Timeless Regency Collection: A Midwinter Ball

by Heidi Ashworth

  He tried to follow the tracks again, failed, and grunted with frustration. He’d ridden in this area once before, when the Clements had first moved here, but that was in early autumn, when the leaves had just begun to turn and the trail was still a single brown ribbon leading through the trees, easy to follow. The blanket of snow on all sides made the entire area look wholly new; he could have been in another country altogether and wouldn’t have known it.

  Topaz nickered and blew out through her nostrils, shaking her head. “I know,” Edward said, patting her neck again. “I know.”

  He was about to make a third attempt at following his tracks when the silence of the wood was broken by a high-pitched cry of surprise—a woman’s voice. Edward turned that way and followed the narrow road around the bend, from which he thought the sound had come from. Sure enough, he found a woman on her knees in the snow, scrambling after a fall. Her winter bonnet obscured her face as she gathered items that had scattered back into a basket.

  Edward reined in Topaz and hopped off the saddle—then nearly slipped on the ice, just catching his balance by grasping the saddle until he was steady on his feet again. He picked his way toward the woman. “Miss?”

  She froze at the sound of his voice, tilted her head ever so slightly his direction—but not so much that he could make out her features—and made a noise that might have been a groan before quickly returning to her work without a word.

  “Are you all right? I heard you cry out a moment before.”

  “I-I’m fine,” she stammered, still not looking up as she wrapped a loaf of bread in a dishcloth. “I slipped, is all. Rather embarrassing. I don’t usually make such a ruckus when I stumble, but I thought I was alone.”

  “I can sympathize,” Edward said, thinking how he’d been tempted to yell triumphantly at the peak of Topaz’s gallop for no reason other than that he could. Now he was quite glad he hadn’t done any such thing. He dropped to his knees and reached for several scones that had fallen out of her reach, placing each onto another cloth.

  “Thank you for your help, sir, but I can manage,” she said, still not looking up.

  “I’m happy to assist.” Edward was about to reach for more of the mess when her movements stopped completely, making his own pause. He realized that something a yard or two away had caught her attention—a pot lying on its side. She sniffed. “Miss?”

  “Don’t mind me. I was taking some food to a sick neighbor, and now look; it’s all ruined.” She gestured toward the pot, which he now noticed had spilled soup all around it, melting the snow.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “If it would help, I’d be happy to take you home on my horse to fetch more, and from there take you straight to your neighbor’s house. You must be half frozen.”

  “It’s not only that,” she said with a deep sigh. She gingerly got to her feet and walked to the spilled pot, looking sadly at its interior as she picked it up. “Mother doesn’t approve of my bringing food to neighbors, sick or no. This meal took a lot of planning and sneaking about and—” Her voice cut off, and at long last, she looked up at him, brown eyes pulled wide. “Oh, please don’t say a word to anyone. If Mother or Aunt were to find out . . . ”

  “I don’t know you, your mother, or your aunt, but even if I did, I would say nothing. You have my word as a gentleman.”

  She visibly relaxed, her shoulders lowering, along with her chin again. The movement caused disappointment for him, as he’d caught only a glimpse of her features, and now they were hidden again. He wanted to walk over and tilt her chin upward to his so he could study her face.

  Pray tell, why do you care about seeing a lady’s face? he demanded of himself. You don’t know this woman at all. Must be the sickening lovebirds at Dunstead Manor encouraging my imagination toward silly notions.

  “I’m not from Glenworth,” he said when she didn’t go on. “I’m visiting a friend. So even if I couldn’t keep a secret, it would be highly unlikely that I would reveal information to anyone who could cause you grief. But I assure you, I am quite skilled at keeping secrets.” As evidenced by the many larks and pranks he, James, and Andrew had engaged in at Eton—things their families were even yet ignorant of, and would remain so to the grave.

  “Thank you,” she said, dabbing one eye with the back of a glove. “That is most appreciated. Mother and Aunt have ways of punishing me that—” She cut off and returned to her basket.

  “Punish you?” Edward said, alarmed. “How? Are you hurt?”

  “Not in the way you mean.” She moved with a matter-of-fact practicality, putting the pot inside the basket and hefting the completed load. “Physically, I am quite well.”

  Not a particularly reassuring answer, Edward thought.

  She turned and took a few steps away from him, so he called after her. “Miss? Miss, please. Wait.”

  She paused expectantly but did not turn around. “Yes?”

  “They hurt you . . . in other ways,” he said, not asking so much as confirming. He hoped she could sense his genuine concern over how she was treated by her family.

  After taking a deep breath and letting it out with a sigh, she nodded.

  “How?” He wanted to rush forward, to insist she let him protect her, but that would appear too forward and might even frighten her.

  “How do they hurt me?” She laughed lightly, but Edward detected a note of sadness in it. “They wield behavior and words as sharp as any knife. I’ve sometimes thought that if tongues could wound, my mother and my aunt would be prized weapons for any army.”

  Humor even in such circumstances—a rare combination. Edward wanted to help this young woman who kept him captivated and piqued his interest.

  “I was in earnest,” he said. “Come. I’ll take you home. You must be freezing. Where do you live?”

  She turned toward him and shook her head, but once again her eyes and chin lowered to the snow. “You mustn’t come, sir, but I sincerely thank you for the offer. If Mother were to hear that I rode on a strange man’s horse, she would—” Her voice cut off, and she seemed to ponder how to go on for a moment. “It would be—quite unpleasant at home for some time.”

  This young woman intrigued him. On one hand, she deliberately flouted her family’s wishes, and on the other, she worried about upsetting them for violating the same wishes. Whether from her manner, speech, or the small glimpse he’d had of her face, he could sense that she wasn’t so young as to need such strict supervision. She seemed to suffer silently under the pressure while finding innocent ways of rebellion—if one could call delivering food to a sickly neighbor a form of rebellion.

  As she turned again to leave, something fell from the basket. Edward used it as an excuse to speak to her again. “Miss, you dropped something.” He picked up the fallen dishcloth and handed it to her. Their fingers touched, and he had the surprising desire to hold her hand in his, to look into her eyes and learn about her life. What went on in her clearly quick-witted mind, even though she spent her life with overbearing chaperones?

  Look up, he thought, hoping she’d lift her face to his.

  “Thank—you.” Her voice caught slightly between words as she gently tugged the cloth away. Her cheeks had grown pink, but whether from blushing or from the cold, he couldn’t know.

  “May I—may I ask where you live?” Edward said. Asking for her name without being properly introduced seemed too forward, but he had to learn something about her. “I’d like to be sure that you arrive home safely.”

  “I’ll be fine, but thank you for your concern.” She hurried off with her load, the basket hanging from one arm as she made her way with careful, quick steps along the tree-lined road.

  Edward watched her go, wishing she wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t go around the bend. Just as she reached it, but before he lost sight of her, he called out once more. “Miss?”

  Again, she stopped walking. She looked and turned toward him expectantly, but at that distance, her face was in shadow from her bonnet. How to ke
ep her here for a moment longer? He spoke the first thought that came to his mind. “Do you read?”

  Stupid, stupid mind. That is the best you can do? Of course she can read.

  “Rather,” he said, suddenly nervous, “do you enjoy reading?”

  Not much better. Fool.

  Fortunately, the question had the hoped-for effect: she smiled. He still could not make out the rest of her features, but that sight alone pierced his chest in both a pleasant and painful way.

  “I love reading,” she called back. “Very much.”

  “Wordsworth.” The name fell out of his mouth of its own accord. How was it that he, Edward Blakemoore, had become tongue-tied? Around a woman? This was as far unlike him as an Indian elephant.

  Perhaps these woods truly are enchanted, and they have me under their spell, like in Shakespeare’s play.

  “Wordsworth is a favorite of mine,” the young woman said. “One of our most talented poets.”

  “And Lord Byron?” Most young women he was acquainted with swooned at the very sound of his name. “Or Shelley?”

  “Both, naturally,” she said, but she brushed them off as obvious talents rather than Egyptian idols to be worshiped.

  Refreshing.

  “And Shakespeare,” she went on. “I adore his sonnets and many of his plays. Have you ever seen A Midsummer Night’s Dream performed? I’ve read it many times, but I’ve never seen it. I hear it’s delightful.”

  The very play I was thinking of. Almost as if we are of one mind.

  “I have seen it, and I enjoyed it very much,” Edward said. “Does your mother approve of at least reading Shakespeare, then?”

  She laughed so hard that she leaned forward, and hand to her face as she caught her breath. Her laughter sounded like music; it ended all too soon.

  I had a small part in making her laugh. It felt like an accomplishment.

  “Mother would be appalled if she knew her daughter spent her time reading anything but the Bible or Pilgrim’s Progress,” she said, dabbing at her eyes, likely at tears of laughter. “That is another secret I must beg you to keep.”

  “Of course.” He wished to lessen the distance between them but sensed she’d retreat altogether were he to try.

  “In that case, I’ll confess something far worse than Shakespeare: I have a private fascination with the work of Shelley’s wife, Mary. Mother wouldn’t dare sleep under the same roof as a daughter who regularly rereads a frightening tale. She’d cast me onto the streets and then pray for my soul.” Her smile widened, and she chuckled again. “Can I trust that you’ll never speak a word of my sinful reading habits?”

  With as much solemnity as he could muster, Edward put a hand over his heart and bowed his head. “You have my word that I shall never tell a soul of how you have read—”

  “How I often reread,” she corrected.

  He nodded at the clarification, then added a bow at the waist. “That you have read and often reread—and enjoy—a book such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.” He held his bow, but after a few seconds of silence, he straightened only to find that she’d vanished.

  She’d left when he wasn’t looking. And right when he’d been on the cusp of having the opportunity to draw closer, to see her features clearly and ask her name, or at least her family’s name, or the name of their home. Something so that he could find her again.

  But she was gone.

  And he was still utterly lost in the woods. I should have asked her where to find Dunstead Manor. I could certainly catch up to her on horseback, he thought, eying the bend. But no. She’d left quickly for a reason, and he would not be so ungentlemanly as to cause her anxiety by following her.

  Besides, he didn’t want to shatter the illusion that he’d stepped into a dream world and met one of the enchanted creatures living there.

  Better to let fairies remain at peace where they belong, he reasoned, half convincing himself that if he were to make chase on the back of his horse that he wouldn’t find her after all—only a mist showing where she’d once stood.

  No matter. He’d find his way back to Dunstead Manor somehow. Plenty of daylight remained for that. As he mounted Topaz, the cold bothered him not a bit, even though he’d been standing in inches of snow and had even knelt in some while helping the young woman with her basket. Rather, he felt as if he’d been sitting by a toasty fire for an hour, reading a good book.

  Perhaps, he thought as he brought Topaz to a trot, that is exactly what I’ll do following supper this very evening.

  Edward found himself grinning. I wonder if James has Frankenstein in his library. I must give it a read.

  Chapter Six

  For Olivia, the next several days consisted of a very different type of waking dream: a continual parade of possible scenes and outcomes of the ball, some good, some bad. Some extraordinarily good or horrifically bad. The result was feeling constantly jumpy and fidgety, something her mother and aunt noticed and commented on at least twice hourly with such unhelpful words such as, “Are you ill?” and “Goodness gracious. Sit still. You’re behaving like a three-year-old.”

  All of her inner excitement made eating impossible. At one meal, she essentially behaved like the child her mother accused her of being. She only pretended to eat supper, spreading the food around to make the plate look emptier. She simply could not be at ease until she knew more of what Andrew and Emma had planned.

  Likely not even then—not until I’m out of the house at the ball, and no one at Pine Park is any the wiser.

  As she freshened herself before going down for tea, she felt weak and wanted to eat, but her nerves made her stomach uneasy. Good thing the ball was tonight; she doubted she could survive another day with so little food yet so many emotions—curiosity and worry mixed with a drop of guilt for deliberately deceiving her mother.

  But only a drop.

  She’d always behaved precisely as her family had expected, excepting her trips to feed some of the poorer families in the area, and she had to believe that such disobedience would be something God would look favorably upon. She hoped the same could be said of giving way to her real thoughts and desires for one evening at Dunstead Manor.

  Olivia entered the parlor and sat on a sofa, where she looked at the tea spread and hoped she would have the fortitude to eat enough food to sustain her throughout the ball.

  Otherwise, I’ll faint straight away and cause a commotion. Then again, that might be enjoyable in its own way, she thought as she took a bite of a scone.

  “What?” Mother demanded.

  “Hm?” Olivia looked at her mother suddenly, but with her mouth full, she couldn’t make a proper reply.

  Mother waved one hand around as if drawing a circle about Olivia’s face. “What was that just now? You had a look.”

  Olivia swallowed and took a sip of tea. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” But she could feel heat moving through her traitorous cheeks.

  “You smiled,” Mother said as if such a behavior were sinful.

  “Did I?” Olivia asked absently, returning her attention to her plate.

  Aunt Matilda humphed. “She looked exactly like a young Andrew—one could always tell when he was concocting a prank by the mischievous smile—always in silence as his tricky mind tumbled about his dastardly ideas.” Her brows went up as she looked directly at Olivia, head tilted in what appeared to be less observation and more accusation.

  Olivia forced her breathing to remain even, in spite of the worry sending her pulse racing. What if they believed that Olivia was planning something untoward—and then locked her in her room? They’d done as much as recently as three years prior when she’d had the audacity to ask about the nature of a midwife’s duties. Silly her—after finding herself unmarried far past the usual age, she’d wanted to learn a skill and thought that helping women and their babies would be a good thing. But discussing childbirth even among adult women, in the broadest of terms, had been deemed taboo. Besides, Mother considered midwif
ery to be a trade, something below a gentlewoman. Yet Aunt Matilda had done something similar in her youth; she’d trained with a nurse and learned some medicinal skills. That had been a long time ago—Olivia scarcely remembered her aunt discussing the healing properties of various herbs.

  With the prospect of hearing the lock click in her bedchamber door tonight and missing the ball, Olivia couldn’t get a full breath. Her heart sped up as if she’d run the full distance from Landerfield at full tilt. Not knowing how to respond to an accusation of smiling, she glanced to her left at the grandfather clock. When would Andrew and Emma return? They’d claimed to go out for visits, but Olivia suspected that they were shopping and otherwise making arrangements for the evening.

  “What exactly do you find so amusing?” Aunt Matilda suddenly asked.

  “Yes,” Mother added. “Please enlighten us.”

  Apparently, they did want an answer. Olivia forced away any lingering smile and cleared her throat. “Nothing at all, Aunt Matilda.” She indicated the cranberry scone in her hand and murmured, “I must be sure to compliment Cook. This scone is delicious.” She slipped a bite into her mouth and chewed slowly so she wouldn’t be expected to speak again right away.

  Aunt Matilda’s eyes narrowed across the table with suspicion. Olivia did her best to look relaxed and at ease, something she found to be harder than a prisoner standing at a mark. Her mother tilted her head, matching her sister’s gaze, and Olivia had the fleeting worry that they could read her mind and already knew everything.

  A chime rang from the front door, and a moment later, Andrew’s and Emma’s greetings sounded, followed by Pierce’s voice welcoming them back to Pine Park and asking if they wished to join the ladies for tea. By that point, the room had quieted. Olivia couldn’t make out Andrew’s reply, only murmurings. Perhaps he was whispering instructions.