on occasion. That is why I had the supplies with me in my reticule. Many cannot afford any other help. That must suffice.’

  ‘How?’ he asked the question without forethought. ‘How does one accept something one does not want to accept, that feels wrong and at odds with one’s entire being?’

  He watched the confused mix of emotion flicker across her face and a flush of pink stain her cheeks. ‘Perhaps I am not the person to ask.’

  He wondered why he had even posed the question. He hardly knew the woman. Or maybe that was the reason—sometimes it was easier to talk to a stranger. Besides she seemed different, less bound by the norms and dictates of an unyielding society. Her conversation, while odd, was not hidden behind platitudes.

  Other people did not understand. They could not fathom why he had yet to go to Oddsmore since his return. And really, what was there to understand? His father and brother were dead. He was a lord, a peer, and Oddsmore was his birthright. It was his duty to go, yet he could not.

  He—could—not.

  ‘I had another brother. Edgar. He was always serious and responsible,’ he said.

  ‘Elsie said that. She said you were the fun one.’

  ‘Edgar’s role was always a given. He would be lord of the estate. I remember Father riding with us and telling him what he should do. They spoke about the crops and the animals and the tenants. I remember thinking how dull it all sounded.’

  He remembered also a niggling feeling of exclusion—that father and elder son shared a bond
he had no part of.

  ‘So you decided to be the opposite,’ Letty said.

  ‘I suppose. We had horse races. I loved going fast and jumping. There were other things. Climbing trees. Swimming. There was a pond with a huge tree. We would swing from it and jump into the icy water.’

  Of course, that had stopped when the bough had broken, hitting Elsie, who wasn’t supposed to have come along anyway. It was a glancing blow, but Father had given him a lecture.

  About responsibility.

  Miss Barton smiled, her serious features wonderfully transformed. ‘Ramsey and I occasionally had fun.’

  ‘Really?’

  Miss Barton nodded. ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘Only because by your own account you managed to turn a snowball fight into a science experiment.’

  Just then Dobson brought in the next course. It was lamb and Tony again felt surprisingly hungry.

  ‘This is very good,’ Miss Barton announced, after her first bite. She nodded as if agreeing with her own statement, licking her lips.

  ‘Mrs Peterson will be pleased with your compliment.’

  ‘I am not certain Mrs Peterson likes me too much,’ she said.

  ‘Appreciation of her cooking will serve as a peace offering.’

  She took another bite and he watched as she chewed carefully, her eyes slightly closed. ‘My maid, Sarah, is absolutely wonderful and so loyal. She is used to a much bigger house, but came with me and does everything. However, her culinary skills are limited. Mother always had a good cook. I hadn’t realised how much I missed good food.’

  There was an almost sensual quality to her enjoyment. He dropped his gaze, focusing on his own plate, feeling the need to shift the conversation or to interrupt this moment which felt oddly personal.

  ‘So, other than reading, and an occasional snowball fight, what else did you do during your childhood?’

  She sighed. ‘A series of tortuous activities. Mother tried to teach me to play piano and to sing. I can’t do either. Fortunately, Father made her stop both activities.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Father said it was a waste of time when I was so obviously tone deaf and merely torturing our domestics. Mother said that I would never find a husband with a title if I did not know how to play the piano and sing. Father said in that case I’d best content myself to a solitary life unless I could find a deaf suitor.’

  ‘You were close to your father?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He loved the scientific. He believed in thinking and learning and discovery. He said just because something was a certain way did not mean that it must always be that way.’

  ‘So, what did you do for fun exactly?’

  ‘Fun?’

  ‘Yes, frivolous pursuits which did not involve the scientific? Did you go to the theatre when in London? Do you draw or dance? Ride or hunt?’

  ‘Neither. I am hopeless at dancing and drawing as well as singing and piano.’

  He laughed, a little shortly. ‘Which of us is sadder—one who never learned to enjoy life or one who has lost that ability?’

  * * *

  Letty frowned. There was a familiarity to his words; a judgemental condescension. She recalled the foolish tea parties, the gossip and nonsense about fashion and that uncomfortable feeling that she did not belong.

  Her mother would twist her hair into painful curls and dress her in frills and ruffles. And she’d sit mute. At first, she would give voice to her ideas, but the girls would alternately stare or giggle, so silence proved the better option.

  Even in London, she’d felt like a misfit at soirées and social engagements. As Dr Hatfield, she’d been able to read whole articles and recall every detail, visualising the words in her mind as clearly as in the original text. She’d dressed wounds, attended anatomy labs and argued points of medical research.

  But every aspect of society seemed both a waste of time and oddly designed to demonstrate her peculiarities. She stepped on her partner’s toes with alarming regularity. She could think of nothing to say or said too much about the wrong things. She did not enjoy opera. And she wanted only to shop at bookstores, unless coerced by her mother or Florence into going elsewhere.

  She knew herself to be intelligent, but always felt stupid.

  Anger fired through her. ‘Just because I do not sing or chase a fox on a horse does not mean that I am unable to enjoy life. Maybe it is that I do not need to fill my life with meaningless activities merely to pass time.’

  ‘Apparently I hit a nerve,’ he drawled in an infuriating tone, raising dark, ironic brows.

  ‘I do not want to be a sheep, following a herd of sheep, with no self-direction or self-determination—the same as every other sheep. Why must we all be the same? Why do people dislike anyone who seems different?’

  He flexed his injured hand. ‘Perhaps you should not lecture about being different while you are whole and without injury.’

  She felt the fire in her cheeks. ‘And perhaps you should recognise that differences are not always physical.’

  For a moment, she thought he would make a biting retort, but instead looked at her with sudden intensity. ‘Yes,’ he said, his expression turning bleak. ‘Touché.’

  The moment stretched between them. She was unsure of his meaning. The footmen entered, clearing the plates. They moved carefully and only the rustle of their clothes and the occasional ting of cutlery against crockery broke the quiet.

  Letty stared at the candle’s flickering flame. She felt acute discomfort. She had been rude. She had lacked self-control and, worse than that, she had lacked caution.

  She felt exposed.

  Having collected the plates, Dobson and the footmen left. A slight breeze whistled through the room as the door shut.

  Tony turned to her. ‘I apologise. You are right. I should not judge how another person spends their time. I am still readjusting to society. I will attempt to be polite for the remainder of the evening,’ he said, with a lopsided smile which did odd things to her heart.

  ‘I apologise also. I did not wish to make light of your injury.’

  ‘At least you are willing to talk about it. I find that better than those who look at me as though I had grown two heads, but converse about the weather in an awkward pretence that I am unchanged. But we are too serious and Elsie will read me the riot act if I am not pleasant company. Let me prove that I am not totally devoid of social graces. Perhaps we might play cards later? If you know how to play?’

  ‘I—’ Letty glanced at him uncertainly. She should think of a reason to bring the evening to a prompt conclusion. He made her feel confused, jumbled and unsure.

  ‘I won’t make you dance and I promise not to sing,’ he said, again with that slightly lopsided grin.

  ‘I used to play a few card games with my father and brother,’ she said. ‘Mother didn’t always approve.’

  ‘I rather feel that would only enhance your enjoyment.’

  She laughed, her amusement genuine. Perhaps it was the wine, but she found it peculiarly easy to talk to him. Moreover, though this seesawing of her emotions was both uncharacteristic and discomposing, there was an excitement also, as though she were more fully alive.

  Any such feeling, she reminded herself, was without logic. One was alive or dead.

  One could not be more or less alive. Currently she was alive and the fact that her cheeks were hot and her pulse fast did not in any way mean that she was ‘more alive’.

  It did mean, however, that she agreed to adjourn to the library.

  * * *

  As always, libraries brought Letty a sense of ease and this one was particularly pleasant. It was small in comparison to the vast medieval aspect of the dining room, but had high ceilings and a stateliness.

  She sank into the chair closest to the hearth. The good weather had br
oken, necessitating a small fire. This burned with a friendly crackle, casting a warm flickering light about the room.

  She had enjoyed the dinner more than anticipated. Mrs Peterson was an exceptional cook, despite any limits to her personality. Indeed, the dinner was a pleasant change from her usual fare. Sarah did her best, but Letty kept odd hours and most often requested egg on toast, severely limiting any culinary creativity.

  And how long had it been since she’d conversed with someone other than Sarah, Arnold or a patient?

  She leaned back into the soft cushioning that bespoke well-used furniture.

  For once, she’d almost felt comfortable. She had the right height. As Dr Hatfield, she always felt too slight and as Miss Barton too tall, all gangling legs and awkward elbows. But in this dress, she felt different and pleasantly aware that the fire’s glow made the threads in her dress gleam.

  Tony sat in the armchair opposite. He leaned back, pulling out a deck of cards. The long leanness of his frame was emphasised as he thrust his long legs towards the fire. ‘Piquet?’

  He ran the cards expertly through the fingers of his good hand. She glanced at his other hand, still gloved, but for once said nothing. It might be pleasant, on this one occasion, not to think in terms of joints and ligaments but the breadth of his shoulders, the fascinating shadows cast by the flickering flames, the hard planes of his cheek and the bold, jutting shape of his jaw.

  She listened seriously as he reviewed the rules and then carefully inspected her twelve cards.

  She lost the first hand and studied her hand with greater attention on the second. She lost the second hand as well.

  Tony laughed, giving her a brief glimpse of the young man she recalled from their first meeting.

  ‘Is it not poor manners to be quite so smug in your success?’ she asked.

  ‘I believe we are agreed that good manners spoil many activities,’ he said, with a tiny, unsporting twinkle in his eye.

  She won the third hand. ‘You were getting much too vain with your success and now I can boast.’

  He laughed. ‘A lucky hand, nothing more.’