by Van Reid
“Yes, well,” said Thump. He shook Philbrook’s hand, offered to shake Mrs. Pleasance’s hand as well, then realized his faux pas, withdrew his hand, and bowed. Reflexively, Mrs. Pleasance put out her own hand, and when Thump bowed instead, she pulled it back again. Thump, who saw the offered hand, lifted from his bow and reached for her hand, which had so far retreated that it looked as if he were reaching for her instead. Embarrassed, Thump pulled his own hand back again and bowed. Mrs. Pleasance almost extended her own hand a second time but corrected herself and said something, possibly indelicate, under her breath.
Thump, who was sure he had heard wrong (though perhaps not quite sure enough), walked away. Not being very particular about the direction of his escape, he was nearly run down by several polka dancers.
“Mr. Morrell,” said Mrs. Pleasance, turning her smoky gaze upon Philbrook, “I’m not sure whether you are bad for depriving me of Mr. Thump’s company or worse for wanting to dominate my company yourself.”
Philbrook had not intended anything like this and, truthfully, was constructing his plans purely out of the moment. But circumstance did not leave him in the lurch. He was exchanging practiced badinage with the provocative woman when he saw a tall head of silver hair overtopping the nearby crowd. The man caught sight of Philbrook, gave his host a frown, and approached. “It was not for my company that I was attempting to secure you,” Philbrook said to Mrs. Pleasance pleasantly. He passed her Mrs. Morningside’s dance card and said with a sort of humorous gravity, “I acquired this by means that I am not at liberty to divulge.”
It did not harm his sudden plan that Mr. Pleasance was not very fond of Charleston Thistlecoat. Nor did it harm his design of the moment that Mr. Thistlecoat was really a striking individual with his shock of silver hair, neatly coiffed, his patrician features and long nose, and his self-assured manner. Thistlecoat was dapper to the very laces of his shoes, and he carried about him an aura of wealth.
“I looked all over the foyer,” said Thistlecoat, upon his approach, and these odd words, spoken so stuffily, almost made Philbrook laugh.
“Did you?” said Philbrook. “Perhaps what you’re looking for is closer to hand.”
“Oh?” Thistlecoat unknowingly made the mistake of looking a degree more satisfied even as he turned to Mrs. Pleasance.
“Mr. Thistlecoat,” she said musically, “I believe I have something of yours.”
“Oh?”
“You didn’t have to be so ... indirect.” She waved the dance card before him, and Thistlecoat tried to peer at it as it fluctuated past her pretty nose.
“That looks like my signature,” he said.
Mrs. Pleasance laughed slyly.
Philbrook made a simple bow and said, “I leave you to it, Charleston.”
“Philbrook?” said Thistlecoat uncertainly.
“Mrs. Pleasance,” said the host, including her in his bow. Then he hurried off in search of his former concern.
“Mr. Thistlecoat,” said Mrs. Pleasance, “I believe you must make good on this promise.”
Thistlecoat, still at sea as to how this promise had come to be in her hands, allowed himself to be escorted to the dance floor while the orchestra picked up the quiet flow of the Danube, and being nothing if not gallant in his conduct toward people “of his own station,” he exhibited all his outward charm and elegantly fell in.
Philbrook Morrell stumbled across Mr. Pleasance not half a minute after he’d left Mrs. Pleasance’s side. Philbrook thought Thistlecoat was a stuffed shirt, but he considered Sterling Pleasance a thoroughly bad sort. Pleasance was obsequious when he was in need of something and derisive when he thought he had the upper hand. There were those who thought that he had ruined a decent woman, in the person of his wife, Sybilla, as if she had been a horse run badly, but Philbrook was of the opinion that Sybilla Pleasance had probably always been something of a schemer. “The best tricks are learned in the cradle,” his father used to say.
But there was no doubt in Philbrook’s mind—Mr. Pleasance was the worst of the match. “To put it delicately,” Philbrook had once said to his own wife, “Sterling Pleasance is a lout.” Not duplicitous by nature, Philbrook approached people like Sterling Pleasance with something like apprehension, and having perpetrated something like duplicity on Mrs. Pleasance and Mr. Thistlecoat, he was doubly startled when Sterling’s smirk loomed out of the crowd.
“Well, Philbrook,” said Pleasance, “it’s all very grand, isn’t it.”
“Thank you, Sterling.”
“The ladies are looking fetching, don’t you think?” The man cast his gaze about like a vaguely irritated snake.
“I have noticed a high degree of admirability,” said Philbrook dryly.
“Take that one,” said Pleasance, “no, take that one,” and astonishingly, he indicated the young bespectacled woman who stood only ten or twelve feet away from them. “She hasn’t left that fellow’s side all evening.”
Philbrook tried to view Miss Morningside and Mr. Moss as if he had never seen them or (at least) considered them before. “She’s very pretty.”
“Do you think? I don’t know. She looks uncertain about it all to me. But there is no doubt she is otherwise presentable. Put together,’ I believe is the phrase.”
“She’s very young,” said Philbrook.
“I thought I might ask her to dance,” said Pleasance unpleasantly. The Morrells were a highly respected and respectable family, and Sterling Pleasance, who had capped a wayward youth with a wayward adulthood, had never tried to hide his disdain for Philbrook. “You should have seen Thistlecoat, a while back,” said Pleasance. “All straight and narrow, striding off like the proverbial knight to rescue that girl’s mother from the Moosepath League.”
“I believe he’s dancing with your wife at the moment,” said Philbrook without warning and in that same dry tone.
Pleasance looked puzzled. Philbrook’s flat statement sounded more like one of his own, and Sterling was not used to having his general scorn being reflected from this source. “Really?” he said.
“Yes,” said Philbrook as if this were neither surprising nor cause for distress. It occurred to Philbrook that his unrehearsed machinations might be found out if the three people upon whom he had exercised them actually spoke to one another, but he really wasn’t very concerned about it.
“Thistlecoat,” said Pleasance. The news of his wife’s dancing (or even carrying on) with anyone was not very shocking to him, but the source of the news, as well as its offhand delivery, had given him pause.
“Have a nice evening, Sterling,” said Philbrook.
“All very grand,” said Pleasance as the host stepped past him. There was a long moment (or at least long to Pleasance) while he sorted through what had just occurred. “The Blue Danube” seemed to him trite and annoying, and he watched as placid dancers drifted over the pretty notes, swirling past him like so many leaves on a steady breeze.
He cast his eyes over the dancers, once or twice thought he saw a silver-topped head, and, when the waltz was finally over, prompted himself to movement and began to weave through the crowd.
22. Much Might Occur
By the time he finished his second dance with Miss Momingside, Sundry had ceased trying to say anything clever. By the time he finished his third dance with her, he ceased trying to say anything at all. He had used up all speech, or all the speech he dared employ; his emotions were that close to the surface and only waiting for the smallest excuse to boil over.
They hardly looked at one another directly. Sundry found himself gazing at the side of her head or past her shoulder, though she otherwise filled the memory of his vision that night. Occasionally he did address her with a plain look, and inevitably she would be turning her own gaze to steal a glance at him. Once their eyes met, he found it difficult to pull his gaze away so that when he finally did, he was red to the ears.
When they waited out a dance or two, Miss Underwood came wandering by with her fiancé and a
pplied her happy wit toward conversation. Sundry was grateful, as his own well-documented social abilities seemed profoundly truncated. He did reveal further details concerning the marriage of Mister Walton and Miss McCannon, and Miss Underwood was prevailed upon to divulge some of her own plans under this theme. “Of course, Dresden just wants to get it over with and go home,” she said breezily.
“I do want to go home,” agreed Mr. Scott without a smile, which made his fiancée laugh.
“Dresden!” said Priscilla, who would have sounded like her mother if she hadn’t laughed as well; then she wore that sweet, secret smile as she looked down at the floor before her feet.
Sundry took the opportunity to look at her again. He did like these people, and Mr. Scott was a man to admire, not the least for his dry humor, but he wondered: Could he even joke about such a thing if, by any stretch of fate and the imagination, it involved the young woman standing beside him? Miss Morningside’s beautiful dark hair was gathered behind her head and fell thickly past her shoulders, the combs holding it back gleaming and the glass of her spectacles winking when she moved. The natural abundance of her, all in marvelous relationship with itself, called to the depths of his young man’s heart; her hands when she moved them seemed not entirely delicate like Cordelia’s, but altogether feminine.
She looked up, unexpectedly, caught Sundry looking at her, and said with an endearing smile, “It’s such a nice evening.”
Sundry looked to one side, which was timid of him, and said, “I can’t remember one better spent,” which was not.
“There you are,” came a voice from the nearby crowd, and Miss Underwood’s father ambled up to the small group.
“Daddy, why aren’t you dancing?” asked Cordelia.
The older man regarded the present quadrille. “I don’t like any sort of dance where I have to share your mother. I’ll stick to waltzes. I don’t see you out there.”
“We’re resting, thank you.”
“Your aunt isn’t feeling well.”
“Oh?” said Cordelia. Priscilla said something that couldn’t be heard over the music, though her shrinking posture spoke well enough.
“She’s having one of her headaches,” said Mr. Underwood without the use of an ironic tone. “Your mother and I are taking her home,” he added, still addressing his daughter.
“Oh, no, that’s not fair,” said Priscilla.
“We’ve been to many dances—” he began with an affectionate hand on Priscilla’s shoulder.
“But it’s the biggest event all summer!”
“And we’ll be to many more, God willing.”
“We’ll take her home, Daddy,” said Cordelia cheerfully. “Won’t we, Dresden?”
“Very glad to,” said Mr. Scott, who was perhaps telling the truth.
“No, no,” James was saying.
“Uncle James, I will go home with Mother,” said Priscilla in a tone that rang of finality.
“Now that’s not fair,” he replied. Grace was known for her headaches and fainting spells, a large proportion of which, it was suspected, were more motive than ailment in their origin.
“If anyone should go home with her, it’s me,” insisted Priscilla.
“Your aunt and I are leaving, at any rate,” said her Uncle James.
“I’ll go,” said Priscilla, after only the smallest hesitation.
“Priscilla,” said Cordelia.
“I’ll go,” repeated Priscilla. She turned to Sundry and with clear eyes, but with an obviously heavy heart, said, “Thank you for the dances.” She even reached out and touched his arm.
Sundry had been listening to the preceding conversation with something like horror and an increasing inability to breathe. He shook his head and tried to express to Miss Morningside how very much his pleasure it was. “Thank you,” he finished, and (he thought) lamely.
“Good-bye,” she said, almost below hearing.
Miss Underwood looked as if she might cry. Mr. Scott looked grim.
Mr. Underwood put on his most placid expression and nodded to Sundry. “Mr. Moss,” he said almost with a note of query.
This address was meant as a nudge, and Sundry appeared to wake with a start. ‘Til see you out,” he said, surprising even himself. He couldn’t think what had been the matter with him; certainly he didn’t want to hang back, like some small conniver hiding from sight. He hurried up alongside Miss Morningside, and she smiled as she took his arm.
“Thank you,” she said again.
Somehow the air and circumstances had cleared. Sundry could breathe, and he wondered, did she perhaps grip his arm a little tighter than need be? Was she walking a little closer to him?
Mercia Underwood looked vaguely amused when Priscilla and Sundry emerged from the crowd. “How good to see you again, Mr. Moss,” she said pointedly. He exchanged genteel pleasantries with her and included Mrs. Morningside in these, expressing his hope for her speedy recovery.
Grace Morningside looked as grim as had Mr. Scott. She held her forehead between a thumb and forefinger and thanked him. “Are you coming, Priscilla?” she asked with more graciousness than directive in her tone.
“Yes, Mom,” said the young woman. They went out to the wide, high-ceilinged foyer, and James retrieved their coats.
“This must be quite an event for you, Mr. Moss,” said Mrs. Morningside.
Priscilla flashed a look of anger at her mother, and both of the Underwoods seemed dismayed by the statement.
But in his sudden decision to accompany Miss Morningside to the Underwoods’ carriage, Sundry had regained a measure of his usual equanimity, and he was not to be shaken from it. “It certainly is, Mrs. Morningside,” he said with all honesty and an honestly warm smile.
Even Priscilla’s anger was somewhat mollified by this reply, and the mother herself looked every bit the party in arrears. “I’m glad if you’re enjoying it,” said Grace quietly, and with enough sincerity that she almost exonerated herself. She even took Sundry’s arm when he offered it and allowed him to escort her to the street.
The rain had fallen off, though the walk was still wet. A dim light from the sky strained through several layers of ragged cloud. The moon was up but invisible.
“Pay us a visit,” said Mrs. Underwood to Sundry while her husband was calling up their driver.
Mr. Underwood, when he had handed his wife into the carriage, gave Sundry’s shoulder a warm grip. “Good night, Mr. Moss.” James offered assistance to his sister-in-law, and after only a brief hesitation, Grace entered the carriage on his hand.
“Good night, Mr. Moss,” said Priscilla. “And thank you.” She let him hand her in after her uncle stepped aside.
“I hope to see you again,” said Sundry, but Miss Morningside only smiled softly and looked down where she was stepping.
“Pay us a visit, Mr. Moss,” said Mrs. Underwood again, a little more loudly this time and none too subtly.
Sundry chuckled. “I will,” he promised. Then Mr. Underwood was ensconced beside his wife. Sundry had a glimpse of Mrs. Morningside leaning her head back against the seat with her eyes closed, and the driver whipped the horse up and took the carriage away. After a few minutes in the cool of the evening air, Sundry went back inside to make his excuses to the Moosepath League and to say good-bye to Miss Underwood and Mr. Scott.
The affianced couple were in the foyer. A grand schottische was under way in the ballroom, and even out here they had to speak louder than usual. “Mr. Moss,” Miss Underwood said, almost as soon as she saw him, “you must come by and visit us.”
“I’ve already promised your mother that I would,” he said.
“Very good.” She seemed satisfied, but then she wanted to be sure of him. “Mom will be very put out if you don’t, you know.”
“I will do my best not to disappoint.”
“And of course, the rest of us will be looking for you, too.”
“I think Mr. Moss will probably come by when he has the opportunity,” said Mr. Scott
with the sort of expression that indicated his beloved may have stretched the subject far enough.
Miss Underwood very nearly made a face.
“Mr. Moss!” came a familiar voice, and Mr. Ephram strode into the foyer. He looked rather out of sorts, and he sported a bewildered cowlick that would have done Maven Flyce proud. Mr. Eagleton and Mr. Thump were in close order behind him, and if they did not wear the bewildered cowlicks, they did wear the expressions. Mr. Thump was very wide-eyed, and Mr. Eagleton walked as if he expected to be prodded from behind at any moment.
“High tide at 3:14 a.m.,” said Thump.
“Rain expected to clear, sunny and seasonable tomorrow,” said Eagleton.
“It’s five minutes before the hour of ten,” said Ephram. Eagleton and Thump were considering his cowlick with polite interest, and Ephram reached up and touched the wayward plumage. “Oh,” he said, as he brushed the hair back in place, “Mrs. Allglow thought I had something in my hair ... I think.”
He hoped she thought this, but in truth, she thought he had said something amusing, and when he professed that he had not, she only laughed more and impishly ruffled his hair, which she thought handsome. Thump had appeared soon after with the news that there was business concerning the club, and Ephram had hastily excused himself from Mrs. Allglow’s company. Eagleton was quickly discovered, and though none of them had actually called a meeting, they were each quite sure that one was in order.
“Business to attend,” said Ephram.
“Glad to have you with us,” said Eagleton to Sundry, though the young man would have to be quick to catch up with them as they hurried for the door.
“Thank you,” said Sundry. “I think I’m in need of a walk.”
“Mr. Thump?” came a feminine voice from the ballroom.
“Hmmm?” said Thump as he followed his friends into the night.
“Mr. Thump?” Mrs. Pleasance was standing in the entry to the ballroom, calling after the bearded Moosepathian as her husband whisked past her to retrieve their coats. A few feet behind her stood Charleston Thistlecoat, who looked nearly as provoked as her husband.