Flirtation & Folly

by Elizabeth Rasche

  In gratitude, Marianne searched for something to say that would please her aunt. She described her dances and partners, dwelling on Sir William’s courtly kindness and Mr Hearn’s polite conversation. She told her aunt that although Sir William’s furnishings in the supper room were very fine, she could not help preferring the taste that modelled their own home. Realising it might be an impertinence to call Aunt Harriet’s house her own home, she hurried to praise the skill of the musicians and the freshness of the hothouse fruits before them.

  “Then you are happy, Marianne?” Aunt Harriet asked. There was a wistful gentleness in her voice that Marianne had heard only once before, the day she had begun teaching her about money and patted her on the head.

  “Very happy, Aunt,” Marianne said emphatically, and they exchanged smiles.

  Well fortified with supper, Aunt Harriet declared she would return to the ball and seek out a few acquaintances—“If I can find anyone in this mash,” she added, with the grim contentment of a guest invited to a hectic crush.

  Marianne decided to serve herself an Italian cream, so she bade her aunt goodbye for the moment and wound through the tables to the far side of the supper room, where thick white tablecloths draped like melting snow beneath the melting ices and creams above. As she dipped a silver ladle into the basin, she heard newcomers enter the supper room behind her, loudly greeting the gentlemen already seated and shuffling a few chairs as they moved. Marianne was about to set the ladle down when a voice caught her attention.

  “That Miss Mowbrey is a peach.”

  “Steady, now.”

  She did not recognise either voice. It must be gentlemen she had not met yet, people who had spied her across the ballroom and hunted out her name. Her fingers tensed on the ladle, and she forgot her intention to put it down. It hovered in the air, slowly dripping Italian cream into the basin underneath as Marianne strained to hear more. They must not have noticed her here with her back turned to them.

  “She’s a peach, and you know it. I’m going to ask her to dance. The waltz, probably.”

  “Not likely to be a waltz, and if there is, she likely will not dance it. Young ladies are so priggish nowadays.”

  “Miss Mowbrey will dance it, I am sure. She is all fun and frolics.”

  Marianne’s face flushed, and the ladle trembled in her hand. She had never thought of herself as frolicsome, but it was true that she had felt lighter and happier this evening than ever before.

  “You will have to fight a dozen other gentlemen for the honour, then.”

  A dozen gentlemen? Had she really made such conquests? Elation rushed into her heart, but then a familiar sensation came creeping in afterward. Doubt.

  “I do not mind a bit of competition. She is worth it.”

  “You always say they are worth it when they are all blonde locks and cherub faces.” They laughed, and the clatter of their laughter shook the room, and the ladle. It must have been that, and not Marianne’s hand shaking, for her heart had shut down into a solid bundle, sensibly corded up to keep the lid on tight. She understood what had happened now.

  Without speaking to anyone, she deposited the ladle, turned, and exited the supper room, not even sparing a glance at the young men sprawling in chairs. A few even strides brought her down the hallway, and a few more carried her into the ballroom. The crowds were beginning to thin with the lateness of the hour, but she pressed forward with an unrelenting pace, her motion inexorable. For once, the guests fell away without attracting her notice, the calm, severe expression of her face no doubt spurring them to move aside.

  There. A young woman was holding court at one side of the ballroom, seated in a chair positioned well away from the line of dancers. It was difficult to make out her face, given the constant strutting and posturing of young men clustered around her. They were bringing her glasses of ratafia, leaning down to her to catch her remarks, nodding their heads as far as their stiffly-starched neckcloths would allow, and bowing occasionally to emphasise what were no doubt excessive compliments devoted to the young lady. But in between the glidings of gentlemen short and stout and tall and thin and muscled and waif-like, Marianne could spot golden curls cascading, a pert ruby mouth, teeth like pearls, and blue eyes softening almost into violet. It was Miss Mowbrey. The beautiful Miss Mowbrey. Belinda Mowbrey. Her sister.

  Belinda seldom took notice of females except to examine dress, so Marianne got quite close to her sister without her noticing. “Belinda,” Marianne said. Her voice sounded unnatural to her own ear, cold and stony and unimpressed. It took a moment to remember that her voice had sounded like that most of the time, back in Wrumpton. It was her lilting, happy tones that were the adaptation, the voice she had learned to use in London. Now she was back to the dull tones of the rectory. “Belinda!”

  From where she sat, Belinda had grown aware enough of her to study the lace trimming the hem of Marianne’s gown. With another repetition of her name, she finally glanced up at Marianne. “Why, it is my sister, Marianne!” She stood up and threw her arms around her, and the gentlemen around her exchanged smiles, remarking on Belinda’s sweet sisterly affection. “We meet at last! I was beginning to doubt you had made it to London at all.” She giggled.

  “I am sure Mama told you where I was,” Marianne said. She barely returned the hug, probably giving their audience the impression that she must be truly heartless not to treasure such a pretty greeting.

  “Of course. I was only teasing. Aunt Harriet must be here as well?” Belinda pushed aside a few of the men, who seemed more pleased than anything at her impatient touch. “Which one is she?”

  “That one, in the purple gown and turban, standing by the painting of the horse.” Marianne directed her gaze, and Belinda burst out laughing.

  “Oh Lord! I have never seen such a sour face! Did you exchange one dreary house for another? But I should not say that.” She corrected herself. “No house is dreary, so long as it is in London. I am never going back to Wrumpton.” For once, Belinda’s lilting voice evinced the steely determination Marianne had felt. For an instant, Marianne felt united with her sister.

  “I daresay you will not have to.” Despite herself, envy showed in Marianne’s face. She could not remember Belinda’s skin being quite so fair—that was the only hint that her sister’s ivory flesh owed something to powder, applied with a deft touch. Belinda’s pale pink gown hugged her bosom, then dropped in silky folds to her matching slippers. The quality of the silk fairly shone with wealth, and Marianne had to admit Mrs Walters must have been even more generous to Belinda than Aunt Harriet had been with Marianne.

  Unsurprisingly, Belinda’s giddy laughter, breathless beauty, and expensive dress had attracted the persistent admiration of other guests. The gentlemen milled around them, trying to reclaim Belinda’s attention, but she ignored them. They gradually moved off to seek partners for the next dance, or else stood by and took lightly-scented snuff as they watched the dancers.

  Belinda threw a smile at her sister, and Marianne felt torn between humbly accepting the new friendliness in it and resenting the beautiful curve of her lips. “Tell me everything. Is Aunt Harriet kind to you? You certainly have a fine gown, so she must not be too horrid cruel. Have you any beaux yet? Mama writes twenty times a day, wanting to hear all about mine.” She laughed and did not seem to care which, if any, of the questions Marianne answered. “I have been meaning to leave a card at our aunt’s, but I am always so terribly busy! Mrs Walters cannot do anything without me. We go everywhere and have such fun! So there really has not been time for family visits.” She must have felt a twinge of guilt, for she added, “I was sure I should see you when Almack’s opened, but you were not there.”

  “We did not get vouchers,” Marianne said shortly.

  Belinda’s eyes widened. “You poor thing! But how are you to get a husband if you never go to Almack’s? Never mind, I am sure you have something in hand. There are plenty of gentlemen in London.” Her eyes lit up with humour. “I
shall find a partner for you to dance with, if you like. There’s Mr Cox over there, with the short side-whiskers.”

  “We have met. I danced with him tonight, actually.”

  “Did you? Then he must have told you the most appalling fibs, just as he did me. He told me a very pretty story about his father being too interested in the niceties of the law to perform as a full barrister, when really I know his father is nothing but a law clerk. Really, it was cleverly done.”

  Marianne could not help noticing the way Belinda’s hair was swept up high in the back, but let loose a flood of curls over one ear in an alluring manner. She had never seen such a style before, but Belinda made it look à la mode. Marianne wished she had thought of it. Her voice hardened. “But he imposed upon you, Belinda. He lied.”

  “And what else should he have done? He could hardly declare the truth in society. I thought it was very well handled.” Although Belinda’s tone was light, Marianne could already hear the familiar note of annoyance and impatience. She heard it every time she scolded Belinda. Already the unusual friendliness was wearing away.

  “If he truly wished to recommend himself, he ought not to have begun by lying.”

  The impatience was now not merely a note in the voice, but spread across Belinda’s flushed cheeks and red lips. “Oh, please, Marianne! Clergymen airs do no good here. I wish you could hear yourself; you sound like such a dull creature. Frowning at every little slight of reputation impresses no one. Society must be greased a little to wind up.”

  Marianne remembered how she herself took credit for befriending Mr Glass, and the charming Captain Pulteney’s omissions about his lack of battle experience, and had to agree there was justice in Belinda’s remarks. She left off her critique of Mr Cox and allowed Belinda to lead her to Mrs Walters. Mrs Walters looked much the same as she had on her estate near Wrumpton, with perfectly coiffed hair, smooth skin, and unrelenting upright posture that could only signal an immense degree of self-assurance. Her gown, however, displayed a shocking amount of bosom. Marianne reflected that she would never have seen Mrs Walters in such a state of undress whenever her father the rector was invited to dine, or perhaps Mrs Walters dared not dress that way in the country at all. How different everything was in London!

  “Belinda is such a sweet, dear girl,” Mrs Walters said, squeezing Belinda’s hand with a gushing affection. “I have not had such fun in London since I was a girl myself. However could you bear to part with her, Miss Mowbrey! I am sure I will be devastated when she returns to Wrumpton.” Her eyes crinkled into an impish expression, making Mrs Walters look almost girlish herself. “But perhaps Belinda will not be going to Wrumpton. She may make a new friend who insists she stay here in London. Then what fun we shall have!” Mrs Walters squeezed Belinda’s hand again, giving her a secretive smile before she passed through the crowd.

  Marianne waited a moment before she bothered to remark upon it. “Obviously she thinks someone is going to propose to you,” she said to Belinda. “Who is it?”

  “Oh, she could mean anyone, I suppose. Mr Cox, for one. Or perhaps Mr Nabbles. Or perhaps a few others.” Belinda did not seem as concerned as Marianne would have been, despite their shared determination to avoid going home. But then, Belinda could probably count on receiving several offers of marriage before her time in London ended, while Marianne craved even the hope of one. “Mr Lowes has already asked me twice.”

  “Mr Lowes!” Marianne’s shock froze her fanning hand.

  “Do you know him? He is dreadfully dull. He’s always writing notes I am supposed to pretend not to read, and they never say anything except that he adores me. Mrs Walters says he is rich but not solid. Now Mr Nabbles is solid.” Belinda giggled.

  The desire to lecture Belinda about the impropriety of receiving notes from unmarried men was powerful, but Marianne repressed it. Curiosity helped. “What do you mean?”

  Belinda was too distracted by the flounces of a passing gown to reply, but Marianne was soon able to deduce the term’s meaning for herself after meeting Mr Nabbles. Mr Nabbles turned out to be a heavy, respectable-looking man in his early forties. At first glance, he had the vague, good-humoured receptivity of a rich man who knew he was considered vulgar by aristocrats and permitted their sneers in order to get his feet firmly placed in their drawing rooms. Mr Nabbles certainly smiled his loose, fleshy lips at the commonplace prattle people make in a ballroom, and he listened politely when one would expect a more sensible man to grow tired and bored.

  But on closer examination, Marianne caught a glimpse of a stern, acute expression that narrowed in, especially when talk of land came up. His eyes had a cunning to them which reminded Marianne of the rectory cat. The cat had been dutiful in catching mice, good-natured in allowing little children to smooth his fur, but uncanny in his determination to get into the cream in the kitchen—and similarly uncanny in his success. Although Mr Nabbles trailed after Belinda in the usual foolish fashion of lovers, he was no fool in general. Marianne supposed that was what Mrs Walters meant by ‘solid.’

  Mr Lowes was young and rich, but lived a loose lifestyle as likely to drain away his wealth as not. Mr Nabbles would never make such an error. He clearly enjoyed the good things in life—his waistcoat bore an impressive sheen, the watch-chain hanging from it fairly rang with gold ornaments bobbing against each other, and his heavy jowls suggested frequent meals of good food—but his eyes held a keen, measuring glance whenever he gazed over the ballroom. He was a man who would spend money willingly enough, but always made sure to get his money’s worth.

  After meeting Belinda’s friends, Marianne was able to introduce her to her own circle. Captain Pulteney made an immediate impression. His lively wit soon had Belinda in peals of laughter, forced to hold on to his arm to keep from falling over with humour, or so she claimed. He carried her off to dance several times. The fact that the captain had lost interest in Miss Emily gave Marianne a quick thrill which soon soddened into guilt. Heroines never felt a secret satisfaction at another’s misfortune. And Miss Emily was her friend! Marianne feared her desire to shine was twisting into a blackened yearning for those who did shine to be doused into ashes. The thought frightened her, but she felt even worse that it did not frighten her enough.

  Neither Lady Angela nor Miss Emily took the captain’s defection in good humour. Miss Emily alternated between studying Belinda’s attire and gestures with reluctant admiration and hastily asserting herself with whatever she thought might impress Belinda. Her attempts generally fell flat, not because Miss Emily lacked any grace or accomplishment, but because Belinda was ill-suited to admire any lady’s qualities besides expensive gowns and the ability to make her laugh. Miss Emily had the requisite gown, but her wit was too intellectual to extract even a smile. This social failure disposed Miss Emily to draw back from Belinda Mowbrey, and Belinda’s monopolising of Captain Pulteney soon thereafter drove her into a cautious dislike.

  Lady Angela, whom one might have supposed to be grateful to Marianne’s sister for distracting the captain from her, merely looked disgusted with both him and the talkative, flamboyant Belinda. She watched Belinda flirt, marking every silly statement, every unnecessary touch, and every sultry lowering of the eyes the way a governess might mark every error in a pupil’s recitation. Marianne was torn between amusement at Lady Angela’s restless disapproval and sympathy with her. After all, Marianne had spent most of her life disapproving of Belinda’s light-hearted, fascinating nature. When Lady Angela finally secured a partner, the older woman’s head jerked up with pride and pretended a lofty indifference to the captain and Belinda as she moved away. Marianne was just watching them dance out of sight when Mr Hearn approached her.

  “Will you waltz with me, Miss Mowbrey?” he said. His dark hair had become disheveled with dancing, and his demeanour appeared more relaxed than when they had danced earlier. She guessed that some of the strangeness of meeting after their quarrel had rubbed off.

  “I do not think Aunt Harriet would li
ke my waltzing,” Marianne said with regret. Mr Hearn did not press, but instead leaned against a pillar beside her and watched the slowly spinning dancers. They stood together in companionable silence until Mr Lowes joined them, causing Mr Hearn to straighten, his expression becoming inscrutable.

  “I say, Miss Mowbrey, your sister is divine,” Mr Lowes said without ceremony.

  Marianne winced. At the moment, London felt no different from Wrumpton. How many callow village youths had approached her with the same lovelorn incivility, desperate for a sister’s aid in their quest for Belinda?

  “How pleasant it is to see you, Mr Lowes,” Marianne said, just the right amount of reproach in her voice to remain polite.

  “Oh, yes, certainly.” Mr Lowes swiped his damp hair back, sweat glistening on his forehead, and Marianne felt sure it was not merely dancing that had raised his temperature. He did not seem aware that his second remark was as rude as the first. “Anyway, I have to tell you your sister is—quite rightfully—the talk of the ball. What sort of flowers does she like, Miss Mowbrey?”

  There was something about Mr Lowes’s eagerness as he awaited her answer that drew Marianne’s sympathy. His chest had paused just as his lips had, as if lungs, heartbeat, and speech were all suspended together. He was clearly already infatuated with Belinda. Marianne debated her response. The same man who tormented Mr Hearn so cruelly was now provoked into a restless longing himself. Could she help Mr Hearn somehow, using Mr Lowes’s desire for her sister to manipulate him?

  As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she felt ashamed. It could not be right to raise or level Mr Lowes’s hopes unfairly, nor to meddle in her sister’s love life for her own purposes. Marianne settled back into the cool, indifferent response she had applied to Belinda’s suitors in Wrumpton.

  “Belinda likes anything expensive and fashionable. I am sure whatever you choose will be appropriate,” she said. Even though the two statements did not exactly fit together logically, they gave an air of politeness to the crude analysis of her sister’s tastes.