Timeless Regency Collection: A Midwinter Ball

by Heidi Ashworth

  “Will Emma be joining him?” she asked.

  Mother’s right eyebrow lifted. “He used the plural pronoun we, did he not? I assume that means we should expect more than one individual.” She raised a hand to cut off any protestation, as if Olivia would have made herself a mark in such a way. At a very young age, she’d learned that staying quiet was typically the safest and easiest course. She should have heeded her own advice by not mentioning Emma at all.

  “I’m quite sure,” Mother went on, “that Andrew wouldn’t refer to himself, his valet, and his driver as we. Attendants are to be expected, of course.”

  “Of course,” Olivia said with a nod.

  Both Mother and Aunt Matilda turned their attention her way, and Olivia immediately regretted speaking. She gave them an uncomfortable smile and reached for her teacup.

  “You seem unhappy, dear,” Mother said.

  “What?” Olivia said, looking up from her tea. “No, not at all.” She held her breath and vainly hoped she wouldn’t become the object of conversation.

  Aunt Matilda agreed with her sister. “You appeared unquiet just now.”

  Olivia wanted to declare the truth, but she knew all too well there was never any convincing Mother that her sister could possibly be wrong. In this situation, a full explanation—that her uneasy expression had stemmed from dreading this very type of examination—would only exacerbate the situation.

  True to form, Mother took her sister’s words seriously; she looked Olivia up and down as if inspecting her for flaws.

  It was Aunt Matilda who spoke next, however. “I suppose it must be challenging to know that a beautiful woman, newly married and younger than oneself, will be staying under the same roof.” She tilted her head in the most maddeningly patronizing fashion.

  Mother finally looked away to spoon marmalade onto her toast. “You must learn to manage your envy, dear. Emma is family. While she is our guest, dwelling in melancholia over one’s station in life would be most unbecoming. Spinsterhood must be a terrible cross to bear.”

  After a moment of feeling so stunned that she could not move at all, Olivia had to use every energy to keep herself from revealing the frustration building inside her.

  They pity me. Pity!

  She prayed that the only sign of her anger, had the older women been paying attention, was a slight flaring of her nostrils, an immediate reaction she hadn’t been able to contain. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and ordered herself to not answer their wildly erroneous supposition. Anything she said now beyond a simple reply would only make matters worse.

  “Yes, Mother,” she said quietly.

  Olivia had never been one to accept pity or charity of any kind; one might correctly say she’d inherited the Wallington pride. She did not have a particularly happy life, but she’d found a way to keep her inner imagination and fancies alive while keeping her mother and aunt relatively content at the same time. Relatively being the relevant word.

  To her relief, Aunt Matilda mentioned some gossip she’d read in the society papers, which shifted Mother’s attention elsewhere.

  As they talked, Olivia couldn’t help but think how wrong they were about what she felt for her new sister-in-law: excitement and anticipation. She hoped they might become friendly with each other. Perhaps one day, they would even call each other sisters. The thought created a delicious twist in Olivia’s middle. Imagine having a sister, someone to confide in, a female in the family closer to her age than two and a half decades her senior—in short, someone who understood life as a younger woman. Emma might well be a ray of sunlight in the middle of the rather dreary and predictable existence Olivia lived one day after another under the watchful and overprotective eyes of Mother and Aunt Matilda.

  Olivia cut her sausage into small pieces and deliberately chewed each one as slowly as possible. A chewing mouth was a mouth incapable of speaking. As long as she continually ate, she could keep quiet, holding opinions to herself. It would also be easier to not ask questions of her mother and aunt, as curiosity tended to be frowned upon. After one bite, she took another, aware of the silence lengthening—a sign that one of the older women would seek out a topic of conversation uncomfortable for Olivia at best and about Olivia at worst.

  Mother reread the letter in silence. Olivia looked from her to Aunt Matilda. Her mother was only a hair worse than her sister; they were both difficult, abrasive women who found little joy in life except in finding things to criticize or complain about, and nine times of ten, they nocked their bitter arrows and aimed in Olivia’s direction. She could do nothing as the center of their targets but do her best to deflect the arrows. The alternative was to leave the house, with its food, warmth, and clean clothing. Unmarried as she was, she had no choice but to stay under this roof and endure their tongues. She’d long since passed the time when even the most optimistic in their social circles thought Olivia would ever marry, and she’d come to accept her fate as a spinster.

  Rather, she’d become resigned to it, which wasn’t precisely the same thing.

  Had life continued at Pine Park as it had at Landerfield, Olivia wouldn’t have minded her position any more than she used to. But ever since arriving three months ago, her mother had grown particularly acerbic. After the wedding, Andrew took his lawful and rightful position as head of Landerfield, with Emma now running the household instead of Mother.

  Father had died more than five years previous, and Andrew could have sent them all packing then. Even with his wedding pending, he’d tried to convince them to stay. But Mother had the temperament of a matriarch. Staying at Landerfield as a guest, even a family guest, while yielding the reins of running the estate to a younger woman, the new Mrs. Wallington, had been an unbearable concept. Mother felt entirely displaced and made no secret of her feelings about it. She was increasingly vocal about them, and Aunt Matilda’s presence didn’t help matters. Instead of offering comfort, she eagerly fed the unquenchable appetite of her younger sister’s disdain and bitterness.

  Unjustly so, seeing as how Olivia’s father had made ample assurance that his widow would be cared for until the end of her days, and how Andrew had been abundantly generous, providing a nice carriage, a new horse, and new furnishings for Pine Park, all without Mother making a single request to that effect, and all after she’d proudly declined the offer to stay.

  No, Pine Park wasn’t Landerfield, but it was a respectably sized house. They had several servants on staff, and, provided they didn’t spend money recklessly, they would have a comfortable, if not, extravagant life. Olivia finished her toast and sat back with the remainder of her tea, wondering how soon she could leave the table without being rude.

  “Hmph,” Mother said, folding the letter after reading for at least the third time. “Hmph.”

  “Wh—” Olivia said, then clamped her lips together. No asking questions of Mother. That was akin to trying to pet a tiger. One was liable to get her hand bitten clean off.

  Aunt Matilda, however, picked up where Olivia left off. “It does make one wonder, doesn’t it?” she said, then took a dainty bite of toast.

  “Wonder what, pray tell?” Mother asked, looking sincerely interested. Had Olivia voiced the same question, Mother’s tone would have been accusing. Olivia rested her hands in her lap and lowered her chin, silently waiting for breakfast to end.

  “One has to wonder,” Aunt Matilda said, “if Andrew is so happy in his marriage after all, if he comes scrambling back to his mother the moment he returns from his wedding tour.”

  Olivia’s eyes widened at that. How did Aunt Matilda dare to say such things against Mother’s only son? Because she is Aunt Matilda, she reminded herself. She can say anything, and Mother will agree.

  Plenty of evidence existed to support the fact that Aunt Matilda, and only Aunt Matilda, could voice anything critical regarding Andrew. Had Olivia dared such a thing, she would have been sent from the table and given the silent treatment for a week, during which time her mother and aunt
would pretend not to see her and refuse to say a single word her direction or hear a single word from her.

  Come to think of it, that would be preferable at times, she thought, and had to restrain a smile, but the humor threatened to turn the smile into a full laugh. Olivia brought her napkin to her mouth to hide the curve of her lips. Why have I feared such a fate? Perpetual silence would be bliss. The laugh forced itself out in a quick burst. Olivia held the sound in, and she still had her mouth covered, but her shoulders shook twice before she could control herself.

  “Olivia. Is something the matter?” Mother’s voice sounded far more like a reprimand than an inquiry into her daughter’s health.

  She managed to tamp down the laughter and nod, lowering her hand and napkin at the same time. Her face felt hot, but she wouldn’t smile for all the diamonds in the world, not now. Laughter would lead to questions, and Olivia was painfully unable to lie. Rather than tell her mother what she found so amusing, she relied on her regular method of coping: silence.

  She took another piece of toast in the hope that chewing would help hide her amusement and imagined herself elsewhere—walking through fields of clover or strolling among the rolling grasses of the moors. She lived half of her life in imagined places she’d never been, places where she could always express her true opinions, go anywhere she wished, for as long as she wished. During such fancies, she voiced every opinion she’d kept silent on, from the decor of the parlor to suggestions on replacing the Wallington family china with something more modern.

  She never spoke of these dreams, which kept her company during otherwise unendurable hours of complaints, insults, strained silences, and awkward visitors in the morning or for tea, although the latter hadn’t occurred at Pine Park. Mother had yet to make or receive any social calls since leaving Landerfield.

  But Olivia never stopped living in her imagination, and such dreams were her companions and only friends during recent nights of long, dark winter evenings, which she spent embroidering on the scroll-end sofa while her mother read aloud from the Bible. Currently, she read from the book of Leviticus and refused to skip over any of the descriptions of sacrificing animals, no matter how tedious. Evenings were the hardest to endure, for Olivia knew that young women for leagues around went to balls, had Seasons, were invited to house parties, and more.

  Olivia had never been given a single Season, and she’d forgotten the last time she’d been invited to any kind of social gathering. Most people knew her mother’s opinion of such things and supposed—quite correctly, alas—that she wouldn’t approve. But Olivia would have liked to receive invitations, even if it meant sending regrets. Perhaps one day, she would even have the opportunity to accept an invitation. But that couldn’t happen if they never presented themselves.

  As the older women continued discussing the merits—or lack thereof—regarding the new Mrs. Andrew Wallington, Olivia let her waking dreams begin earlier than usual. Her eyes strayed to the window, and as the morning sun angled in, showing dust motes twirling in the air, she slipped into the most cherished of her frequent imaginings: the shadowy figure of a man who danced with her, found her beautiful, walked with her, talked with her—and welcomed every moment in which she spoke her mind, which she did with cleverness and wit, of course.

  Unlike the other details in her mind, her beloved’s features never had fine detail or color. She couldn’t be sure of the shade of his hair or his eyes, or even of his height beyond a general knowledge that he stood taller than she did. The details didn’t matter; being loved by him made her deliriously happy, even if her rational mind knew that he and the world he lived in were all imaginary, certainly nothing a grown woman should be indulging in like a child at play.

  For the next twenty minutes, she deliberately abandoned all thought of her family’s pity for her spinsterhood; after all, in her dreams, such pity was impossible, as she was neither melancholy nor a spinster. In her mind, she walked the moors with her shadow man, one hand through the crook of his arm, save for when the wind kicked up and he slipped his arm about her waist to draw her close to keep her warm.

  Chapter Two

  “You really shouldn’t have gone to the trouble of planning a ball on my account,” Edward Blakemoore said from the couch in the library. He’d only recently arrived at Dunstead Manor to visit James Clement, a friend from Eton days who’d become almost a brother.

  “I assure you, I didn’t go to any trouble at all,” James said, standing at the sideboard. He poured the two of them drinks, then handed Edward one of them before taking a seat on the other side of the couch. “It was entirely Fanny’s idea. Winter has been lonely for her in the country so far from London. When she heard you were coming, she grew so excited at the prospect of a ball to brighten the dreariness of the season. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that you aren’t the kind of man who seeks out large crowds.” James grinned and swallowed some brandy.

  Edward acknowledged the truth of the statement with a sigh and swirled the amber drink in his glass. He dreaded the prospect of playing the role of gentleman houseguest and eligible bachelor. While technically both, he certainly didn’t enjoy being viewed in any kind of light that cast him as a trophy to be won, let alone in a village where most women were far below the station he was expected to marry. Besides, he had no desire to marry, though his family considered it his duty. Instead, Edward intended to manage his late father’s estate to the best of his ability. Then, upon his own death, the estate would simply pass to his younger brother, who had already married and produced two heirs of his own.

  “Come now,” James said a bit overly cheerfully. “Why the long face? If your brows furrow any deeper, you’ll end up with a permanent crease between them.”

  At that, Edward lifted one eyebrow—no longer furrowing it—and stifled a chuckle. “Since when do you care about wrinkles?”

  James tossed back the last of his drink and set the glass aside. “An unexpected effect of marriage, I suppose.”

  “Yet another reason to avoid the state,” Edward said.

  “Why are you so against marriage?” James asked. He crossed his legs and arms, almost as if he’d begun a debate he intended to win.

  Edward sighed and set his untouched drink on the side table. “I have nothing against the institution.” He quickly held up a hand before his friend could interject. “Nothing against women, either.”

  “Oh?”

  “Truly,” Edward said. “I simply do not find any joy in the prospect of making what is tantamount to a business arrangement with a member of the fairer sex simply for the sake of passing my father’s estate to the next generation.”

  “Ah,” James said. “So that is why you detest balls. They represent the potential beginning of a distasteful business arrangement.”

  “I suppose so,” Edward said, his gaze landing on the mahogany desk. “I hadn’t thought of it in those terms precisely, but yes. If I could find a woman I genuinely cared for, and who genuinely cared for me—if I could find a woman with intelligence and opinions and cleverness—”

  “Careful what you wish for, my friend,” James said with a laugh. “Such a woman might be entertaining for an evening, but are you sure you’d want to yoke yourself to someone so outspoken for life? Wouldn’t that become onerous?”

  A smile slowly crept across Edward’s face, and he turned to James. “No,” he said with sudden realization. “Not at all. It would be refreshing to have someone who is my intellectual equal, who challenges me, makes me think and question my own opinions, who doesn’t sit meekly in the corner, agreeing with everything her husband says.” He shuddered. “That would be an unbearable fate. So tell me. Does Glenworth and its surrounding areas have any such women I may look forward to meeting at your Fanny’s winter ball? Or must I brace myself for an evening of smiling and bowing stiffly, behaving with perfect civility, yet bored to the point of torture?”

  James stood and took both of their glasses back to the sideboard. “Alas, I know of
no such young woman—excepting my own dear Fanny, of course.” When he returned, he leaned back on his desk and studied his friend. “I wish you could find someone to make you truly happy, Edward. Someone like my Fanny. I assure you, what we have is far more than a business arrangement.”

  “Are you happy, then?” Edward asked. He’d witnessed dozens, if not hundreds of marriages over his lifetime but could not recall a single couple who definitively had regard for the other beyond respect and civility. If he were to marry, he would first need to love. He simply wasn’t sure if such a thing was possible outside of fairy tales.

  “I am happy. Very happy.” A simple statement, but the words lit up James’s entire face—and Edward found himself suddenly envious, wanting to know what such a life would be like, feel like.

  He could feel his throat tightening with the yearning to have something more. The moment had become too serious, too introspective. Something must be done to lighten it, posthaste.

  “Very well,” he said in a boisterous tone and stood. He clapped a hand to his friend’s arm. “I’ll attend your ball, and I’ll do so with a smile on my face. I cannot promise that I will enjoy every minute of the evening, but I will do my part to ensure that your dear Fanny’s ball is a success.” His tone softened as he added, “I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”

  “Thank you. The ladies in attendance may not be the type to catch your fancy, but Fanny will appreciate your efforts to make them feel welcome.” James gave the crooked smile Edward had known since they were both young boys. “And for that, I thank you. My happiness hinges on Fanny’s happiness. Your attendance will make her—and therefore me—quite pleased.”

  Somehow, Edward’s attempt at lifting the mood hadn’t lasted. The tension in his throat was turning into a knot, which he cleared with a swift cough. “Anything for a friend from Eton,” he said, then headed for the library door. “I think I’ll go out to the stables to check on Topaz.” He opened the door but paused before leaving and looked back.