Miss Lindel's Love

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

Now it was Mrs. Lindel’s turn to give her daughter a squeeze about the middle. “Every girl falls in love with someone unsuitable at least once. It’s as commonplace as rain.”

  Maris didn’t want to think of herself or her feelings as commonplace. “So someone like ...say, Lord Danesby would be wrong for me?”

  “My dear child. The two of you are from such different levels of society. You could never be happy with the role his bride will have to play.”

  “I could learn. I am not so very base.”

  “You are a gentleman’s daughter, true. But he is a Danesby. He may look as high as he chooses for a bride,”

  “Then it is I who am unsuitable. As I know very well.”

  Her mother’s smile held much understanding and the tenderest maternal love. “I think I can go north now with a clear mind. I know you will be a good and sensible girl. Mind what Mrs. Paladin says and stay close beside her and Lilah. They’ll show you how to conduct yourself. When I return to town, we shall have all London at your feet and I shall enjoy your triumph.”

  Marls found it difficult, two days later, to say farewell to her sister and mother without tears springing to her eyes. Suddenly London, to which she’d been growing slowly accustomed, seemed just as huge, forbidding, and empty as it had on her first day. As their loaded carriage drove away, a handkerchief fluttering from the window in final farewell, her tears overwhelmed her efforts to keep them back.

  As Maris turned toward the red brick town house, a wind of loneliness seemed to swirl about her. She’d never been alone like this before. With her mother and sister gone, not for the hour or the day, but for a week or more, London seemed so big and lonely that Maris wanted nothing other than to retire to bed, pulling the covers over her head until they should return.

  Though Mrs. Paladin and Lilah were kind, they were not family. She could not open her heart and expect to be understood almost without words. She knew she would miss her mother and wished she’d had the opportunity to talk about the strange ways of society in greater depth. But how cruel it would have been to have demanded all her attention when Sophie needed her so badly.

  She rested on her bed for an hour, recruiting her strength for tonight’s ball. Maris wondered at her own lack of enthusiasm. Her mother should have been there to assist her, rather than a bored lady’s maid hired for the Season. It should have been her mother’s eyes, bright with tears, not Mrs. Paladin’s narrowed with criticism, watching her come down the stairs.

  Even so, she felt a quiver of excitement as their hired carriage crept through the press striving to reach the Marchioness of Bevan’s ball. This was to be the great inaugural event to open this social season. All London would be there—at least all those who mattered, as Mrs. Paladin explained with a titter.

  “Do you know the marchioness?” Maris asked.

  “We met often last year. Lilah became quite good friends with one of her daughters.”

  Lilah was looking particularly charming in a crepe gown of palest lilac, her hair beautifully dressed in waves, a Psyche knot at her crown. Yet at this comment, the blank expression came once more into her face. “Hardly friends, Mother. Mere acquaintances.”

  “Nonsense, nonsense. Didn’t she invite you to her birthday picnic at Richmond? I’m sure she wouldn’t have done that for just anyone. So many single gentlemen ...including Lord Danesby. He’s bound to be here tonight and you in quite your best looks, Maris.” Mrs. Paladin patted Maris’s cheek with her kid-gloved hand. It was like being touched by a ghost.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Maris said, and thought it time to disabuse Mrs. Paladin of one or two notions. “But Lord Danesby is nothing to me.”

  “Come, come,” Mrs. Paladin said archly. “When every time you meet you gaze into each other’s eyes without so much as noticing that there is another living soul to be found?”

  “Mother,” Lilah said, moved to protest. “Don’t tease Maris. If she is attracted to his lordship, that’s hardly wonderful. Half the girls in the ton have thrown their handkerchiefs in his direction.”

  Though grateful for the defense, Maris wasn’t sure she liked the tenor of it. “I have never done so.”

  “Oh, no?” Mrs. Paladin was still smiling roguishly. “What about St. Paul’s then? A man does not arrive to an encounter with his mistress only to walk off with another girl unless she is of a great fascination.”

  “Mistress?”

  “Why, yes. Mrs. Armitage. All the world knows of their intrigue.”

  “Not I, ma’am.”

  “Oh, la,” Mrs. Paladin said, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “There’s no use in being missish, my dear. You’ll hear more scandal than that old news tonight.” She looked out the window. “Here we are. My dears! Look at all the flowers on the walkway. A hundred guineas’ worth at least! The flower girls won’t have to purchase stock tomorrow; all sales will be by the grace of the marchioness!”

  Chapter Six

  Maris felt as she once had as a girl when her father had held her by the elbows and swung her around so fast that her feet had left the ground. Everything went by in a dazzling blur, faster and faster, green grass and blue sky flowing together, the horizon dipping and rising as she spun. So did the people and things of the ball appear to her, one great twirling blur in which she could distinguish little for long.

  Her hostess wore a rich purple gown which suited her nearly Italian coloring. Amethysts as big as half crowns encircled her throat and, interspersed with cameos, clasped both wrists. She shook hands when Maris came up from her curtsy and nodded at Mrs. Paladin over Maris’s shoulder. “A pleasure, Miss Lin-del. The dancing won’t begin for quite half an hour yet. I’m sure so charming a girl will have no difficulty in finding a partner.”

  Maris hardly had time to murmur her thanks before Mrs. Paladin had her by the elbow and another guest was being greeted by her hostess.

  Their cloaks were left in a small room that seemed good enough for a party itself, judging by the flowers everywhere and the beauty of the maids. Lilah saw her gazing around and helped her doff her mantle. “Wait until you see the ballroom,” she said in a whisper. “The Marquess of Bevan is one of the wealthiest men in England and it is said he can deny his wife no whim.”

  “She is certainly very beautiful.” “With whims a-plenty, if all they say is true.” Maris laughed a little. “If I had the fortune, I might learn to have the whims.”

  “As would I. But come, my mother is waiting.” The noise and heat of the ballroom stunned Maris for a moment. She’d never seen so many people together in one place at one time. There seemed to be thousands, all laughing, chattering, drinking champagne, nibbling dainties, exclaiming in greeting, and growing louder by the moment. Across the glossy wooden floor, every brilliant color was represented from dark blue to scarlet and that was only the men. The women were more splendid than the glittering tiles in some great kaleidoscope. When the music began, they formed into patterns, crisp and constantly changing.

  Mrs. Paladin brought two shy young men over to her charges. Before Maris could ask him to repeat his name, missed among the noise and music, she was dancing, having much to do to mind her steps. Though she tried to keep her head up and smile as she’d been taught, Maris would have been hard-pressed to recognize again any of the men whose hands she touched in passing. But it was so exhilarating that she laughed merrily as she spun around, hands linked with her partner.

  As she passed to another pair of hands, he missed his timing and she looked up into Lord Danesby’s face. “Sir,” she said with a smile. But, driven by the tune, there was no time for more.

  After the next dance, her young partner returned her, breathless and laughing, to Mrs. Paladin, who had another cavalier waiting. This one was older, the next blonder, the next taller, the next...

  “I must beg to be excused for a moment, ma’am,” Maris said.

  “Nonsense. As young as you are you should be able to dance the night through without a rest.” Mrs. Paladin seemed to be speaki
ng as much, or more, to the next gentleman than to Maris. “Sir Rigby was just telling me how much he admires your complexion.”

  “If the young lady is tired, I shall be happy to fetch her some refreshment,” said the young man, rather bulky through the middle though his coat was well designed. Between the tips of his highly starched collar points, his round face wore a high-spirited smile. His reddish hair bore a line of perspiration along the hairline and he seemed to be breathing hard. She rather thought that he would rather slip off for a quiet glass of something cool than hurtle through the rigors of another reel.

  “You’re very kind, sir. I would bless you for a glass of lemonade.” He smiled in thanks as he bowed, turning to do her bidding.

  Mrs. Paladin looked like Hera in a temper, magnificent and frightening. Her tones were soft but biting. “Are you mad? Sir Rigby has a thousand a year, and very likely more. Plus, he is the only son, since his brother died in the Peninsula, and his mother cannot wait for grandchildren. You’ll never marry if you whistle such prospects down the wind.”

  “Need I ask to see a man’s accounts before I decide to dance with him?” Maris’s color brightened.

  “Besides, my underlace is torn. I shall return in a few moments.”

  “Oh, my dear girl, I had no notion. I shouldn’t have spoken so harshly. Shall I come with you?”

  “No. I’m sure the maids where we left our cloaks can help me. You stay here and accept Sir Rigby’s refreshments.”

  As she stood patiently holding up her gown while a maid fixed the lace, Maris felt guilty that she’d spoken so sharply to Mrs. Paladin. After all, it was her duty to guide her through the labyrinth of the social niceties. In the absence of her own mother, she should show Mrs. Paladin the same courtesy, if she couldn’t manage the same affection.

  She emerged, repaired, and determined to apologize to Mrs. Paladin. Trying out words in her mind, she was not watching where she was going. She stepped on a blue satin train whisking along the floor. The woman it belonged to gasped and stopped, perforce. Her two friends walking beside her also paused.

  “Clumsy child,” Mrs. Armitage said. Then she checked and peered at Maris. “Miss... Miss Lindel, is it not?

  “Yes, ma’am,” Maris said, dipping a hasty curtsy.

  Mrs. Armitage’s color was higher than it had been at the cathedral. Her gown was excessively low-cut to make a better display of the stunningly beautiful necklace reposing upon her white bosom. Impossible not to mention it, after her apology. Mrs. Armitage brushed her fingers across it, setting the articulated clusters to swaying. “I’m sure there are many such trifles in your future.”

  “I’ve no such ambition.”

  “You seek a simple golden band, no doubt.” Her friends, both well-dressed and bejeweled, tittered behind their hands,

  Mrs. Armitage’s hostility had no basis, so far as Maris knew. Surely, she’d apologized enough for tripping over her train. She frowned. “Every woman must hope to marry. If you’ll pardon me, ma’am, I should find my party.”

  As she walked away, with the obscure feeling that she should run, she heard one of the other two ask Mrs. Armitage, “Who was that?”

  “That,” Mrs. Armitage said, icily clear, “is the minx who was making sheep’s eyes at Lord Danesby.”

  Maris couldn’t believe that anyone would be so thoughtlessly cruel to someone who had done them no harm. She returned to the ballroom, blind now to elegancies and follies alike.

  “Miss Lindel,” Lord Danesby said, taking her arm. “You are unwell.”

  “No, no, sir,” Maris said, looking back, worried that those dreadful women would see Lord Danesby with her. She wanted to protect him from their distorted view,

  “It’s far too stuffy in here.” He looked about him. “Come nearer the window and catch a breath of air.

  “I am quite well, my lord,” she answered, resisting the gentle guidance of his hand. “It’s all very wonderful, isn’t it?”

  “Your first grown-up ball?”

  She had not thought that blue eyes could be so warm. Though she nodded at first, so mesmerized she’d hardly heard what he said, she instantly corrected this misapprehension. She was no child, allowed out of the nursery to peep at the party from over the banister. “I attended some winter assemblies last year in Guiverston.”

  “Indeed,” he said, as though this were fascinating information.

  Maris smiled up at him, forgetting for a moment that they might be observed and her expression misinterpreted again. “But even Guiverston is nothing like London.”

  “The comparison is not generally made. Do you miss Finchley?”

  “I miss the people. They are dearer to me than I knew, when I saw them every day. Do you miss it?”

  “I am something of a weathercock, Miss Lindel. When in London, I wonder why I ever left home. When I am at Finchley Place, I wonder what possessed me to think I could ever bear the retired life.”

  “At least you are not tied to either one by some occupation.”

  “There is that. I would be very unhappy as a laborer, unable to leave my position for fear of poverty and yet yearning to be elsewhere.”

  “You could have run away to sea.” Maris enjoyed countering his flight of fancy with one of her own. “Sailors are never still even at rest.”

  “True. But they cannot escape their ship in the middle of the ocean. I think, you know, if I’d needed to choose a profession I would have liked to have been a shoemaker.”

  “A shoemaker?” Maris repeated, looking at his well-cared-for hands. “They stay at their lasts.”

  “But perhaps I could take comfort in thinking of all the places my shoes might go.”

  “And never go yourself?” She shook her head. “I have lived vicariously now for some twelve years. It does not satisfy.”

  Maris did not mean to be mysterious. Seeing his interested gaze, she hurried to explain herself. “As a girl, I mean.”

  “‘As a girl,’ you live vicariously?” He tapped his cheek thoughtfully with his forefinger. His eyes looked even bluer when focused intently on her and they were already the most fascinating sea blue she’d ever seen. “As a man, I confess I cannot understand what you mean.”

  Maris caught the corner of her underlip in her teeth and looked past him at a large sparkling chandelier, seeking words. “I mean ...girls live so quietly, learning our letters, sewing our samplers, playing with dolls and other girls ... unless you have brothers.” She was getting confused.

  Maris stopped and began again. “We have only our dreams, yet even while we are dreaming, we know there’s no chance.... A man might dream of being a sailor or a soldier or ... or prime minister. He can sail away or march off to fight or take his seat. Or even choose to make shoes. Unless a girl limits her dreams to the possible, she must know they will never come true.”

  “And what use are dreams only of the possible?” Lord Danesby murmured.

  She smiled at him again, just as she would have at any friend. “Exactly. My lord.”

  “Don’t start ‘my lording’ me now, Miss Lindel,” he said with a chuckle. Then, more seriously, he added, “Would you have a woman be prime minister?”

  “I would, if she were capable. I have known women who could give the Duke of Wellington lessons in strategy and men who cannot give an order to the cook.”

  “Lord, so have I,” he said, as if surprised. “Are you a strategist, Miss Lindel?”

  She shook her head. “I am not clever, sir. I wish I were.”

  “Can you dance? You must, if you attended the winter assemblies at Guiverston. Will you honor me, Miss Lindel?”

  Maris recalled with a sense of shock that they were not alone. Quite the reverse. She stole a look about her. As she feared, this long chat had not gone unwitnessed. All about them, women whispered behind their fans while a few were even so vulgar as to stretch upon their tiptoes in order to see over their taller sisters. As the flush mounted into her cheeks, she stammered out a plea to return
to her friends.

  “You won’t dance with me?” Was he offended? She stole a peek at his face and saw confusion but no lack of amusement. “I assure you that your companions won’t object to me.”

  Thinking of Mrs. Paladin’s rapture at his notice of her, Maris did not doubt that Lord Danesby would prove acceptable in every way. If she were here now, no question but that she would be urging Maris to accept at once. Even more intently did her heart wish it. To dance with him, just once, would be as near to a dream as any waking experience could be.

  “It’s not Mrs. Paladin’s objections that concern me, sir.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s the notice of the larger world.”

  Now he looked about them as well. She saw his chin lift with pride even as his strong brows drew together. “Shall I tell you my family motto?”

  “‘Flinch not nor fear,’ ” Maris said, her own chin rising.

  “Would you mind telling me just: how you know that?” he asked sharply as her words passed over his.

  “It’s carved into the stone lintel over the front door at Finchley Old Place, as well as over the fireplace in the kitchen. Did you forget my mother is your tenant?”

  “Yes, I did. Tell me, is she here tonight?”

  “No, she’s gone out of town.” She explained briefly about Sophie and her uncle’s invitation.

  “I see. I will call on her when she returns. I have something of particular import to discuss with her.” She looked up at him interrogatively but he shook his head. “Well, Miss Lindel, will you dance with me?”

  How could she refuse again? “Yes, my lord. I should be honored.”

  “Yes, you should be. I don’t dance with the daughters of all my tenants, you know.”

  “You ought to consider it. Some of the farmers have very beautiful daughters.”

  “They do? You make me regret I don’t spend more time at home.” She laughed as he presented her into the line for the dance just beginning.

  Dancing with Lord Danesby gave strength and substance to all Maris’s dreams. As they linked arms to promenade, she breathed in his scent, grounding herself in reality. A tingle swept over her, not unlike the ones she’d feel when brushing her hair on a dry winter’s morning. Just as her hair would leap to the brush, so did she feel drawn to his lordship. When she touched him again, she almost feared a spark would leap between them, burning them both.