Timeless Regency Collection: A Midwinter Ball

by Heidi Ashworth

  Please don’t let Mother suspect anything, whatever he’s planning.

  She thought of other explanations: maybe he’d fallen ill and lost his voice. In which case, they wouldn’t go to the ball after all. Her speculations came to an end when Andrew appeared in the doorway, still wearing coat and gloves, which meant he’d refused Mr. Pierce’s attempt to take them at the door.

  Odd behavior. Such things raise suspicion. Olivia couldn’t help but sit straighter and take a proper sip of tea, but the cup rattled slightly when she returned it to the saucer.

  Wearing a coat and gloves indoors may mean nothing, she tried to assure herself. But something told her that the coat’s appearance had something to do with the ball—that the day’s ruse was about to begin in earnest. Olivia held her teacup against her lap to keep it from rattling. She didn’t dare look up to discover whether anyone watched her.

  “Mother, Aunt Matilda,” her brother said with nods to each lady. “Pardon the coat. I still need to fetch some packages from the carriage, but I had to first bring these flowers to you before they got bruised or battered in the hustle and bustle.” He held out a colorful bouquet of carnations surrounded by lush, if unusual, greenery.

  Mother eyed the bouquet but didn’t take it at first. “Pierce is entirely capable of bringing up your packages. Is the carriage still out front? I’ll send Mary to help so the stable hand can unhitch the horses.”

  “No need,” Andrew said, raising one hand in protest. “Pierce and Mary are both doing that precise thing as we speak.”

  “Very well,” Mother said and again lowered to her seat.

  “I do have one package I want to be certain is safe, so I’ll be fetching it personally before the carriage is brought back to the stable.” He pushed the bouquet forward a bit more. “Here you go, Mother. I thought of you when I saw these. Pink carnations for a woman who will forever have the glow of youth and beauty.” He nodded into a slight bow as he held them out.

  “Very well,” Mother said, with a softer tone. Flattery from her only son tended to have that effect. “Let me see the flowers before one of the kitchen maids finds a proper vase for them.”

  But Andrew drew them back, just out of Mother’s reach. “Oh, of course—I should have given them to one of the kitchen maids. I’ll do that now.” He smiled broadly, which created distinct dimples in each cheek.

  If Olivia had had any doubts as to her brother’s machinations, the dimples removed them. Apparently, her mother had yet to realize that dimples meant more than simple teasing from her son, as Mother softened further, relaxing into her chair and even smiling. Andrew had always been able to tease Mother, softening her into putty, but for Olivia, seeing it happen before her eyes would always be something akin to a brilliant magic trick.

  The dimples told Olivia what she needed to know. She felt another smile coming on—one Mother and Aunt would certainly notice—so she pretended to dab the corners of her mouth with her napkin while watching the exchange.

  “Come, come, Andrew.” Mother spoke in as close to a playful tone as she had ever managed. “I’d like to admire and smell the flowers my son brought me. After all, flowers are not a common sight this time of year. Were they grown in a greenhouse in the country or imported from somewhere along the Mediterranean?”

  “I’m not sure,” Andrew said, holding them out again. Mother reached for them. “The vendor said something about Paris—”

  His words were cut off abruptly as the flowers and greenery dropped to the floor and a screech ripped from her throat. “My hands! Oh, my hands! What infernal plant did some numskull put into that bouquet?” She nudged the flowers with the toe of her shoe to get them farther from her, all the while waving her hands in the air frantically. “Oh, they hurt. And look! My hands are all red and blotchy. And they’re swelling. Oh, they hurt—and itch. Mary! Mary, where are you? I need help in here.”

  The maid, who had been entering with a basket of rolls, hurried over with a pale face that spoke of bewilderment. “What shall I to do, ma’am?”

  “I don’t know. Call for the physician!” Mother’s eyes looked wild, something Olivia had never seen.

  Mary bobbed a quick curtsy and raced out of the room as Andrew dropped to the floor and gathered the mess of flowers and greenery with his gloved hands. Olivia’s mouth opened into a silent O of surprise and understanding. Her brother glanced over from the corner of his eye, winked, and mouthed, “Shh.”

  Olivia no longer worried for her mother. Whatever Andrew had done was minor; he would never have carried out a prank that caused Mother serious harm. But she did need to be tended to, so Olivia turned to her aunt. “Could you help at least until the physician arrives? You are far more knowledgeable about medicines and plants than we are.”

  Her aunt placed her teacup and saucer on the side table and rose with the regal bearing of one destined to make all things right. She went to Mother, who held out her rash-covered hands. Aunt Matilda placed a pair of spectacles on the tip of her nose and peered at her sister’s skin, careful not to touch it. “Hmm.”

  “What is it?” Mother wailed.

  Aunt Matilda straightened and removed her glasses, which she then used to point at the once-bouquet. “If I’m not mistaken, that greenery includes some poison ivy.”

  Andrew checked the rug for any missed leaves. “I’ll discard this straightaway,” he said solemnly. “And I’m so sorry, Mother. This is horrible.” He looked genuinely contrite, yet his dimples were showing—deeply. He must have known that the bouquet would irritate Mother’s skin—hence his gloves and coat, which protected him. But Mother’s reaction seemed to have been worse than he’d expected.

  So distracted was Mother from the itching and pain that she didn’t notice Andrew’s words. Matilda was busy with a damp cloth, dabbing cool water from the crystal pitcher over Mother’s rash.

  With the elder women’s attention elsewhere, Andrew leaned in toward Olivia and whispered, “Meet Emma in your bedchamber as soon as possible.” And he hurried out with the bundle.

  “Definitely poison ivy—or perhaps poison oak,” Aunt Matilda was saying with disgust. She called Mary over. “Take Mrs. Wallington upstairs and help her change into clean clothing. Take care to wear an apron and gloves and anything else you can find to keep yourself from coming into contact with the poison, or you’ll be useless for your work.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mary said with another curtsy.

  “And see that Mrs. Wallington’s dress is washed several times to be sure the poison is out entirely.”

  No one seemed to be aware of Olivia’s existence in the least. She slowly pushed her chair from the table and stood. When no one looked up, she said quietly, “I think I’ll go to my bedchamber so I am not in the way. I hope you feel better soon.”

  Mother looked over briefly. “Thank you, Olivia.”

  Taking that as permission to leave, Olivia turned for the dining room door, but her mother’s voice stopped her.

  “Do stay in your chambers for the day,” she said.

  “I—I will, Mother.” Olivia breathed a sigh of relief that the request hadn’t included the night. Of course, lies of omission were supposedly dreadful sins, but somehow not speaking the lie made the idea of sneaking off to a ball a little easier on her conscience.

  As Olivia left the dining room, she heard her aunt giving more orders: a bowl of milk and another of saltwater to be brought to Mother’s chambers. Olivia hurried to the base of the stairs, where she paused, a sliver of guilt slipping into her heart. In the distance, Aunt Matilda explained that alternating baths of milk and saltwater should provide some relief until the physician arrived and could do more, but that an apothecary would likely have some type of concoction that would help.

  “Are you coming?” Andrew asked from the top of the stairs. He no longer wore coat or gloves, but his dimpled smile was bigger than ever.

  “I most certainly am,” Olivia said, lifting her skirts with one hand. Andrew came down and m
et her partway. She grinned at him. “Well done, brother. You’ve incapacitated both Mother and Aunt for hours in a manner they will both quickly recover from but will also be entirely consumed by for the interim. And all with one simple ‘gift.’”

  Andrew put a hand to his chest as he led her up the stairs. “Dear sister, I’m shocked by such an accusation.”

  “At my presumption that this wasn’t an accident?”

  He paused and took her hand between his, this time his smile one of affection. “I’m shocked you ever doubted that I would ensure your attendance at the ball. Come. See what Emma has planned for you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Not until the carriage pulled up to Dunstead Manor did the full import of what Olivia was doing settle on her mind, and when it did, the weight seemed a hundred times heavier than the velvet cloak Emma had insisted on loaning her.

  “Perhaps I should go home,” she said in almost a whisper. She didn’t want to go home—not remotely. Yet deceiving her mother and her aunt suddenly seemed wicked, though her logical mind argued that there was nothing wicked about attending a ball at her age, whether her relations were aware of it or not.

  But was it wrong to attend a ball entirely because of a falsehood and a trick, and because one couldn’t obtain permission to do otherwise?

  “Go home? Nonsense,” Andrew said. As the coachman opened the door and lowered the steps, he went on, “You deserve an enjoyable night out as much as anyone. Mother’s unwell, though not in any serious jeopardy, and Aunt is caring for her. You know how much they love a good story about suffering. They’re having the jolliest time of their lives.” There were his dimples again.

  His words and smile did comfort Olivia in some measure.

  “And,” Emma interjected, “we’ll be sure you’re home early enough that they won’t suspect a thing.”

  “I’ve already made sure the household servants keep their tongues quiet,” Andrew said.

  Emma patted Olivia’s arm, perhaps to bestow some confidence or encouragement. “Tonight will be grand.”

  She and Andrew alighted, but Olivia stayed in her seat for a moment and stared through the carriage door at the magnificent mansion before her. Mother and Aunt and falsehoods aside, did she truly want to venture behind those walls and face who knew what types of people, with their pretentious airs and patronizing ways of speaking to her? She’d grown weary of hearing such talk spoken directly at her, as if she were no older than six or seven and needed everything, including the most basic of manners, explained to her—often by girls ten years her junior who happened to have secured a wedding ring and a husband while scarcely old enough to call themselves women, who somehow had become Olivia’s superior in all ways. The memory of such girls back home at Landerfield rankled; Olivia remembered those girls as infants in the pews at church, watched them toddling and half bald. Yet because they were married, and she was not, she was somehow inferior?

  “Come, Olivia,” Andrew said, reaching into the carriage for her hand. “Remember, not a soul in there knows anything about you. Every encounter will begin free of judgment or prejudice, and I will ensure that you are introduced to only the best gentlemen in attendance.”

  “Think of it, Olivia—a new beginning,” Emma said behind him, her voice growing excited. “How many people ever have such an opportunity?”

  “A new beginning?” Olivia repeated, letting the words soak in.

  She took Andrew’s hand and let him help her from the carriage onto the drive. She tilted her head back and wondered about Mr. Clement, the new owner, and who his guests would be—residents of neighboring towns, surely. Andrew was right; no one through those doors knew anything about her save, perhaps, that she’d recently moved into Pine Park with two elderly widows. For all they knew, she, too, was a widow, merely a young one. Or they might think her younger than her years; she’d been told often enough that even at an undesirable marriage age, she could pass for almost ten years her junior.

  Perhaps I’ll pass as many things tonight. With that thought, Olivia Wallington straightened her back, lifted her chin, and marched forward, following her brother and his wife into Dunstead Manor, where she was determined to have a new beginning.

  Granted, if she ever attended another ball, it wouldn’t be in deep green velvet, with her hair in ringlets and a string of pearls about her neck. She wouldn’t again arrive with the appearance of an eligible young woman, not by half. For any future balls, Mother would be with her, and she would be introduced as the spinster daughter of Mrs. Frederick Wallington. Mother would expect her to remain as quiet as a lamb unless spoken to, and even then, her answers would have to be no longer than necessary—two or three words, ideally, to ensure a life free of Mother’s criticisms and patronizing degradations for the following week. If she danced with anyone, it would be with older gentlemen who’d taken pity on her.

  In short, she would be right back to living as she had at Landerfield.

  No, tonight wouldn’t be a new beginning. It would be a one-time experience that would end when she made her exit. For this one night, she had the opportunity to do and say what she pleased. She knew the proper, reasonable bounds of a young lady—the real expectations of society, not the ones her mother had foisted upon her. But within those bounds lay a freedom she’d never known.

  A servant opened the door, and their party walked inside. Olivia crossed the threshold with a wide smile on her face and a shivered thrill going down her spine. Tonight would be one she would never forget. She’d capture every detail—every sound and smell and sight—so she could think of them oft throughout the years and relive the happiness contained therein.

  Another young woman in similar circumstances might have found such a prospect bitter, but to Olivia Wallington, having beautiful memories to relive with her shadow prince seemed ample reward for a minor falsehood—and a painful rash—given to her mother.

  No one in the ballroom will know me as the girl I always pretend to be, she thought. For once, I will be myself without fear or worry.

  And she would enjoy every moment.

  Chapter Eight

  Standing near the refreshment table, with his back to the throng, Edward slipped his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped it open to check the time. After a quick glance, he snapped it shut and slipped it back into its place. How could only an hour and one quarter have passed? He felt as if he’d spent a full night standing in a receiving line, where he was introduced to women he would never remember, then dancing with two of them and promising later dances with three more. Throughout it all, he’d done exceptionally well at keeping a proper smile in place and his voice perfectly respectful. He felt quite confident that no one, save perhaps James himself, would suspect that his back ached from bowing and standing so stiffly, or that the boots he’d borrowed pinched something terrible—he’d have blisters by morning, no doubt. If he’d known his new pair wouldn’t arrive from his usual cordwainer in time for the ball, he would have brought a different set with him. Hopefully, no one could tell that his feet hurt or that his cravat seemed to have taken on a life of its own, with the self-appointed mission to choke the very life out of him.

  “Come now, old chap. Hiding in the corner already? The night is still young.” James had found him all too easily.

  Curses. Next time, I’ll seek out a less obvious place to hide than the refreshment table.

  James had been correct on one count, however; he’d known Edward’s current state of mind. He turned around to find James holding two glasses of punch, one extended for Edward. “The night is young, but the room is already quite warm with so many dancers. I imagine you could use some refreshment.”

  “Thank you, yes.” Edward took the glass and drank from it. Ironic that he’d taken cover near this table but had not availed himself of anything on it. He eyed his drink. He would have preferred to drink it all in a single gulp, but not only would that have been unseemly, it would also have made his mouth available for conversation
that much sooner. At that moment, he had no desire to talk even to an old friend. So he made the most of every intentionally small sip, nodding and murmuring “Mm-hmm,” at appropriate moments as James spoke, unwilling to let on just how much he wasn’t enjoying himself. He’d agreed to attend a ball in his honor entirely for James’s sake, yet it was something James wanted entirely for Fanny’s sake.

  The things men will do for the women they love, Edward thought with an ache. He wished he had such a woman for whom he’d hold a grand ball, even if it meant making an old friend uncomfortable and hot. It would mean having a love and companionship in his life that he didn’t used to think he wanted, but now felt the absence of acutely—a hole left, oddly, by something he’d never possessed. And the hole ached more the longer he stayed at Dunstead Manor, witnessing the affection and devotion that James and Fanny had for each other. Much longer, and the hole would throb unbearably.

  James leaned in and lowered his voice. “Are there not enough pretty young ladies to tempt you to dance, at least? I fully understand not wanting to become better acquainted, as most are far below your station, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a few dances with a pretty thing on your arm.” He grinned as if daring Edward to disagree, an expression he’d often used at Eton to goad Edward into doing things he otherwise would have rejected out of hand. More often than not, he’d gone along with whatever plan James had concocted, and almost as often, Edward had been glad of it.

  He highly doubted that this evening would fall into that category, however.

  For Fanny’s sake as much as for James’s, Edward decided to make the best of the evening. That meant not complaining or criticizing or voicing his desires, even when what he would have preferred to be doing tonight was retiring to his bedchamber, where he could finish reading Frankenstein in blessed peace and think on the young woman from the forest. What was her position? Even with tailored clothing and an education, she might not be the kind of woman his mother hoped to find in a daughter-in-law. Yet unlike many with such fortune, the young woman was clearly concerned with the well-being of those in lesser circumstances. And she helped them in secret due to difficult relations at home. The entire situation intrigued him more than he truly admitted even to himself.