“Indeed,” Evan said. “I look forward to seeing the Dyers again. Remember, they had us to dinner last week.”
“Oh, yes, last week.”
Evan wondered if Uncle truly remembered it. He’d been drunk that night too. At the dinner, the Dyers had invited Evan to the annual ball they held prior to their exodus to London along with the other politically and socially obligated members of central Bedfordshire’s upper class. Evan had accepted the invitation as was expected by his new position as the Glenside heir, but he wished he could have refused. Providence and tragedy had made Evan part of this society, and along with his inheritance of status, land, and a fine estate came certain responsibilities he was expected to fulfill. Therefore he would attend his first country ball among gentry even though he knew no one but the hosts.
“Are you sure you would not like to accompany me?” Evan asked, not for the first time. The Dyers had also pressed Uncle to come, but he’d refused them.
Uncle waved his hand through the air with great flourish, grunting in response. He shook his head, and some of the hair he had combed over his baldpate fell over his forehead. He pushed the wayward strands back, causing them to stick up like a rooster’s tail.
Evan pinched his lips together to keep from smiling.
“Dancing is for the young.” Uncle Hastings lifted his glass and drained the contents in a single swallow. The moment the glass hit the table, he beckoned the footman to fill it again.
Evan cleared his throat to draw his uncle’s attention away from the burgundy liquid filling the glass. If his uncle would attend him to the ball, the regular routine of drinking himself unconscious in his study would be thwarted for a night. “The Dyers said there would be cards for those men—and women, I suppose—who are not inclined to dance. I plan to take a few hands myself in order to meet some of the local men.” Stating his goal of the evening aloud made him want to run for London. Would these people accept him? Would they see him as out of place as he felt?
Uncle waved his arm through the air again. “Pish posh. There is nothing at such an event for a man like myself. Now, if my Lucy were here, well, then things would be different.” He sighed, his eyes glossy. “Oh, Lucy was a magnificent dancer. Why, the first night I saw her was at a ball back in ’85. She was dancing a reel with my best friend, Malcolm . . .”
Evan remained at the table, listening politely to a story he had heard half a dozen times during his earlier visits. Uncle’s feelings for his lost bride were certainly the reason behind his overindulgence. He seemed lost without her.
When Evan’s father had passed twelve years earlier, Evan had felt a similar sense of loss from his mother, though she did not remedy her despair with liquor. The mother from Evan’s youth had been buried alongside his father that day, and though the woman left behind was kind and dedicated to her children, she was not whole. There was sadness in her eyes and a slowness to her smile that reminded Evan of his responsibility as man of the family now. Mama may never find joy again, but he was dedicated to her comfort and the security of his sisters.
Evan’s position as Uncle’s heir provided greater prospects to his family than they’d ever have otherwise. That was why he would go to this ball among strangers who, a year ago, would not have met his eye on the street. He would go for his mother and for his sisters, and be grateful for the unexpected hand fate had dealt them all.
“Oh, Lucy,” Uncle Hasting said after he lost his place in the story. He covered his eyes with one hand, but his trembling chin still showed.
Evan felt the man’s regret, deep and heavy. Hastings and Lucy had been married for fifteen years and given up on ever having children. So Lucy’s pregnancy seemed a miracle to them; a reward for years of Christian charity and devotion to each other. But then Lucy died in childbirth, and the infant had not survived the night. Lucy and their son were buried in a plot just west of Lucy’s favorite rose garden on the estate.
Uncle Hastings visited their graves every afternoon before coming back to the house and pouring his first drink of the night. His glass would not be empty until he lost consciousness. It had been seven years since their deaths, but Uncle relived that sharp pain every day of his life. Though Evan had never met his Aunt Lucy, in a very odd way he missed her.
It was another ten minutes—and the last of the dinner wine—before Uncle pushed himself up from the table, teetering enough that both Evan and the footman stepped forward to steady him.
Uncle waved them off. “I’m keeping you, my boy,” he said to Evan. “To the ball with you!”
Without waiting to see if Evan followed his instructions, Uncle turned toward the doorway that would lead him down the hall to his study and the decanter of brandy he kept there. When Evan had arrived at Glenside Manor three weeks ago to begin his permanent residence, Legget, Uncle’s butler, was bearing the responsibility of helping his master to bed each night after Uncle passed out in his study.
Within the week, Evan had taken over the task. It seemed the least he could do. Legget was sixty years if he was a day, and though he resisted at first, once he understood Evan’s sincere desire to be of assistance, he relented. Uncle had no idea that Evan was the one to help him every night, and Evan had not felt it necessary to tell him for fear it would embarrass his uncle to know.
Evan remained standing, listening for the door to Uncle’s study to close. When the familiar click sounded, Evan turned his attention to the footman hovering in the hall. It seemed there was always some servant lurking about. Unnerving, really. “I shall return by midnight, Jeremiah, and help my uncle to bed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Evan made his way to the foyer. Jeremiah followed and assisted him into his coat and hat. Evan had to bite his tongue to keep from insisting he could dress himself. Would he ever get used to his loss of independence?
Worry for his uncle faded as worry for the night ahead rose. How Evan wished he were not going. In London, he had been comfortable with working-class people who preferred ale to wine and purpose to idleness. He and his friends made cracks about the aristocracy, the landholders, the rich—and now he was one of them.
A year ago, he’d been a clerk at an accounting office, he’d lived in a four-room house with his sisters, and he’d found an hour or two each week to work in what used to be his father’s carpentry shop. The equipment belonged to Evan, but since his father had died before he’d been able to properly train his son in the craft, Evan rented the shop to a man with enough skill to make a living who did not mind Evan making use of the tools when he could. Evan enjoyed making a piece of simple furniture from time to time, but his hobby was frowned upon by the new society of which he was a part. Gentlemen did not work with their hands.
The memories of his former life left him hollow. Sometimes it seemed as though he had to give up everything that once made him who he was to become an entirely new person—the heir.
The heir had responsibilities.
The heir must act his part.
The heir was tired even though he had only just begun this journey.
It will get better, he told himself, though it was his mother’s voice he heard in his head.
Jeremiah opened the door, and Evan nodded his thanks because Uncle had explained that it was beneath him to verbalize his gratitude to the servants. Evan stepped onto the porch and shuddered despite his many-caped coat Uncle had purchased for him in London. He bowed his head against the wind and hurried down the steps to the waiting carriage. It was too bad a ball could not be cancelled on account of the weather, though the icy rain that had plagued the day did seem to be easing. A garden party could be canceled for rain, Uncle had explained, but not a ball. Never a ball. Too much went into its creation, and the gentry would drive from miles to attend.
A warm brick had been placed on the floor of the carriage, reminding Evan that there were luxuries of this new life he appreciated very much. Hop
efully the comfort would chase off the longing he felt for the life he had left behind.
The carriage pulled forward, and Evan took a deep breath, inviting calm and the ability to act well his part for the night. He would live in the small hamlet of Leagrave for the rest of his life, and in a few months—once the dowager cottage was set to rights—his mother and sisters would be joining him. The people he met tonight would be his friends and neighbors forever. He would one day marry and raise his family here. This world with its rules and expectations and, yes, comforts, would be all his children would ever know. He looked out the window and tried to focus on the gratitude of being in this place. He thrummed his fingers upon his knee.
Evan had been thirteen when his father died. Through the help of a benevolent cousin on his mother’s side, he’d become an apprentice to a clerk at an accounting office. He didn’t have the standing to attend University, but he worked hard to do his best and earn the respect of his colleagues. Now, twelve years later, he had been presented a new opportunity. So many people depended on him. Once again he was being thrust into an unfamiliar world. He would do his very best to be equal to it.
This would be his first ball, but it would not be his last. He had to find his place here, and the sooner the better.
Evan’s new boots pinched his heel. He had eight additional pairs of shoes at Glenside Manor, three of which he had never worn. In London, he had worn the same pair of shoes for two years at a time. Such comparisons were heady.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Holdsworth.” He straightened from a bow he hoped was elegant and smiled in a way that he hoped hid how out of place he felt.
The woman of quality smiled before turning to the young woman standing beside her. “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Margaret.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Holdsworth.” Evan bowed again, only over the young woman’s hand this time.
He had expected a country ball to be a small affair made up of snooty people. He could not have been more wrong. First, he’d never been to such a large event in his life; he felt sure he’d met a hundred people tonight. Second, the distinction between the few titled and obviously wealthy guests and the typical genteel class was not nearly so pronounced as he’d expected. Beyond that, they made a lively group. No one sniffed in boredom or acted as though it were a privilege for the hosts to have them. Rather they were gracious to their hosts, eager to see old friends and, in his case, make a new one.
“I am pleased to meet you as well, Mr. Glenside,” Miss Holdsworth said, looking up at him with such unabashed interest that his neck became hot. Amid the other unexpected aspects of this evening was the interest the young women—and their mothers—had in meeting him.
In London, Evan had been considered an eligible bachelor among the third class of society. He worked for a living, but with his mind not his hands. He was not too fat or too thin, nor were his teeth askew or his nose too pointy. He did not dress with great flair, nor did he comb his hair in a Brutus or some other style of the day, but he was no worse turned out than many other bankers or lawyers. Beyond those recommendations, he did not put his foot in his mouth often, nor did he have a tendency to ogle young ladies, laugh too loud, or gossip, gamble, or drink too much.
A handful of women in London had showed their interest in him over the years, even though he had not been inclined to marry until his younger sisters found good situations. However, he had never encountered such eagerness from such lovely ladies as he’d had tonight. Knowing that the attention was due to his new status gave it an air of artifice, but he did not have to wait for his sisters to marry now. He could support the family of his birth and a family of his own at the same time.
After so many years of putting the needs of his family before his own, however, it felt selfish to consider his own interests. Never mind that he could now consider a match with women who had been out of reach just a year ago. Women who would never have solicited his attention back then.
Miss Holdsworth blinked and cocked her head coyly to the side. Was it his imagination, or had she also pushed her bosom a bit higher?
The opening strains of a dance began, and Evan was glad for the diversion. He had made it through a quadrille and the minuet already, then spent an hour in the card room, where he’d met a handful of men. Mr. Ronald Bunderson had been particularly welcoming and was near Evan’s age. He had suggested they hunt pheasant together, and Evan had agreed, though he’d never fired a gun in his life. He’d eventually left the card room to face dancing again. Running out of words seemed as good a reason as any to take the floor a third time.
“Would you care to dance, Miss Holdsworth?” At least it was a country dance. He’d danced a lower version for years, and it would not take nearly the concentration the earlier dances had demanded.
“I would be honored,” Miss Holdsworth said. She was pretty, with a nice smile and eyes the color of hazelnuts. Could he imagine himself married to her? It bothered him to know that if he asked her she would likely say yes even though they’d only just met. He was a wealthy man, or would be one day, and that was all the recommendation a great many people needed.
Evan masked his thoughts with a smile as he led Miss Holdsworth to the floor where they took their places with the other dancers. Before he’d come to Leagrave, Mr. and Mrs. Mundy had tutored him on etiquette and dance. They lived in the same London parish as Evan and had been in the service for a titled family. He made a mental note to send them a letter expressing his thanks. Without their help, he could never have felt this confident on the dance floor—country dance or not—or at the dinner table for that matter.
The dance began, and Evan managed the first few minutes rather well. He unobtrusively watched the other men and tried to imitate the way they held their chins up, raised their knee higher here, dropped a shoulder there. They did hold better form than he was used to from the dances he’d attended in London.
Evan was feeling good about his skills until he went left when he should have gone right, colliding with a woman who let out a squeak of alarm. He reached out to steady her, only to be kicked from behind by another dancer who had not seen him fall out of form.
The woman immediately moved to find her place again. Evan looked for where he was supposed to be and tried to ignore the heat shooting up his neck.
Miss Holdsworth nodded to her left, her eyes wide with embarrassment, and he quickly ducked back into place, but his heart was racing and he could feel the looks from the other dancers.
You recovered well, he told himself, but the tension remained. No one will fault you for missing a step. But it was the simplest dance he knew, for heaven’s sake! Many of the other guests were aware of his humble place in society before coming here. Some of them likely disapproved of his rise, and he hated to validate any objections.
Chin up. Smile. Try not to draw additional attention.
When the dance finally ended, he breathed a sigh of relief and escorted Miss Holdsworth back to her mother.
“Would you care to join us for a glass of punch?” Mrs. Holdsworth asked.
“Thank you,” Evan said, thinking fast, “but I am promised elsewhere for the next set.”
Both women frowned, and he felt a prick of guilt for the white lie but restated his regrets. He also thanked Miss Holdsworth again for the dance and her generous patience with his mistake. She kindly said that everyone missed a step now and again, which he appreciated. However, he still needed escape. Just for a few minutes.
Once he extracted himself from the women’s company, he scanned the room for any doors that would lead outside, hoping the Holdsworth women would not notice when he did not take the floor for the next dance.
It was cold on the veranda, but the heat of the ballroom coupled with the heat of his embarrassment made the chill a welcome relief. The earlier rain was gone, and the cooler temperatures seemed to have kept the other guests inside. All
the better.
Evan took a garden path and soon found himself at a fork. He was still near enough the house that the path was illuminated by the light pouring from the numerous windows. The direction he could see led to a bench beneath an arbor threaded with vines and climbing foliage bright with spring. But the bench was in view of the house, and Evan needed to hide. He took the path that wrapped around the back of the arbor only to find the same scene—another bench beneath another arbor. No, it was actually the same arbor. Back-to-back benches with a bramble of foliage to hide the one from the other and a canopy that protected both benches from the earlier rain. This bench, however, was out of view of the house. Private, removed, and perfect.
“Praise the heavens,” Evan murmured as he took a seat on the cold stone, rested his elbows on his spread knees, and dropped his head in his hands. He could renew his energy, recover from his embarrassment, and restore his confidence.
As the minutes ticked by, the tension drained from his shoulders, and he found the idea of extending his reprieve more appealing than returning to the ballroom. He fell into a rather virulent argument with himself regarding whether or not to return at all. He looked at his pocket watch: 11:15. He had ordered his carriage to be ready at 11:45, which meant he had half an hour left before he could make his excuses to the hosts and leave.
But how should he spend that last half an hour? If he returned to the ball, he would have time to dance another set, but with whom? He couldn’t ask any of the girls he’d danced with already. The attention would seem too particular. The other girls he had been introduced to earlier in the evening had since blended in his mind to the point that he could not sort one from another.
He could play more cards and shore up his acquaintance with the men. But was half an hour enough time to spend at the tables? Would making a short appearance be worse than making no appearance at all? Were there rules about that sort of thing?
Mr. Bunderson had been dancing last Evan saw him, having also thrown over the card games for companionship of a gentler kind.
The Vicar's Daughter Page 3