by Maggie Hoyt
“Remember,” I whispered. I tugged on my ear and then scratched my nose. Fan gave me a faint smile.
“Now, let’s get you ready to charm the world!” Maribelle gushed.
As it happened, Fan really couldn’t dance.
I was concerned she would hide behind me and Maribelle all evening, but when the first suave young nobleman complimented her porcelain skin and asked her to dance, she blushed appropriately and took his hand.
Her biggest problem was her arms, I thought as I watched them. Instead of with a graceful bend, she extended her arms rather more like they were fused at the elbow.
“Her forearms look like blades,” I muttered.
“Hmm?” Maribelle said. “Doesn’t she look lovely? You must be so proud of her!”
I was proud of her. She was delightful, sensible, and feisty. I also couldn’t help but notice that she wobbled when she spun and stepped on her partner’s feet when she came out of a turn.
“Maribelle Frandsen!” A Capital noblewoman approached us as I cringed at Fan’s last spin.
“Oh, Lady Nicola! It’s so good to see you! Let me introduce Madam Evelyn Radcliffe. Evelyn, Lady Nicola Dumond.”
We curtsied. I tried to keep watch on Fan out of the corner of my eye, but Lady Nicola’s hair was just slightly too high.
“Evelyn’s daughter is being presented this Season! I’m sponsoring her. It’s so very exciting!”
“Oh, congratulations! My daughter Odetta was presented last year. There’ll be a husband in it this year, for certain,” she murmured conspiratorially.
Maribelle gasped and oohed. I tried to give my traditional fake smile, but it felt unnatural on my face and rather similar to my bad-taste-in-my-mouth expression. Good heavens, was I rusty at this, too?
I heard the music wind to a finish and caught a glimpse of Fan curtsying to her partner as a new song began and new couples took the floor. She bounced back over to us, a sizable grin on her face.
“Oh, here she is now!” Maribelle said, and we were all introduced again.
We were in the midst of exchanging pleasantries when Lady Nicola’s daughter approached. “Mother, who have you found now?” That triggered another round of names.
“Is this your first year?” Odetta said, shaking Fan’s hand. “How precious.” She was slim and dainty, with a little pouting smile. “You must feel like a little lost sheep. I remember exactly how I was last year. Here, why don’t I introduce you to my friends.”
Fan shot a quick glance at Maribelle to make sure she was allowed to do this, but Maribelle just clapped her hands and cooed, so Fan let Odetta take her arm and steer her away. She hadn’t looked for my approval, so she missed my tight-lipped glower. Who exactly did Miss Odetta think she was? She’d been through the Season once! That didn’t give her the right to mock Fan to her face.
I exhaled and practiced my fake smile. “Oh, I just saw someone I recognized. So nice to meet you.” I nodded goodbye to Lady Dumond and escaped to cool my heels.
It is not a good idea to hover around Fan, I told myself.
But I just want to know where she is, I replied. What if they haze the new debutantes? I’ll just locate her, and then I’ll go somewhere else.
I wandered around the mansion, trying to look interested in the house’s decor and not like I was lost. I spotted Fan among a group of girls giggling in the billiards room. No hazing, it seemed. I tried to hover inconspicuously in one of the adjacent rooms, wondering how long I could get away with doing nothing.
“The Courtenays certainly have an impressive collection of stained glass.” I heard an elderly male voice behind me. I turned around to see who he was speaking to and realized it was me, of course.
I must have had a blank look on my face because he pointed behind me at a stained-glass window I hadn’t realized I was staring at, probably because I was trying to spy on Fan out of the corner of my eye.
“I hear they import it from Turmurel. They say the craftsmen there complete a ten-year apprenticeship before they are allowed to sell their creations.”
I gave my charity smile again. Already it was feeling more natural. He was quite tall and thin, with long arms that tremored only slightly, despite his age. He was considerably older than I was, with white hair and a bald pate and purplish circles under his eyes.
He stepped up next to me and gestured toward my empty glass. “Shall I take that for you?”
His voice was grave, and most importantly, his accent was exceptionally well bred, which meant he wasn’t a servant. He was trying to impress me. I immediately felt a little flutter of panic. He wasn’t unattractive and had an undeniable upper-class magnetism, but I didn’t want attention. Not that kind of attention. I missed Henry, and I wanted everyone to give me at least three feet of personal space. I was tempted to explain all of this immediately, but my more rational side interjected. Probably, I thought, if you simply don’t encourage him, he’ll just leave you alone.
I did hand over the glass. Couldn’t really get around that. Then I snuck a glance into the other room to see if I could use Fan as an excuse to get away. She was still surrounded by Odetta and friends, who were laughing and chatting merrily while Fan stood there quietly with a blank grin. Well, that couldn’t be helped by having your mother intervene.
“Ah, I ought to introduce myself,” said the elderly nobleman as I was watching Fan. “Hugo Piminder.” He gave a slight bow.
My eyes lit up. Sorry, Henry. “Evelyn Radcliffe,” I said, offering my hand. I immediately turned on the false smile I’d always used for impressing my first husband’s clients. It was part royalty, part shark, and all charm. This one, somehow, hadn’t rusted with disuse.
“Ah, you were quite the local celebrity last year.”
“Yes, I’m the wicked stepmother.”
He chuckled. “How fortunate that everything worked out for you. I’m afraid word did get around of your family’s predicament. But your stepdaughter’s wedding was quite lovely. And how clever of them to hold it here in Strachey. Have you visited your stepdaughter at the palace?”
I shook my head. “Not yet, although I imagine my daughter will receive an invite soon. She’s being presented this Season.”
“Well, I do hope you are able to see the place. It’s quite marvelous. I had the opportunity to visit—when I was much younger, of course. Some sort of honor for my service in the wars, I think. Regardless, the interior was positively magnificent.”
Goodness, this wasn’t a name drop; he’d dropped an entire building on me. I imagined myself crushed under the weight of a few tons of marble and gold and expensive furniture, and gave an involuntary little snort. Obviously, he didn’t know why I found his anecdote so funny, but after a brief moment of internal debate, he seemed to take it as encouragement.
“One expects, of course, to see gold leaf finishing on nearly every surface. Not so. Rather, they have simply allowed the dark cherry-wood to speak for itself …”
I stifled a guffaw. Oh Lord, Evelyn, don’t lose it. Furniture finishings! He was describing furniture finishings to me! I took a deep breath and tried to get a grip. Send your mind out, I thought as I bit back giggles. You’re working here.
He certainly didn’t seem as bad as the Babcocks had intimated. He was pompous, sure—an opening gambit featuring the royal palace and him as a war hero!—but not in a malicious sense. He was simply very wealthy and always had been, and he’d been raised with an innate surety that he was better than most everyone else. What he was doing to the Babcocks was downright cruel, and it didn’t seem to fit. Perhaps, I thought, there was more to this story. I was fairly certain I could get it out of him, if I could steer him away from the home furnishings department.
I was about to stop him from moving on to porcelainware when out of the corner of my eye I spotted Clarrie Babcock peeking through the doorway. I gave a tiny shake of my head and held up a hand behind my back, hoping she would catch on and wait. The party was a good choice for her confrontatio
n, but she needed a room full of people. Well, I could help with that. His reaction was something I’d very much like to see.
“Do you know, I’ve wanted very much to get a look at the Courtenay’s fortepiano,” I said, gesturing toward the drawing room, where a young man clearly attempting to impress a young woman played and groups of nobles chatted. “Shall we?”
He made to offer me his arm, and immediately I felt a flush of heat run through me. I pretended not to notice and took myself into the drawing room. He ought to chase you a little bit, I thought. But I don’t want to be chased, and I definitely don’t want to be caught. I want to go home, I thought, and suddenly, I wanted to cry. Instead, I tried to push it all out of my head. Use the smile, I told myself.
I found a spot to stand near the fortepiano and tried to look fascinated by it.
“Do you play?” he said, coming up behind me.
“Oh no. I’m not particularly musical. I am fascinated by how it works, though. Have you ever seen the inside of one? All the music comes from little tiny levers and strings.”
“I can’t say I have, although I did have the opportunity to go to a concert given by a well-known viol player at the Royal Opera House …”
Oh, stop! Now I’d been hit by an opera house! I glanced toward the archway leading toward the ballroom and pretended I’d seen something.
“I am so sorry to interrupt, but I think my daughter is trying to get my attention. It’s her very first Season; she’s an absolute nervous wreck.”
He smiled knowingly. “Ah, yes. Young women do get worked up over the silliest things.”
I could have slapped him right then but gave a tense false smile instead—not my best work—and cleared out to make room for Clarrie.
I entered the ballroom but circled quickly out before Maribelle caught sight of me. I took up a position outside the drawing room where I’d be able to see Lord Piminder’s face and hopefully be able to hear him and Clarrie too.
Clarrie crept in tentatively, hands clasped in front of her and shoulders a bit hunched. She straightened herself up and approached Lord Piminder.
“Excuse me, sir.” She curtsied.
“Yes, young lady?”
“Um, I’m Clarice Babcock, sir.”
“You don’t seem that certain.”
“Oh,” Clarrie squeaked. Her eyes weren’t quite focused, and she looked like she might run away without another word.
You can do this, I thought. People are paying attention. Lord Piminder’s piercing bass had cut through the room, and one by one, conversations were coming to a halt. This is your moment, Clarrie.
“Did you need something, Miss Babcock?”
I was sure she’d decided to flee, but instead she swallowed hard and raised her voice.
“Lord Piminder, I beg you to reconsider your decision regarding your son and I—” Clarrie started, undoubtedly rehearsing words she’d prepared beforehand.
“Reconsider my decision? Did you think I wasn’t serious?” Piminder interrupted.
“No, I …” Clarrie was flustered but rallied valiantly and tried to continue her speech. “I just wanted you to know that we truly love each other …”
“Ah, so you thought you could say a few magic words about true love and I’d have a sudden change of heart? That I’d somehow forget how woefully inadequate you are as a match for my son? That you’d convince me this wasn’t a ploy of your father’s?”
“But it isn’t! I really love Terence!”
Piminder smiled in a way I recognized far too well, although I hoped I looked more charming and less ghoulish. “And in my benevolence, I’ve offered you a chance, young lady. Spin enough gold to pay off your father’s debt, and I shall give my blessing to your nuptials. From what your father implied, that shouldn’t be too difficult. Were I you, I’d spend my time spinning, not dancing.”
Clarrie burst into tears and fled, and Piminder simply walked away as if nothing had happened. In my direction. I hurried toward the ballroom and had just rejoined Maribelle and Lady Dumond when the girls reentered.
“I think it’s time for us to go, Fan,” I said.
“Did you see what happened to Clarrie Babcock?” Fan whispered.
“It was humiliating, Mother,” Odetta was saying, practically laughing in glee.
“Hmm?” I said noncommittally. “Maribelle?” I motioned toward the exit.
“Ooh, I’m not quite sure where my husband went,” she said. “You go ahead.”
Fan had already started toward the front door. I turned to follow her and just caught Odetta’s voice.
“Lady Frandsen’s new girl is hopeless. Absolutely brainless, Mother.”
I clenched my fists and fought the urge to turn around. Fan was waiting for me at the door with my coat. I tried to quickly hide my scowl.
“That wasn’t so bad,” Fan said. “Those girls were nice. I was a little shy, but I think I can get used to this. I can get dancing lessons, right?”
I could only manage a nod. If I’d opened my mouth, I’d have screamed.
May Odetta Dumond have the luck she deserves, I thought.
Don’t curse people, Evelyn, I reprimanded myself. Save your anger for Hugo Piminder, who, I noted, had utterly, utterly failed to impress me.
I should have known he hadn’t believed Patrick Babcock. He was teasing them with this spinning-straw-into-gold line, and he was enjoying it. Anyone who could so persecute sweet Clarrie Babcock deserved to be taken down.
Although as I listened to some of the conversations buzzing around us, I began to hope that Clarrie might not need much help from the fairies.
“Can you believe him? The poor girl!” women muttered around me.
At least one thing had gone right tonight. I smiled, finally for real.
CHAPTER THREE
“MOM?”
Fanchon found me in the study the next morning, reading one of my father’s manuals. He was a proud chemist, not an alchemist, and as such, he thought it was ridiculous and pointless to attempt to turn any sort of metal into gold. It was not pointless, however, to occasionally put a shiny gold-like coating on something. Looking back, I suspect my father walked a fine ethical line.
I closed the book as Fan entered. Brass was probably the cheapest solution, but it would still be easy to spot as a fraud.
“How are you, dear?”
“Um, I’m fine. I was wondering how I would go about finding a dance instructor. It’s just that I don’t think I want everyone to know I’m taking lessons.”
“Oh! That’s right. Well, that’s not a problem. I can teach you.”
Fan started, openmouthed and wide-eyed, like a giant gust of wind had almost knocked her off her feet.
“You can dance?” She was so surprised, apparently, she didn’t even notice the fairies might have construed that as rude.
“You’re looking at a proud graduate of Ms. Arbuthnot’s School for Charming Girls. Besides, your father and I used to go dancing quite often. I don’t actually mind dancing.”
“But aren’t we going to need someone to do the man’s part?”
“You’re looking at a very tall graduate of an all-girls school,” I said. “Now, I think if we move some furniture in the living room we’ll have the space for this.”
Fan followed me into the living room, and we pulled the armchairs to the edges of the room and carried the center table to the hallway.
“I think that’ll do.” Besides, since I would be leading, at least she couldn’t ram my shins into the corner of the table. “One issue I noticed about your dancing is that you’re very stiff. We want everything to be more fluid. When we put our arm out, for example—see how mine has sort of a bend in it?”
Fan nodded and tried to mimic my arm.
“Right, I’m not exactly sure how your elbow can go that way …” I tried to reposition her arm. “I think bend was maybe not the best word. We definitely don’t want to see a pointy elbow corner, we want it to look like our arm is curved. Tha
t’s better.”
“That hurts! That’s not natural!”
“You have to get used to it. You probably have to build up the muscles. Now let’s start with a minuet, and let’s try to remember we want to be light and airy, like we’re floating around the room.”
“We’ll start here at this end. Other side of me. Hold my hand. Other arm out gracefully. Ready? Right—Sink. Left—Right—No, don’t sink yet—Left, now sink. Now right—”
“I’m on my left,” Fan interrupted.
“What? We must not have sunk correctly.”
“I did sink!”
“Right, but I think it wasn’t on the correct foot. Or possibly beat,” I said.
“I never understand the minuet count,” she admitted.
“You do a whole minuet step in two three-counts. It goes, ‘One, sink, three; one, two, sink.’”
“Yeah, I never do that right.”
“Well, let’s try this. Let’s get the pattern down first, no sinks.” We reset at the end of the room. “So let’s go. Right foot—feet together. Then left, right, left, together. Repeat. Right, together. Left, right, left, together.”
Fan and I minuet-walked the length of the room several times.
“Was Dad a good dancer?” she asked.
“He was excellent.”
“Did you like dancing with him?”
“I did,” I said. Right up until I realized he used every partner switch to seduce new lovers. I didn’t tell Fan that. “All right, we’re not going to add in the sinks yet, but let’s try to get the tiptoes correct. The first step is a flat foot. Then when we come together, let’s just tap our foot, like this. Then left tiptoe, right tiptoe, left flat foot, tap. The flat foot isn’t so much a stomp. You can toe-heel.”
We were so intent on tiptoeing across the room, we both missed the knock on the door—until it had turned into a rather angry pounding.
“Is that the door?” Fan asked.
“I think it must be,” I said, climbing over the table we’d set in the hallway.
I opened the door on an impeccably dressed woman with a very sour, tight mouth and cat-eye spectacles that only accentuated her pinched glare. Her hair, piled in a knot on her head, must have been colored with some mix of henna and indigo, for its hue was far too close to magenta to be natural. She carried a black carpetbag with minimal white accents, its sides bulging—the only evidence of untidiness about her entire person.
