Flirtation & Folly

by Elizabeth Rasche

  “Aunt Harriet seems to love to entertain guests. I think she enjoyed herself more than anyone.” Marianne chuckled, and Mr Hearn smiled faintly. She felt safe enough to venture, “You and Miss Emily seemed to have a great deal to say to one another about Irish songs. Not that I care about it myself, but others noticed. Martha felt very left out.”

  “Miss Brophy felt left out, did she?” he said, amused. Marianne blushed. “I think I would leave off competing with Miss Emily Stokes, Miss Mowbrey. Even if it flatters a gentleman.”

  “I am not competing with her,” she protested. Her face grew to an uncomfortable heat. “I simply want to be like her, and for her to like me. And she does.” It was true, at least a little. Miss Emily certainly was nicer to Marianne than she ever was to Martha. That must mean she found Marianne likeable, did it not?

  “I am sure she does, in her own way.” His Irish lilt carried a hint of irony. “Well, it is good that you are not competing with her, for I have already secured her hand for the first two dances at Sir William’s ball. I suppose I can have yours for the next two?”

  Marianne could not help laughing. She felt exhausted from the emotional turmoil of the visit but in a pleasant way, like a child tired from too much play. She was almost giddy with relief that Mr Hearn did not spurn her friendship after everything. “That is probably the rudest invitation to dance I have ever heard.”

  “Nevertheless?”

  “Nevertheless,” she said, smiling, “I suppose I accept. On the condition that you leave now. My aunt will return soon, and I do not wish to explain your visit today.” She did not have to say why there was reason for concern. Mr Hearn’s stay had far overstretched the polite ten-minute visit he might have made upon finding the lady of the house was out and Marianne alone. It suggested a romantic interest to anyone unaware of the circumstances, and Marianne could hardly divulge Mr Hearn’s struggles to her aunt.

  “Very well. Until the ball, then, Miss Mowbrey.” He stood and bowed, smiling at Marianne’s curtsey, probably because he could detect the tiny head tilt Miss Emily often used in hers. When he left, the drawing room felt empty but warm, like a nest whose occupant had just flown off but would soon return. Marianne settled her sketchbook back into her lap and opened it to the picture of the kitchen. It was still an ugly place, and the image flooded her with a mixture of disgust and regret. What was it like to idolise the past? She turned the page and began a fresh sketch, this one of rolling hills dotted with fluffy blobs of sheep, trailing fences, and a distant manor house, stately but dull. She could not make the scene fit Mr Hearn’s character. It looked conventional and repetitive; to her, Mr Hearn was full of originality and novelty. Would an Indian scene fit him better? She did not know enough of India to make a proper sketch, and she could not decide. In the end, she lightly drew a figure in the background of the Irish scene.

  “There, Mr Hearn, I have put you where you want to belong,” she said. But the picture still lacked something, and Marianne could not tell what it was.

  Heat. Noise. Emotion. The crush of bodies in the ballroom of Sir William’s fashionable Grosvenor Square home transformed a cool spring evening into a maddened, near-tropical atmosphere of humidity. Chandeliers glimmered with their tiny bright flames and winking glass, as detached from the tumult below as the stars in the heavens must be from the riotous games of the earth. Heat radiated from body to body. Sweaty, gloved hands grasped one another in mindless displays of friendship or else beat at the thick air with spread fans. Thin strains of violin threaded through the cacophony.

  There were too many guests for conversation to prick a person into paying attention—instead, the garble of voices melded together in one loud, meaningless hum, like a thousand tiny splashes aggregating into the crash of waves. For Marianne, the ball was suffused with novelty and strangeness—the press of elegantly-dressed bodies, the feathers perched in aigrettes atop ladies’ heads straining upwards, the odours of overheated bodies and perfume pricking the nose, while the tartness of the lemonade prickled the tongue. The strange conjunction of scents and tastes, leisure and activity, brightness and night, suffused the ball with novelty for Marianne. She loved it.

  There was no doubt that her ball gown fit in beautifully with the others. It was an ordinary white muslin, coupled with a intricate embroidery to mark the occasion, and adorned with a half-inch of suitably delicate lace at the hem. Miss Emily’s taste was impeccable, and in attire Marianne resembled most of the other young ladies stepping lightly in the allemande or hanging back at the edges of the ballroom. Marianne had considered adding a cluster of unusual hothouse flowers or perhaps having her hair arranged in a new way, but Miss Emily had not answered her note appealing for help, and Marianne did not trust her own taste enough to do it without her. However disappointed Marianne might be that her appearance did not arrest the envious notice of the other guests, she could at least be thankful that no one was chuckling at her expense.

  Some of the guests looked pleased to see her, Sir William even seeking her out for a spirited conversation on the latest exploits of his nephews, and Marianne attended to them all. It was only when Aunt Harriet insisted on introducing a weasel-faced Mr Cox to Marianne, that Sir William remembered his duty to mingle with his guests and disappeared.

  Marianne’s dances with Mr Cox went much the same as her dances with Mr Hearn earlier that evening: politely and awkwardly. While the awkwardness of dancing with Mr Hearn came from their mutual regret and forgiveness for quarrelling a few days before, the awkwardness of dancing with Mr Cox came from (Marianne supposed) his insistent, clamouring pride. Despite his tall, thin body, Mr Cox reminded her of a little boy puffed up with a momentary success at school and eager to impose a fee of applause upon all who greeted him. His dark hair was slicked back with something scented, but she still expected to see an irrepressible boyish cowlick every time she looked at him. He led Marianne in the dance with stiff, proud jerks that made Miss Stokes and her partner dodge and giggle. She endured his disagreeable conversation as best she could, politely responding to his hints to praise his horses, his attire, and his intelligence, but her mind soon wandered to where Captain Pulteney lingered near the massive pillars that hoisted up the ballroom firmament of ivory ceiling and starry chandeliers.

  Several ladies huddled next to those pillars, but Captain Pulteney was leaning over the only one who stood bolt upright, full of hauteur. It was Lady Angela, trimmed in another cheap muslin with faded ribbons. Marianne could not imagine why the captain made such efforts to charm a middle-aged woman with no fortune and a shrewish temper. Her only attraction seemed to be a stubborn imperturbability to his blandishments.

  Mr Cox recalled her attention, and Marianne returned to her duties of patient homage. When the dance ended, Mr Cox escorted her back to her aunt. The relief of watching him leave only heightened her joy at seeing Miss Emily approach, who seemed equally full of delight at discovering her friend and gave Marianne an affectionate hug.

  “Why, you look quite presentable this evening!” Miss Emily said in a teasing voice. “Are you not glad you did not mar things with some ghastly addition? Imagine writing to me at the eleventh hour, begging me to help you shop the florists!”

  It had been far from the last moment, but Marianne let that pass. “I only wanted to find something different to pin to my dress. They have some very unusual hothouse flowers, and—ˮ

  “‘Very unusual’ so often means ugly! As you should know by now, my dear Marianne. You are much better like this, with nothing pinned to you at all. Virginal. Besides, I cannot hold your hand each day like a nursery-maid.” She laughed lightly, and Marianne had to admit she had a point. She had been relying on Miss Emily’s taste too often.

  “I ought to have taken my own advice and avoided fripperies myself,” Miss Emily said. “Just look at this brooch. I am sure it is too bright a sun for poor little Sir William’s ball.” She tilted it so the diamonds sparkled in the heavy beams of the chandeliers. The brooch was hardly
expensive enough to dazzle like a sun, but it made a most presentable little star.

  Marianne suppressed her envy. “It’s beautiful.” With a little too much honesty, she added, “I wish I had something like it.”

  “Oh, I daresay you will, someday.” Miss Emily did not seem inclined to speculate how. “I really ought to have saved this brooch for something more substantial. Sir William’s ball here is pretty, but so quaint! Only a few hundred guests. Now next week, when Lady Sweetser gives hers—well, I suppose I will just have to find something new to wear then. Are you going to Lady Sweetser’s, Marianne?”

  “No. I do not know her.”

  “You know very well that makes no difference, for a ball. I wonder how many of these people Sir William knows. Well, this ball is small enough, perhaps he does know a great many of them. But Lady Sweetser is, of course, pressed to invite the entire world. She says she is ever so badgered by strangers longing for entrée into her salons and galas. I told her I wished I had her fortitude.”

  Miss Emily’s conversation continued in the same vein of Lady Sweetser’s trials and triumphs, all of which meant very little to Marianne. She maintained an ostensible interest with nods and occasional utterances, however, and a little while later her friend rewarded her with a walk through the glittering ballroom, arm-in-arm, laughing at drolleries and nodding at acquaintances. The ladies appeared in better harmony than ever before, and a feeling of success swelled in Marianne’s chest. Was this not exactly what she had wished for, for so many years? She was in London, looking the best she had ever looked, talking and laughing with a young lady known for her elegance and wit. It was only a matter of time before Marianne herself was so known, and then she would have as much to contribute as Miss Emily.

  Emily’s roundabout promenade soon led them past Captain Pulteney, who was still pestering Lady Angela with murmurs of compliments. Although Lady Angela ignored him, her back stiff, she did not move away, either. “Miss Emily, Miss Mowbrey, how pleasant to see you,” she called out, pointedly not answering some question of Captain Pulteney’s. He joined their little group nevertheless.

  “My, you are looking quite heavenly, Lady Angela,” Miss Emily said in a sweet tone. Apparently she felt in a charitable mood, for Marianne knew she hated Lady Angela. And Lady Angela never looked heavenly, unless there were sour, yellow-faced angels with unkempt hair.

  “That is just what I have been telling her, but Lady Angela is impervious to all the ardour of admiration human beings can give,” Captain Pulteney said with a wink. “It must take an angel to convince an angel they are in earnest. Luckily, I think you meet that condition, Miss Emily. As do you, Miss Mowbrey.” The last he added so smoothly that Marianne almost believed he had not forgotten her for a moment. She curtseyed partly in honour to his compliment, but more to hide her confusion. Even suspecting the captain merely toyed with flirtation, she found it hard to resist him.

  “There are so many lovely ladies here this evening, I cannot believe any should be singled out,” Lady Angela said, her voice unnaturally loud. “Unless it be Lady Sweetser. Have you seen her gown? It is the epitome of elegance, and the graceful way she walks shows it to astonishing effect.”

  Marianne was puzzled by Lady Angela’s tone until she saw a well-dressed older woman passing close by in the crowd and Miss Emily’s mischievous smile of recognition. No doubt that was Lady Sweetser, trailing a cloud of scent like a comet, and no doubt Lady Angela was fully aware of the fact. Marianne wondered how much Lady Sweetser owed this compliment to a characteristic sycophancy in Lady Angela, and how much it was Lady Angela trying to pique the captain by showing she knew how to appreciate some people.

  “Lady Sweetser is always elegant and graceful.” Miss Emily had the tact to use a modulated tone of voice—but then, after Lady Sweetser’s attention had been attracted by Lady Angela’s pronouncements, she could afford to speak as she ought and yet know Lady Sweetser was straining to hear every syllable.

  It seemed odd to Marianne that Lady Sweetser, as highly placed in the ton as she was, should care what ladies of lower rank thought of her. Certainly her ladyship’s face showed no sign of having heard any remark about her. But Lady Sweetser did seem hesitant to move on, despite the push of the crowd. Apparently the mead of praise her friends offered was not wasted. Will I be like that someday? If I ever do become a queen of fashion, will I still strain for praise and never be satisfied? The thought disturbed Marianne.

  “Lady Angela, if you will not dance with me, you had much better come to the card room and sit down to a hand with me there,” Captain Pulteney said. His cheerful insouciance seemed undisturbed by Lady Angela’s attempts to issue him a set-down.

  “I have no desire to play. Perhaps one of these young ladies will dance, or play cards,” she said coldly.

  “I shall not play cards when there is an opportunity to dance,” Miss Emily said. “What about you, Marianne?” Her arm—still threaded through Marianne’s—tensed, and Marianne sensed the hidden warning.

  “I do not care to play cards,” Marianne said. The captain seemed piqued by their refusals, and renewed his request.

  “You cannot both be promised for every dance. There will be plenty of time for a hand of cards,” he said. Miss Emily’s subtle smile seemed to reassure him. “Miss Emily, I will be heartbroken if I cannot have you as a partner in a pitched battle of cards. You simply must come.”

  “Oh, I could not possibly leave Marianne,” Miss Emily said, while her smile hinted that persuasion might effect exactly that.

  Luckily for Marianne, at that moment Sir William appeared and asked Marianne to dance. She was able to gracefully exit the captain’s flirtation without having to witness Miss Emily’s defection. Sure enough, as she and Sir William joined the lines of dancers, Marianne spied her friend taking the captain’s arm and winging her way to the card room.

  Dancing with Sir William, despite his being much older than Marianne, was indisputably more agreeable than dancing with Mr Cox and his slicked-up pride. Sir William kept up a steady conversation without Mr Cox’s endless bragging, and he even gently teased Marianne for using several metaphors in a row, all involving green fields and larks. “You show your country upbringing, Miss Mowbrey.”

  “I cannot help it.” Even though she knew he was only teasing, she disliked the image he seemed to have formed of her—a quaint, maidenly sort, rural and innocent. It was hardly the image of a lady of fashion.

  “I do not want you to help it,” Sir William said. Silver hair curled softly over his ears, and although his nose had the redness that signalled too much port, it was a delicate hue. For a man of his age, he looked very well. “How you would love my little cottage in Kent, Miss Mowbrey. It would just suit your taste.”

  He went on to describe a picturesque creation of thatch and stonework. It did sound pretty, for a thing of its kind, but Marianne could see no novelty in it. Perhaps it might be pleasant to lean over a windowsill, inhale the scent of woodbine, and listen to throaty cries of rooks settling into the elms. Perhaps it would be pleasant for a time, as a rest. But it would not be the fever and chaos of London, nor the matchless glory of making herself prominent and sought after.

  She continued to listen to Sir William’s description, however, and put in a few words here and there as the dance ended and they made their way to Aunt Harriet. Lady Angela was just relating a piece of gossip she had picked up in the ballroom. The recounting was malicious enough to make Sir William’s smile falter as he heard it, but he made no comment as he neatly bowed and then passed out of hearing. Aunt Harriet let the scandalous reports flood over her for a few minutes more, and then she made her own excuse. “Lady Angela, I am sure you have others you wish to relate this to. I am nearly faint with hunger, so my niece will help me to the supper room. Will you, Marianne?” Aunt Harriet’s grin looked more wolfish than faint, and Marianne decided her aunt must have had enough gossip for now.

  “Of course, Aunt.” She took her arm, and Aunt Harr
iet leaned on it slightly for effect. As soon as they were out of both sight and hearing (a distance satisfyingly small in a ballroom), Aunt Harriet straightened and dropped her niece’s arm.

  “You need not come with me, child,” she said. Her purple turban bore a dark, curving feather, like a fluffy wolf’s tail curled around one side of her head. It suited Aunt Harriet’s tone, somehow both amused and imperious. “Go back to dancing. See, there is Mr Hearn. Stand a little closer over there, and I daresay he will ask you for the next set. He is very obliging, if a bit—ˮ She did not finish her sentence, but Marianne suspected Aunt Harriet had heard of Mr Hearn’s reckless gambling.

  “I have already danced with Mr Hearn twice,” Marianne said. Her aunt did not seem satisfied with this, so she added, “I do not wish to beg for a partner, and if I did, I wouldn’t trouble Mr Hearn.”

  “Why, what is there to dislike in him?”

  “I do not dislike him, exactly.” Marianne studied him from afar. “But he does not recite verses, nor display wit to the company, nor do anything that a dashing gentleman would do. See how Captain Pulteney is leaning over Miss Emily’s chair? He looks as though he is about to die sighing of love.” Amusement crept into Marianne’s voice. “If Mr Hearn leaned over my chair and sighed, I should like him better.”

  “You mean, you would like him better if he played to your vanity,” Aunt Harriet replied crossly. Marianne made no answer. Their progress through the crowded ballroom was slow, but even when they finally spilled out into the hallway and navigated the last few paces to the supper room, Aunt Harriet had not broken into the scolding Marianne expected. When she helped her aunt to a seat and fetched her a plate of lobster salad, pineapple, and other treats, Aunt Harriet’s face still had that fixed look of self-control. With shock, Marianne realised her aunt must be restraining herself, not to appear respectable but to spare Marianne’s feelings. It was the first time she had ever noticed Aunt Harriet taming her tongue merely for the comfort of her niece.