by Diane Gaston
‘He did not come,’ Grant said.
She gave him a wan smile. ‘I did not expect him.’
She took his arm and he led her to the dining room. Grantwell had been good company before, she told herself. She could enjoy dinner.
The servant led them to a table set for three.
‘There will only be two of us,’ Grantwell told the man, who removed the extra setting, bowed and walked away. Grantwell turned to Helene. ‘I took the liberty of ordering our food ahead of time. We will have more leisure to dine that way.’
She smiled again. ‘How thoughtful of you.’
The servant returned and poured some wine.
Helene’s smile fled as she glanced around the room, wondering if Rhys were seated with someone else.
Grant lifted the glass of wine to his lips. ‘I am sorry about Rhys. I tried to convince him to come.’
She turned to him. ‘I did not expect him to come.’
‘I hoped he would.’ Grantwell took a sip and did what she’d become used to of him. Made conversation. ‘I am looking forward to the ball. Are you? I attended one society ball before Napoleon decided to escape Elba, but none for a couple of years before that.’
‘A society ball?’ She was puzzled for a moment. ‘Are...are you perhaps related to Viscount Grantwell?’
He swallowed more wine. ‘My brother.’
‘I did not put it together before.’ She was a bit embarrassed that she had not. ‘I believe I met Viscount Grantwell during one London Season.’
‘You met my brother?’ He did not make this sound like a pleasant thing.
‘It would have been three or four years ago,’ she responded. ‘I did not attend a Season last year or this.’ This year she’d been nursing her parents or mourning their deaths. The year before she’d simply refused.
He gave a dry laugh. ‘Did he court you?’
‘A little perhaps, but he soon gave it up.’
He peered at her. ‘You know, every time you call me Grantwell, I think of my brother. I do wish you would call me Grant.’
She smiled. ‘Very well—Grant.’
The servant brought their first course. Waterzooi, a fish soup.
Grant went on. ‘I assume you had a very good dowry. My brother would only consider a wife of elevated status and some wealth.’
What was she to say to that? ‘I suppose it was good enough.’
‘How was it my brother or someone like him did not win your hand?’ he asked.
She lifted her wine glass and gazed over it to meet his eye. ‘They were not Rhys.’
* * *
Rhys stood at the doorway scanning the dining room.
After Grant left for dinner, Rhys had paced a while, then impulsively changed into his finest regimentals. Why not attend the ball? See and be seen. He was a Captain in the East Essex Regiment and would outrank several of the junior officers who’d undoubtedly been invited. Rhys earned his right to stand next to them. He’d earned that right on the battlefield.
He could tolerate Helene for a few short hours. Besides, he wanted to tell both her and her brother to leave Brussels immediately. The battle was imminent. All the signs were there.
The dining room was crowded this Thursday evening. Most of the men seated in the room also wore their best uniforms. Sons of aristocrats, probably. Many had never seen a battle, as well. Rhys stood straighter. He had that advantage over them.
His gaze finally found Grant and Helene. Her back was to him, but, even from the back, he could see that her hair was arranged in curls and her dress had a nice piece of lace draped over the bodice. Not her ball gown, though. The ladies would change into ball gowns after they dined.
Helene and Grant appeared to be conversing happily. Rhys’s approach would end that, certainly. Did he wish to spoil their dinner?
No. He must let her go. No matter what her father—and she—had done five years ago, Rhys had done well for himself. They were both where they belonged. Helene dined with the son of an aristocrat and anticipated a ball. Rhys had the army.
He turned on his heel and left. Rhys walked out of the hotel and on to the street. He told himself he would rather dine at one of the taverns he and Grant frequented in Brussels. Although he still had the invitation to the ball in his pocket, the idea of walking in to the Duke’s house on Rue de la Blanchisserie lost its appeal.
* * *
After dinner Helene returned to her hotel room where her two makeshift lady’s maids were eagerly awaiting her. She stripped down to her shift and stays and let Louise dab some perfume on her before carefully pinning a lace ribbon and gold chain through her hair.
Mrs Jacobs stood by with, as usual, much to say. ‘I cannot believe your Captain did not show. What is the matter with him? He is a great disappointment to me at the moment, I tell you.’
Helene looked at Mrs Jacobs through her reflection in the mirror. ‘I am determined not to allow Rhys to spoil my night.’ Which was true. She’d spent most of the last five years accommodating herself to losing Rhys for ever. Encountering him here in Brussels changed nothing.
Mrs Jacobs folded her arms across her chest. ‘I suppose Captain Grantwell is charming enough, but he is not your Captain.’
Rhys was not her Captain either.
‘Be quiet and hold still,’ Louise ordered. ‘I am going to put a touch of rouge on your cheeks.’ She turned Helene’s face towards her.
‘Do not overdo it,’ cautioned Mrs Jacobs. ‘We do not want her looking like la putain.’
‘Certainly not!’ Louise said. ‘Just enough to put a bloom in her cheeks.’ She dipped her finger in the rouge pot and lightly tinted Helene’s lips. She turned Helene’s face to Mrs Jacobs. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well done, Louise!’ Mrs Jacobs replied. ‘She is as pretty as she can be!’
Helene turned to the mirror. The colour on her cheeks and lips looked so natural she would have sworn Louise added nothing. Her complexion seemed to glow. ‘You’ve made me look pretty,’ she said.
The woman beamed in pleasure. ‘I learned much at the theatre.’ She picked up the gold dress from where it was draped over to the bed. ‘Now the dress.’
Louise held the dress while Helene stepped into it.
‘Make certain your feet are free,’ Mrs Jacobs warned. ‘You mustn’t rip it now.’
Louise pulled up the dress and buttoned the buttons in the back.
‘Let me see,’ Mrs Jacobs cried. Both she and Louise surveyed Helene.
Louise smiled.
Mrs Jacobs clapped her hands. ‘It fits perfectly!’ She gestured to Helene. ‘Look in the mirror, mademoiselle!’
Helene stepped back so she could see as much of herself as possible in the dressing room mirror. ‘Oh, my!’ She glanced from Louise to Mrs Jacobs and back to the mirror. ‘It is perfection, Louise.’
‘Not yet it isn’t’ Mrs Jacobs handed her the gloves, which Louise helped her put on while Mrs Jacobs waited with the lace shawl over her arm. She placed the shawl around Helene’s shoulders.
‘No, let it slip to your elbows.’ Louise helped her adjust it. ‘There.’
Helene looked in the mirror again. She had never felt prettier. If only... No. She would not wish Rhys could see her. It was enough that she liked the way she looked.
‘You are a dream,’ Mrs Jacobs said, with a catch in her throat.
Helene gave the nurse a big hug and another one for Louise. ‘I cannot thank you enough, both of you. I only wish you could come with me and share in all this excitement.’
Mrs Jacobs gave a hearty laugh. ‘Oh, to see the faces of all les nobles if I were to walk in!’
Helene hugged her again. ‘I do not care. I would welcome you.’
Louise pointed to the clock. ‘You must go. It is time.’
She picked up her new lace reticu
le to carry with her. ‘Come. See me to the hall. I promise I will stop by Wilson’s room tomorrow to tell you all about it!’
Chapter Thirteen
The long lines of carriages, coaches and cabriolets, disgorging expensively dressed ladies and gentlemen in front of the property on Rue de la Blanchisserie, almost made Rhys turn around and seek the oblivion of some nameless tavern. Unfortunate that Grant had planted the idea of cowardice in Rhys’s refusal to attend the ball. Now he’d feel a coward if he did not go in.
He nodded greetings to several people he did not know and took a place in line to enter, happening to be behind one of the four people he knew who would be attending.
David.
The young man seemed to be absorbing the whole scene. He turned finally and noticed Rhys. ‘Rhys! Here you are! Where are Helene and Captain Grantwell?’
‘They are coming separately,’ Rhys said.
David blew out a breath. ‘Whew! I am glad I am not caught in line with Helene. She has been plaguing me ever since she arrived in Brussels. She’d probably ring a peal over my head and not care who heard it.’
‘I am certain you would deserve it,’ Rhys said.
David made a face. ‘You always did take her side.’ His good humour quickly returned. ‘Anyway, with any luck I will avoid her. I intend to enjoy myself. William said he will introduce me to General Maitland and to the Prince of Orange, who will be here. And I hope to say hello to the Duke of Wellington, as well. Perhaps I might introduce you to the Duke. Would you like that?’
‘I would not wish to trouble him.’ Wellington would surely be annoyed, Rhys was certain.
They reached a hall where footmen gathered ladies’ cloaks and gentlemen’s hats and inched their way to the ballroom.
The butler stood at the entrance to the ballroom, taking names and loudly announcing them to the receiving line and the room as a whole.
First David.
The man just leaned forward a little to hear the name, then bellowed, ‘The Earl of Yarford.’
David lifted his head high as if everyone in the room would be watching him. No one seemed to notice.
Rhys was next. He gave his name.
‘Captain Landon of the East Essex Regiment,’ the butler called out.
He walked to the receiving line where the duchess and her three daughters greeted the guests. They, of course, knew David since he’d been a dinner guest and probably had spent as much time as he could in the family’s presence.
David, to his credit, introduced Rhys. ‘Duchess,’ David said. ‘May I present my friend, Captain Landon. Landon is from our village and I have known him my whole life.’
Rhys bowed. ‘Your Grace.’
The Duchess extended her hand to be shook. ‘A pleasure, I am sure, sir.’
The daughters, two of whom looked younger than David, greeted him with a little more warmth. The oldest daughter whisked David through quickly to make room for the long line of guests behind them.
Rhys followed.
David stood surveying the sumptuously decorated ball room. The room was not part of the main house, but somewhat separate, connected by an anteroom. Rhys could not guess its original purpose, but it was papered in a rose trellis design and transformed with red, black and gold drapery and fresh flowers into a garden-like setting. Nothing like the bare walls of the Assembly Rooms back at Yarford.
‘Is it not grand?’ David exclaimed.
‘Very,’ Rhys agreed.
David turned to him with a serious expression. ‘By the way, Rhys, if you need to speak of me here, please do not call me David in front of anybody. Call me Yarford.’
‘I am surprised you were not calling yourself Yarford before this.’ Not that Rhys had any fondness for what had been Helene’s father’s title.
‘Yes, well,’ David muttered, ‘I prefer to be called it here. It makes me important.’
Rhys suspected most people in this room would agree that a title made one important. And the reverse? If one did not have a title?
David’s attention shifted. ‘Oh, there is William. I must speak to him.’ Off he went.
David’s friend, the Duke of Richmond’s son, still wore an eyepatch. Would he be ready if the French were on the march? Rhys wondered.
Rhys made his way through the room. He did not fool himself. He was looking for Grant...and Helene, telling himself that was because they were the only two other guests he could possibly know enough to speak to.
The room was an impressive sight, he admitted. Elegantly dressed ladies in gowns adorned with ribbons and flounces, jewels glittering at their necks and ears. Men mostly in uniforms of bright reds and blues, a few in black and green, all with gold braids shining under the chandeliers lit with dozens of candles. The room had the ground floor and a first floor with a balcony where an orchestra was tuning its instruments. The musical sounds mixed with a cacophony of voices, enough to make Rhys long for the relative quiet of the Brussels streets.
He did not need to stay, did he? There was nothing to say he could not retrieve his shako and walk back to the hotel. Or stop for a drink of whisky. At the moment it did not feel like a lack of cowardice to stay, but rather foolishness.
Through the din he heard the butler call, ‘The Lady Helene Banes.’
He turned towards the door.
For a moment she was framed by the doorway, a vision sparkling in gold. Gold in her hair. Gold dress, shawl. Gold jewellery dangling from her ears and around her neck. He stared, feeling unable to breathe, unable to see anything but Helene. Rhys did not know what he’d expected to see when encountering Helene at the ball, but it was not this breath-robbing beauty. This breath-robbing expensive beauty who looked, not only as though she belonged here, but even more as though she deserved to own it all.
Grant was announced next and they made their way through the receiving line. Helene stood apart from Grant who was chatting with the Duchess’s daughters. Helene turned to survey the room.
Her gaze locked with Rhys’s.
He knew now what would decide if he stayed at the ball or left. If after so obviously seeing him here she turned away, he would consider her her father’s daughter and leave.
* * *
Rhys! Helene’s heart leapt with joy at the sight of him.
He stood out from the crowd of other soldiers, ladies and gentlemen dressed in their finery. He stood tall, handsome, with a dignity all his own and the power she’d sensed in him even when he was a boy.
He’d come to the ball after all!
As quickly as her heart had soared, it plummeted. She did not know why he decided to attend the ball. Not to see her, perhaps. He’d refused to come for dinner, after all, so maybe he still wanted nothing to do with her. Was it not the height of vanity to think he had come to this prestigious ball solely to be with her? She must content herself with the hope that he would greet her cordially, that this might mean they could meet here as very old friends.
Just as easily that deep anger towards her could still smoulder inside Rhys, so that even her presence here would be anathema to him. She could not tell by his unsmiling expression.
She took a breath and straightened her spine. Well, if he wished to avoid her, all he need do was turn away. Then she would know her mistakes of five years ago were irreparable. If he did turn away, she would not seek him out; she would accept that she had destroyed in him even their once happy memories.
He stood as still as a statue, his eyes still upon her. They seemed to pull her forward and, before she knew it, she’d taken one step towards him, heedless of anything or anyone else in the room.
As if that first step had broken a spell ensnaring them both, he crossed the room to her. Her heart raced at his approach.
‘Rhys,’ she managed to say when he reached her.
His eyes shone with admiration, but also with pain. �
�You look beautiful, Helene.’
She smiled. How happy it would make Mrs Jacobs and Louise to hear that her Captain had given her such a compliment! ‘I had a great deal of help.’
Grant left the receiving line and walked over. ‘Ah, Rhys. Good to see you.’ Grant spoke as if it was the most natural thing in the world to see Rhys at the ball, standing with her. ‘If you both will pardon me, there is someone I must speak to.’ He bowed.
And winked at Helene before he walked away. Her smile widened.
‘Do you believe him?’ Rhys asked.
She blinked. ‘That there was someone he must speak to? Why would he say it if it was not so?’
Rhys’s gaze followed Grant. ‘To leave us alone.’
‘Oh.’ Did Rhys mean he’d wanted his friend to stay?
Rhys scanned the room, looking everywhere except at her. ‘We may be standing in others’ way. Would you care to walk a little?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice made her sound out of breath.
He offered his arm and she accepted it.
‘I—I am glad you came, Rhys,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘I almost did not. I cannot say I enjoy all this.’ He gestured with his head. ‘Only you, Grant, David and his friend Lennox know who I am.’
‘Oh, David. I almost forgot about him.’ She craned her neck. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘I walked in with him,’ he responded. ‘Or perhaps I should say I walked in with the Earl of Yarford as he precisely wishes to be known here.’
‘He used his title?’ For the first time, she believed.
‘The title made him important, he said.’
How mindless of David to say such a thing to Rhys. Rhys’s lack of a title was one of the arrows her father shot so cruelly at Rhys.
‘I hope I see David so I might throttle him,’ she said.
Rhys almost smiled. ‘I believe he means to avoid you.’
‘As he has tried to do ever since I arrived in Brussels.’ She had no wish to talk about David, even though she was glad they were conversing amicably. Perhaps this was the best she could hope for.