The Heiress

by Molly Greeley

  “Miss de Bourgh,” Mr. Watters said again when John had gone; but this time his tone was less serious than before. “May I fetch you some refreshment?”

  I did not particularly want any refreshment, but I did want a moment to myself, and so I nodded and thanked him and watched gratefully as he disappeared, then opened my fan and attempted to cool my heated face, looking around at the milling, chattering crowd. On the dance floor the next set had begun, and I watched it disinterestedly until a flash of orange hair caught my attention.

  It was Miss Julia Amherst. She danced as well as her sister, smiling and carrying on a conversation with her partner with apparent effortlessness. The hand moving my fan dropped to my side, and I stretched my neck to see the rest of the dance floor, searching for another glimpse of orange. A moment later, I was rewarded: Miss Amherst stood near the top of the set, laughing with her partner. At the sight of her, something inside of me squeezed.

  I was looking so intently that perhaps she felt my gaze, for her own eyes darted suddenly toward me, starling-quick; when she saw me, her mouth twitched up briefly before she returned her attention to her partner and the dance. But even as Mr. Watters returned, bearing two cups of ratafia, and remained beside me, making occasional comments and observations about the dance and the general company, my eyes strayed to Miss Amherst. The drink was sweet and fruity, coating my teeth and tongue.

  “I greatly enjoyed my visit to Rosings Park when my sister and your cousin became engaged,” Mr. Watters said. He stood very close to me, the better to be heard above the music and drone of other voices. I smiled vaguely and took another sip from my glass. When Mr. Watters and his sister came to Rosings, neither one paid me more than passing attention.

  “I only wish I had the opportunity to see more of your lovely estate,” he said. “Lady Catherine said you have more than twelve thousand acres?”

  His voice rose at the end of this, as if he were asking a question; and to my relief, I knew the answer. “Yes,” I said. “Just a little more.”

  A flash of white teeth. “How marvelous. And you’ve a steward to oversee it all, I think?”

  “Yes,” I said again. Miss Amherst and her partner, a short, balding gentleman who was surprisingly light on his feet, performed a graceful allemande; and then she turned her head ever so slightly, meeting my eyes over her shoulder for an instant.

  “But you’ve no house in Town?” Mr. Watters said, and when I looked at him, a little startled, he added, “I was surprised that you had no house of your own to which to come when you arrived. Not,” he said hastily, with a disarming smile, “that your presence at your cousin’s has been anything but a pleasure. I just assumed that your father would have kept a place here.”

  “He stayed at his club, I think,” I said.

  “How very odd.”

  I gave another vapid smile and took another sip from my drink, and listened to the last notes of the song as they lingered around us like perfume. Miss Amherst and her partner bowed, and he led her off the floor. She said something, nodding in our direction, and he bowed over her hand before releasing her. And then she wound her way through the crush, edging between people, stopping to greet one or two on her way.

  “Miss de Bourgh, Mr. Watters,” she said when she reached us.

  “Miss Amherst,” he said. “A pleasure.”

  She nodded, smiled, looked back and forth between us. “Are you enjoying yourselves?” she said at last.

  “Very much indeed,” Mr. Watters said. Another pause, lengthier, and I wondered whether Miss Amherst felt as awkward as I did; whether Mr. Watters was aware of how very much I wished he would go elsewhere.

  “I was just asking Miss de Bourgh about her estate,” he said.

  “Oh?” Miss Amherst folded her hands before her, all polite interest.

  “Yes. I hope to visit there again someday; it is a beautiful place.”

  “I am sure it is. Though I am so accustomed to the city; I must confess wilderness and farm life hold little allure. The squirrels in Hyde Park are beasts enough for me.”

  Her words hit me like stones.

  “I had hoped,” he said after another pause, “to convince your friend to stand up with me again.”

  “You danced?” Miss Amherst turned to me, and now she was all delight. “Oh, I wish we had not been late. Julia”—a roll of her eyes—“lost one of her gloves, and refused to borrow any of mine.”

  “Yes, I danced,” I said. I angled my body a little more toward her, though not enough to shut Mr. Watters entirely out of the conversation. “But as I told Mr. Watters, I have exposed myself quite enough for tonight, I think.”

  “But we’ve still the whole evening ahead of us!” Miss Amherst said. The drawing of bows across strings signaled the start of the next set. “Oh,” she said, and looked around. “Ah—Julia is dancing again with Mr. King. Good; anyone observing can see how he singles her out, so it will not be gossip to say I expect him to offer for her very soon.”

  “Mr. King?” I saw Miss Julia in the row of dancers, opposite the same young man with whom she was partnered in the previous set. “This is sudden! How did they meet?”

  “Oh, I’ve so much to tell you. So it is just as well that you are not dancing and that no one has asked me for this one!” She smiled into my face, and I smiled foolishly back.

  Mr. Watters coughed a little. “Far be it from me to intrude upon ladies’ confidences,” he said, with a self-deprecating smile that almost made me warm to him. “But Miss de Bourgh, I would be remiss if I did not request the privilege of escorting you in to supper.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and he bowed and left us.

  Miss Amherst watched him go, then turned to me. “He pays you a great deal of attention,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said, quietly; to speak more strongly felt akin to inviting that attention to become something more formal.

  She watched me. “He is very handsome,” she said; and she, too, was tentative as a child climbing too high a tree, testing each branch for fear it will not bear weight.

  Mr. Watters’s good looks were undeniable. “Yes,” I said again, and then I took her arm and tugged gently; I did not want to speak of Mr. Watters just now. “But come—tell me your news!”

  We were together until the supper dance, when a gentleman claimed Miss Amherst’s hand for the set. She followed him to the dance floor, and I followed her with my eyes. Her hair and her gown, which was yellow as cowslips, were easy to keep in sight among the more subdued brown and blond heads and paler fabrics of the other ladies. Mrs. Fitzwilliam and Mr. Watters found me and introduced me to several people, all of whom were perfectly cordial and perfectly forgettable. And yet they all seemed eager to meet me—mistress of Rosings Park, in Kent, and an earl’s niece. These facts about me had not changed; but no one had ever seemed quite so eager to make my acquaintance before, and suddenly I was surrounded by ladies and gentlemen keen on knowing me better. The gentlemen asked me to dance, though I stammeringly refused each invitation; the ladies introduced me to their brothers, or sons, or nephews. I looked into their faces; smiled and nodded in what I hoped were the proper places; and thought of the years I’d spent recumbent and dismissed. Miss Hall had said that I could be so much more than I was then; it seemed that others agreed with her.

  When supper was announced, Mr. Watters led me through and helped me to my chair. For the duration of the meal he was solicitous and charming, drawing out stories of my life before coming to London and, in turn, amusing me with tales from his and Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s childhoods. From time to time I saw John, seated at another table, watching us; and Miss Amherst, seated across from me and a few chairs down, smiled at me occasionally, though her dinner partner required most of her attention. I ate a few bites of everything and reeled between enjoying the feeling, as intoxicating as the wine served with each course, that I was fully present and participating in this moment; and wishing I were seated beside my friend.

  She found me la
ter, when some of the guests had abandoned the ball for other amusements or succumbed to tiredness and gone home. There were still ten couples dancing in the set, however, and an air of general merriment. Mr. Watters was dancing with another lady, and I had retreated to a chair half-hidden by a large urn of hothouse flowers.

  “You are hiding,” Miss Amherst said. She sat on the empty chair beside mine and opened her fan.

  I did not deny it. “It is all a little overwhelming for a reclusive country girl.”

  She did not laugh, as I intended her to, but gave me a chiding glance. “You are not so lacking in mettle as that.”

  “Mmm. Perhaps not. But my hosts are still dancing, and I am very tired.”

  She smiled lazily and tapped me on the wrist with her open fan. “Poor dear.” Her eyes slid sideways, toward the dance. “You would not stand up with a friend, I suppose? No one else will have me.” Though her tone was mild, I found myself sitting up straighter at the sound.

  “With you?”

  “It is not unheard of for ladies to stand up together,” she said. “Though I suppose it is more usual when there are fewer gentlemen present.”

  “I cannot,” I said. I felt slow and stupid, but I looked at the dancers and could think only how dancing with Miss Amherst would show an utter lack of propriety after having told not only Mr. Watters but three other gentlemen over the course of the evening that I was not dancing. Even I was conscious enough of social mores to know that a lady could not politely refuse to dance unless she meant to refuse all dances for the rest of the ball.

  Miss Amherst seemed to follow my thoughts perfectly. “It is quite something, is it not,” she said, apparently without bitterness, “how deeply concerned we are with men’s tender feelings?”

  My smile felt limp as the flowers in the urn before us, petals wilting in the warmth of the room.

  “You look splendid,” she said after a moment. She reached out and adjusted my necklace so the clasp sat properly at the nape of my neck. Then she drew back.

  “Your gown is by far the more splendid,” I said. Yellow, which made me so sallow, brought out the shine of her hair.

  “Mmm. Thank you.” Idly, she caught my hand, studying the scrolling embroidery that ran all down my gloves’ length.

  “You’ve such an eye,” I said. “You should have been a modiste.”

  “Ah, no,” she said. “I am far too idle for such a life. And modistes are too busy making other ladies’ clothes to have the best gowns for themselves.” Her lips compressed. “In truth,” she said after a moment, “I love fashion. But—sometimes I cannot tell whether my desire to always look well is for myself, or . . . if it has always been expected of me. Of all of us, as females.” She frowned down at my glove.

  I cocked my head. “From the perspective of a—friend . . . it seems to give you genuine pleasure. Fabrics and bonnets and—and keeping up with fashions.”

  “Yes.” Miss Amherst offered me a half-smile. “But it just—does it never bother you?” Her fingers clasped mine a little more tightly. “It seemed to bother you, earlier—I’m sorry if I misread things. But I saw you, surrounded by all those men, all of them wanting something.” She shook her head, the curls at her neck dancing. “I suppose I am just—well, as I said before. It sometimes seems that men’s tender feelings are always to be foremost in our minds. And that includes decorating ourselves for their enjoyment.”

  I thought of all the hours Mamma spent trying to keep me in looks for my cousin Darcy’s approval, resentment, like spoiled milk, curdling in my belly. “Yes,” I said.

  Miss Amherst was silent a moment. Then she moved her thumb, just a fraction; yet it felt like a caress against my palm, sending a sudden rush right through the core of me. “I did not mean to distress you,” she said, and turned her eyes upon my face for so long that I finally returned her look. “And I know how impractical my query was. I know that we cannot dance.” A lifting of her shoulders and the corners of her mouth. “I only wished we might.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  My dear Mamma, I wrote. I have danced at a ball.

  I lifted my pen, brushed it across my lips, smiled to imagine my mother’s expression as she read my words. To imagine her face to see me now. During self-conscious moments, I was aware that I had not done anything particularly noteworthy. Coming to London, shopping, reading, attending a ball—these were the daily activities of countless ladies throughout the country—throughout the world. And yet, each time I stepped outside and surrounded myself in the clamorous rush of this mad city; each time I turned a page in a book and felt the words printed upon it leaving dimples upon my mind, some subtle as a sparrow’s claw prints, others deep as a horse’s tracks; each time I was addressed by a clerk in a shop, as if my opinion were of true consequence; I was swollen with wonder at the turn my life had taken. I thought of those people at the ball, all so interested in making my acquaintance, and a little of the resentment faded, leaving a touch of pride in its place.

  But then, from no logical place, there sometimes came a great sucking feeling. It was not unlike the falling sensation I used to get with my drops; but whereas that was a gentle drifting into senselessness, this was a muddy mire that dragged at my limbs, at the hem of my gown, pulling me down, down, down. When it came over me, I was certain that I was the most useless and pathetic of women.

  My back teeth clenched together; I felt the ghost of Miss Hall’s fingers tapping at my jaw to release them. I waited a moment for the tension to ease and imagined my mother’s face as she opened my letter, allowing myself a moment of happy fantasy—her lips tipped up, her face going soft as muslin when she read how well I have become. Then I put pen to paper once more.

  You would be amazed, I think, and happy, too, to see how my health has improved. Unfathomable as it may seem, London agrees with me.

  John and Mrs. Fitzwilliam were invited to a dinner party. I was included in the invitation, as was Mr. Watters, but at the last moment I told my cousin I did not wish to go.

  “Are you sure?” he said, eyes pinched with concern. “Are you feeling well?”

  “I am only a little tired after the ball.”

  “Of course,” he said, relaxing. “Very well. Harriet can instruct Cook to make up a cold repast for your dinner.”

  I thanked him and waited, all impatience, for them to be off. Mrs. Fitzwilliam was a little cross, for their hostess would have a gap at her table, but Mr. Watters bent over my hand gallantly, brushing the back with his lips, and said he hoped I would be quite improved on the morrow. Then at last, with a final adjusting of wraps and gloves, they left. John helped his wife into the carriage, then climbed in beside her. Mr. Watters glanced back at the house to see me silhouetted at the window, and tipped his hat before climbing in as well. I wiped the back of my hand on a fold of my skirts, then turned gratefully back to the drawing room, which, for a few hours, was entirely mine.

  I finished all three volumes of Waverley more quickly than I thought possible. Never before had I read anything that entrapped my attention so completely; never before had I understood the compulsion others felt to spend their time reading. At night, unwilling to return to my own life when I could exist in the one I had found in the novel’s pages, I burned precious candles for hours.

  When Miss Amherst asked whether I had made progress with my reading, all I could say was, “When shall we return to the Temple?”

  My skin rippled with pleasure when she laughed. “So eager!” she said. “Whenever you wish, of course, but you are more than welcome to borrow any volume from our library. My father is forever giving out his books; nothing delights him so much as sharing them.” She tipped her head. “Does your cousin not have a library, as well? Or is his all dull works on . . . I don’t know, animal husbandry and the like, now that he has his country estate to manage?”

  I was embarrassed to say I hadn’t the smallest idea what sorts of books John’s shelves held. It felt odd to tap on the door and breach the masculi
ne sanctuary of his book room, but when I asked whether there were any novels I could borrow, he gave me a mischievous smile.

  “I am glad to see that you are determined to please yourself,” he said, and stepped back, opening his arms in a gesture of welcome. “I’m afraid I am not a great reader, but I have a few; most of them are Harriet’s, to be honest, but I know she would not mind you borrowing them. Take your pick.”

  I took my time looking over the shelves. I rarely paid much attention to the books in my father’s collection; there was little point, when Mamma would forbid anything she thought would lead to too much vigorous mental activity. But I thought of the library at Rosings now, standing among my cousin’s smaller selection, thought of the high shelves and narrow windows, the room all fine dark wood and soft chairs for sitting and reading. It seemed suddenly an absurd thing, that I had spent so little time there.

  John’s books were obviously not much touched, musty from having been shut up so long, a cloying sweetness emanating from some of their pages. There was little thought to organization, works of military history tucked between works of fiction and—I smiled a little to see them—a few volumes about farming. I finally selected a novel whose title seemed intriguing; John glanced at it and said, “Ah—The Mysteries of Udolpho. A touch sensational for my taste, but Harriet has read it at least twice. I hope you enjoy it as much.”

  I tucked my shawl around myself and curled up comfortably as a cat on the settee, opening my book to the place I marked. There was an indulgent feeling in both the curling and the reading, a sense that I was, as John said, pleasing none but myself in these moments. Mrs. Radcliffe’s novel, which I began yesterday, nearly as soon as I’d procured it, seized my imagination in a manacle grip and refused to release me. My eyes simply flew from word to word, from line to line across the page, almost faster than my mind could grasp each line’s meaning, anxious to see what terrors awaited Emily in her uncle’s cold castle.