by Lucy Muir
Woodforde nodded to Mrs. Andrews and she began playing a minuet by Handel. Nervously, Catherine pliéd on her left foot, rose to her toes on the right foot, then straightened both legs, heels together. She walked forward several steps, concentrating on taking two steps to each measure of the three-quarter time, sank into a plié again, and started the sequence over, trying to imagine a partner as she moved her hands and arms while executing the steps and turns. The skirts of her riding habit, although full, did not help her execution of the steps, and Catherine felt quite sure she would receive no compliments on her performance.
Woodforde stood at the side of the room, arms folded, frowning in concentration as he watched for several minutes. Finally he clapped. “Enough.” Andrews stopped playing and Catherine stood waiting for his verdict.
“It is as I recalled,” Woodforde stated. “You have an adequate knowledge of the steps themselves and their proper sequence, but you are not refined in their execution. Your heels are not close enough together, you do not glide on the balls of your feet, but step, and your arm movements are generally lacking in elegance and grace.
“Observe me and then repeat the steps as I do them,” he ordered, joining Catherine on the floor. “Andrews, commence playing and continue even should we stop dancing and speak, until I tell you to cease.”
Woodforde, who was wearing dress knee breeches and stockings, his feet in encased in black pumps, performed the steps and Catherine attempted to copy them. “Heels together, Miss Trevor! Together! Arms so,” he commanded, demonstrating the proper stance once again. “Do not allow your arms to sag from the shoulder. Hold your arm in a half-circle. You must control your movements, Miss Trevor. Control, that is the key to the minuet.”
Catherine essayed the steps once again, only to earn more criticism. Increasingly frustrated, Catherine repeated and repeated the steps and arm movements until her knees and toes ached and her arms began to shake from the effort of holding them up for such a sustained length of time.
“Lord Woodforde, might I not rest a moment?” she pleaded after an hour had passed. “In truth I believe I must rest a moment or I shall collapse upon your drawing room floor.”
Woodforde scrutinized Catherine and motioned for Andrews to stop playing.
“Faith! You are a hard taskmaster,” Catherine began to complain, but caught herself. “And that is just what I require for improvement,” she added, darting a quick look at the marquess, fearing to lose Woodforde’s instruction should she complain about the effort that was required.
“We shall take a half-hour for cards and then begin again,” Lord Woodforde informed his pupil. “Andrews, you may leave for the half-hour, and then return.”
Mrs. Andrews quit the room as Lord Woodforde pulled a Pembroke table from the wall, folding out the top, while Catherine rubbed her aching arms.
“Miss Trevor,” Woodforde said, moving a chair to the table and holding it out for her. Catherine sank into the chair with a sigh.
Pointedly ignoring her sigh, Lord Woodforde took a deck of cards from the table drawer. “As you know, the essentials of vingt-un are simple. I am quite certain that is why you chose the game,” he said with a sidelong glance at Catherine, “but we shall need to practice, nevertheless. I suspect Edgecombe plays high, and you should understand the odds of certain hands.”
After a half-hour of play in which Woodforde instructed Catherine in various strategies for increasing her chances of winning more hands than she lost, Mrs. Andrews returned to the drawing room. Woodforde replaced the cards in the drawer and rose. Stifling another sigh, Catherine stood and once again practiced the steps of the minuet as the marquess drilled Catherine in their proper execution. At last, when the mantel clock chimed two, he stopped. “That is enough for today, Miss Trevor. I am sure Lord Trevor will expect you home for dinner by three. Andrews, you may reassume your usual duties.”
Catherine slumped onto a chair in weariness, not certain she would be able to exert the physical effort necessary to ride home. She kicked off her slippers and rubbed her aching feet.
“Miss Trevor,” Woodforde said with his first smile of the day, “surely you cannot be tired? I had hoped you might exert yourself to accompany me to the conservatory before you departed. I should like to give you a peach or two to take home for your hare.”
“Thank you, Lord Woodforde, I believe I may be able to walk that far,” Catherine acknowledged as she exchanged her slippers for her riding boots.
The two friends walked slowly to the conservatory, Lord Woodforde no longer the stern taskmaster. Once inside, the marquess selected three peaches from a small container-grown tree, and presented Catherine with two to take home for her hare. As she placed them in the cloth bag with her shoes, Woodforde peeled the third peach of its thick fuzzy skin, and offered it to Catherine.
“This should refresh you after your exertions,” he said with a smile.
“Thank you, Lord Woodforde,” Catherine said, taking the peach and biting into the firm but juicy flesh, relishing its sweetness.
“Does the prize bid to be worth the trouble, Miss Trevor?” Woodforde asked with a quizzical expression as Catherine ate the juicy peach with relish, pulling the last bits of peach flesh from the pit with her teeth.
“That remains to be seen,” Catherine admitted, finishing the peach and licking the juice from her fingers. “You must confess that Lord Edgecombe is neither fat nor gross of manner. Nevertheless, I confess I might be inclined to answer ‘no’ after the rigour of your lessons today, Lord Woodforde, but I shall persevere all the same. You shall not frighten me off that easily. I expect a bit of rest and lavender water will help restore me once I return home. You will see me again on the morrow, never fear.”
“I expected no less of you,” Woodforde replied with an enigmatic expression on his countenance as he watched Catherine lick the last of the juice from her fingertips. “I have long observed of your character that you persevere in your goals.”
“Is that not generally considered a virtue?” Catherine asked as they walked slowly back toward the entrance hall, sensing disapproval in her friend’s mien and curious as to its source.
“It is if one’s goal is worthwhile, Miss Trevor. Have you read any of Sterne’s The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman?”
“Yes, I have,” Catherine replied, wondering at the apparent non sequitur. “Although the story was a bit difficult to follow at times, and I confess I did not enjoy the earlier volumes as much as I did the later ones. But I found Uncle Toby a most engaging character.”
“Then you might recall the words, ‘Tis known by the name of perseverance in a good cause—and of obstinacy in a bad one,’” Lord Woodforde quoted as they reached the entrance hall. “Until tomorrow, Miss Trevor,” he said as the footman opened the door for her departure.
“You are late rising,” Lady Manning commented to her niece the next morning when Catherine entered the small drawing room an hour later than her custom.
“You are fortunate to see me at all,” Catherine replied with a rueful look. “Woodforde seemed to delight in being as stern a taskmaster as he could yesterday. But I shall not allow that to prevent my tutelage.”
“I would not expect that it would, given your stubborn temperament,” Lady Manning responded rather tartly. “I take it you have looked after your hare already? How is he doing this morning?”
“Quite well,” Catherine reported. “I can see he enjoys dining upon the grasses and vegetable tops in the garden, but he still took a few oats and fruit from me this morning. He has become much friendlier since I moved him to the walled garden, although he still will not allow me to touch him.”
“Miss Louisa Ellsworth,” James announced, opening the drawing room doors.
Catherine smothered a sigh at footman’s announcement, but forced herself to rise and receive her visitor graciously.
Louisa, wearing a riding habit in the new style based on a man’s dress—bodice made in the fashion of a c
oat over a waistcoat, the skirt full but untrimmed—swept into room with her accustomed assurance.
“Are you ill, Miss Trevor?” Louisa asked after she had greeted Lady Manning. “You are looking very fagged this morning. Your ankle must still be paining you.”
“I am well enough, thank you for your concern. You are about early this morning,” Catherine commented, for Louisa rarely called before ten.
“Lord Edgecombe is out trying the hounds with my father and brother,” Louisa informed Catherine, “so I thought I would call on you. I wished to see if you had recovered from your turned ankle. They can be so painful. I do hope you will be able to dance by our ball this Friday. We shall be following the French fashion and allowing changes of partners. It is even possible,” she added, made generous by Catherine’s tired appearance, “that Lord Edgecombe might solicit your hand for a dance.”
“My ankle is much better, thank you Louisa, so I shall be able to attend,” Catherine assured her neighbor, glad Louisa’s desire to have her own opportunity to dance with the marquess instead of always giving way to her elder sister had impelled her to coax her father to allow the new French custom of changing partners.
“Do you still plan to hold a dinner here at Rosemont for the marquess?” Louisa asked as she took a chair.
“Yes, Papa has agreed,” Catherine assured her neighbor. “We thought perhaps the end of August or the first part of September would be best. Some of our roses should be in bloom then, although the best blooms will be past.”
“The end of August would be delightful,” Louisa answered. “Now I have some particular news to share with you and Lady Manning: we are planning to have a masquerade at Ellsworth Hall. You will recall I mentioned my hopes to you earlier, and I am pleased to inform you that Papa has agreed. It is to be set for mid-September. We wish to give those who plan to attend time to have costumes prepared.”
“That is indeed delightful news,” Catherine said honestly. “It has been two years since a masquerade has been held in the vicinity of Moreton; other than the Twelfth Night masques at the end of Christmas, that is, and they are not the same at all. I shall look forward to it.”
Louisa left soon after, leaving Catherine in high spirits. “Think of it, Aunt Manning, a masquerade! I must have many opportunities for promoting my interest with the marquess at a masquerade! ”
“No doubt,” Lady Manning commented, “since even the most prudent tend to leave their common sense at the door at a masquerade. The anonymity of the mask is perhaps too freeing. But do not imagine you shall be free of my chaperonage.”
“Of course not,” Catherine agreed, quietly imagining several ways in which she might escape her aunt’s scrutiny at a crowded masquerade.
The bracket clock chimed the half-hour and Catherine remembered she had yet to write two letters that morning and had barely a half-hour to compose them before she must leave for Woodforde Park. Fearing to be late, she hurried to her escritoire.
The remainder of that week Catherine never failed to be at Woodforde Park promptly at eleven for her instruction, remaining for the full three hours. Little by little, she felt she was finally improving in her performance of the minuet. On her last day Woodforde drilled Catherine in the honours of the dance, taking her through the bows, curtseys and stylized gestures that comprised the graceful sequence of movements that was completed before the dance itself actually began. “Perform the honours with graciousness and pride, Miss Trevor, as well as elegance and assurance,” Lord Woodforde exhorted Catherine.
When at last Lord Woodforde allowed Catherine to put everything together and go through an entire dance with him as her partner it was an awakening for Catherine. The minuet, which she had once viewed as tedious compared to the more lively country dances, she now discovered was exceedingly gracious. And with her new understanding of the finer points of the dance, she was fully able to appreciate the perfection of her partner’s steps and the elegant figure he made, so tall and erect, his well-formed legs outlined by close-fitting knee breeches and stockings, his movements controlled and graceful as they gave each other their hands; first the right, then the left, and finally both, keeping their hands together as they danced sideways and then opened out to their imaginary audience at the end.
Flushed and happy, Catherine smiled at her instructor. “How did I do, Lord Woodforde?”
“Tolerable, Miss Trevor, tolerable,” Woodforde replied with a smile that belied the faint praise. “Shall you dance the minuet at the Ellsworth’s ball tomorrow? Do you feel you are ready for a public performance?”
“Only if you partner me,” Catherine qualified her answer. “I am not certain how well I should fare with another partner. I would much prefer to dance with you and be admired at a distance by Lord Edgecombe than risk dancing with Lord Edgecombe himself and forget all my lessons in agitation at his closeness.”
“Does his close proximity create such agitation in your bosom?” Woodforde asked quietly.
“Yes,” Catherine admitted. “I have so very much at stake.”
“It shall be my honour to partner you for the minuet at Ellsworth Hall ,” Woodforde accepted with a graceful bow. “Until tomorrow evening.”
Chapter Five
The ballroom at Ellsworth Hall blazed with candlelight as Catherine entered in company with her father, aunt, and Lord Woodforde. The room was already very crowded, as most of the local residents who had been in London for Season were now back at their country homes for the autumn hunting, the harvest, and the winter celebrations that were to come. Any new face was welcome in the relatively closed country society, and everyone who had received an invitation had come to the Ellsworth ball to meet the Marquess of Edgecombe.
As Catherine made her curtsey to the room she felt a shiver of unusual nervousness. She had attended more entertainments than she could remember at Ellsworth Hall, but this one was different. She felt her whole future depended upon the impression she would make on the marquess this night. Would she be able to remember all the details she had learned from Lord Woodforde during the week of practicing the minuet with him, or would they flee the moment she took the floor before Lord Edgecombe’s critical eye? And would the Ellsworths choose to have several couples on the floor at once, or would they have each couple perform the minuet separately, requiring each couple to take the floor in turn, the cynosure of all eyes?
Catherine also worried whether the marquess would approve her choice of gown. After much thought, she had selected a relatively simple gown of ivory satin trimmed with ivory lace at the neck and wrists of the tight-fitting three-quarter length sleeves. The close-fitting bodice contrasted with the full skirts, which were just long enough to cover her ivory satin-covered shoes. She had instructed her maid to make her headdress as simple as possible for a formal affair, not forgetting the special wing-like lappets that would show she intended to dance the minuet. Catherine had then completed her toilette with a necklace of pearls and her finest folding fan, on which was painted a pastoral scene. At Rosemont, viewing herself in her gilt-framed mirror, she had felt she looked more than passable, and not too old.
Nor would the appearance of the others in her party cause her any embarrassment. Lady Manning was both dignified and elegant in a shimmering purple silk with a matching silk turban adorned with three gray ostrich feathers. Lord Trevor looked every inch the viscount in his neat wig, richly embroidered coat, knee breeches, clocked white silk stockings, and silver-buckled pumps. Although they were out of fashion with younger men, her father still chose to wear a dress sword for formal entertainments, and his breeding was evident in the ease with which he wore it. Lord Woodforde did not wear a sword and chose to powder his hair rather than don a wig, but in every other point he presented as distinguished a figure as her father.
Lord Trevor greeted Lord and Lady Ellsworth. The latter, after speaking to Lord Trevor and Lady Manning, turned to address Catherine. “Miss Trevor, I see by your headdress you are to dance the minuet this evening. Lo
rd Edgecombe and Miss Ellsworth are to take the floor for the first minuet; please do us the honour of dancing the second with Lord Woodforde,” Lady Ellsworth requested, knowing Lord Woodforde was Catherine’s usual dance partner at neighborhood entertainments. “The remainder of the evening, my daughters have persuaded us to follow the French fashion; one shall not be restricted to a single partner for the evening, but change partners with each dance.”
Catherine murmured her thanks at being asked to be the second to perform the minuet that evening and was passed on to Lord Edgecombe with “I believe you have been presented to our guest, Lord Edgecombe.”
“Lord Edgecombe,” Catherine acknowledged with a curtsey, her eyes taking in his impeccable dress: powdered wig, striped waistcoat, embroidered evening coat, close-fitting knee breeches, fine silk stockings, and gold-buckled shoes. A large folded fan which he wielded with grace and expertise completed his attire. The marquess took in Catherine’s appearance with a swift yet equally appraising glance. Sensing the marquess found her looks appealing; Catherine felt a thrill of excitement.
“I am pleased you have recovered from your turned ankle, Miss Trevor. I look forward to watching you dance the minuet this evening.”
“Thank you, Lord Edgecombe. I am also looking forward to seeing you dance with Miss Ellsworth,” Catherine replied, although she had no intention of watching them closely, for she did not wish to lose her confidence by watching another, more skilled, couple dance first.
With a last brief but comprehensive glance, the marquess turned his attention to Lord Woodforde and Catherine followed her father and aunt to the far side of the ballroom where a few unoccupied shield-backed chairs could still be seen against the wall. As they settled onto their chairs, Lord Woodforde arrived with Squire Turner and his wife in tow.
“Demme, Miss Trevor, if you an’t looking fine this evening,” the squire said with his usual rough good humour as he took a chair next to Lord Trevor. Mrs. Turner greeted Catherine with a kiss on the cheek and a quiet, “You are indeed, Catherine. If you do not attract the marquess’ notice this evening no one will!”