by Ash Krafton
Mother couldn’t comfort her; she was deep in mourning of her own.
Aggie tried her best to be a comfort, but she was too timid to persist and became easily defeated by Senza’s lack of response. Only Felicity’s voice could break through the echoes of the fear that threatened madness, and Senza held onto her hand, her voice, the light and the comfort of her nearness.
The weeks that followed the funeral were a constant struggle with a fear that threatened to consume her in a black void. Felicity, darling Felicity with her squinchy accent and her buoyancy and her voracious appetite for life—Felicity was Senza’s path out of the dark.
Gradually, life in the Fyne household returned to normal, albeit it a new kind of normal that didn’t involve Grandmother. As the holidays approached, Mrs. Fyne informed her daughter that she had no choice but to resume the activities she’d put off with Grandmother’s illness.
“A tonic,” her mother said. “It will do wonders for your spirit, the distractions of daily life. You mustn’t be coddled.”
“I would hardly say I’m coddled, Mother.”
“I would. You don’t need slow walks or time for crying spells. You need to be out in society because what you need, grandmother or no, is an engagement.”
Senza blinked, unable to respond to such a bald statement.
There was no sense in arguing, period. Mrs. Fyne was in possession of a single occupation—to see that her daughter won an advantageous marriage. As long as she breathed, she’d try for Senza, and by God Himself, Senza would try for her.
This was the life into which she’d been born. This was destiny, signed, sealed, and thusly decreed. Once more, Senza donned her gowns and pinned her hair, as beautiful as ever before, although with a spirit muted. She accompanied Aggie and Felicity to balls and luncheons, giving full attention to society and her duties as a young available woman.
As she re-emerged into society, she was awarded a place of honor within her new social circles. Her beauty and her charm were beyond compare, and her kind nature and quick wit could not even inspire jealousy. Everyone wanted to know her name. Who was the young woman with the ruby curls, the glittering green eyes, the smile that made the strongest men hold their breath?
Senza was everyone’s darling, now, and everyone she met let her know exactly that.
Her mother was envied, of course, by the other ladies. Her daughter would find an excellent match, would want for nothing. And even though Senza had no official suitors as yet, already the other mothers jockeyed for position within Mrs. Fyne’s favor, so as to ensure invitation to her daughter’s inevitable wedding. No one could bear the thought of missing such a premier event.
Senza’s life became a cycle of social gatherings, of dancing and cultured conversation, of open sleigh rides after a heavy snow. For her, it was diversion, distraction, duty.
For her mother, it was marketing.
Undaunted by the futility, Senza protested her mother’s untiring efforts to set a match.
“You are not getting younger, Senza.” Mrs. Fyne selected a sapphire comb from the vanity table and held it against her daughter’s coif. “You are charming and confident and kind. You have a gentle hand with animals and children adore you. And, I dare say, you have your father’s intelligence, which would give any young man a run for his money.”
Mrs. Fyne laid the comb down and picked up a sprig of wrapped-ribbon forget-me-nots. “Those things will never leave you. But beauty, Senza, is fleeting. You are in the full bloom of your youth, dear, a blossom at its prime. But petals will wilt. They will curl at the edges, lose their vibrancy, their delicate fragrance. No one shops for wilted flowers. Only the freshest are taken. Only the freshest are wanted.”
She leaned down and found her daughter’s eyes in the vanity mirror. “Spring doesn’t last forever. Best to market while the market is full.”
“Honestly, mother.” Senza grimaced. “I am not ignorant of my responsibilities but I can’t say you make me look forward to these parties.”
“You’d do best to take a page from Felicity Keating’s book, dear. There’s a girl who understands the importance of gaining a marriage. Watch her tonight, dear, and do your best to imitate her.”
Mrs. Fyne pinned the flowers in Senza’s hair and kissed her daughter’s head before leaving the girl alone.
Senza turned her head to look at the blue petals. Contrived blossoms, trapped in the semblance of eternal spring. When she looked into her reflection, when she looked deep into her own eyes, she saw no such season.
Only a growing distance between her presence and her happiness, measured in paces, each step marked in fear.
Fear of the approaching season’s end.
The Fyne carriage arrived at the Yuletide ball an hour after the first waltz had commenced. Mr. Fyne saw no reason his wife’s wishes for fashionable lateness could not be indulged. He also apparently saw no reason for Senza to shred her kerchief, and told her exactly that. It was just a ball, after all.
But Senza fretted, her nerves taut like willow switches. It was never just a ball.
Senza passed through the archway into the great hall, where the gathering was in full uproar. Everywhere hung garlands of holly and ribbon, great fir boughs dotted with paper ornaments, the very best candelabras ablaze with light. A nicely-tuned orchestra had struck up a Polonaise and the dance floor was full to capacity. Senza preferred to enter mid-dance, when guests were thus pre-occupied; it made the oppression of the first glances much more tolerable.
But a Polonaise? The procession, unfortunately, stepped toward the entrance, giving each and every dancer a look at the newest arrival. Eyes widened and mouths disappeared behind fans, one couple at a time.
Those who were not dancing turned to mark her entrance. Faces turned in waves, like a crack spreading on a frozen pond. Senza saw the quiet exchange of comments and even though she could not hear them above the sounds of dancing, she could imagine what they said.
She forced a smile to manifest, her cheeks flushing with heat. She knew it only enhanced the fairness of her complexion, a rosy glow on the apples of her cheeks. Her discomfort was a beauty balm.
Everything about her would be fodder for discussion. The mothers would murmur praises for her fine hand, her needlework and her gardening. Young ladies would whisper exaggerated praise for her proficiency at dancing and selecting the perfect gown, the most fashionable ornaments. Men of all ages would nudge each other, sharing significant glances because saying anything at all would not be proper.
And all who knew of her circumstances would invariably finish with her father’s promise that, upon her marriage, she would have five thousand.
Self-made men would be lucky to claim five thousand a year, and would be hunted down like rabbits by the fox-driving mothers in society. But for a woman—and a remarkably beautiful one, at that—five thousand would make her the only woman worth pursuing. It did little to encourage friendship amongst the other young ladies of her circle.
Except for one.
Felicity was already in attendance, engaged in what looked like a lively discussion with her partner. Her partner didn’t seem to mind her impropriety in the least; by the looks of it, he seemed quite intent on monopolizing her company for the entirety of the evening. Little did he know, Felicity preferred her dance card full of variety, an unfortunate side-effect of growing up in such a savage, untamed country like Australia.
The dance concluded, and a barely-restrained Felicity was escorted by her partner to where Senza stood with her parents. Felicity would have charged straight off the dance floor without second thought for an escort. Senza doubted her scandal would have even raised an eyebrow. Felicity’s partner looked convinced that she could walk on water if she chose, escorted or no. Senza and Felicity curtseyed to him as one, dismissing him, before turning and weaving into the crowd.
“There must be at least three hundred here,” Senza said.
“Anything less would be too intimate for polite company
.” The youngest daughter of a Melbourne gold-trader, her voice had the smack of an Australian colonist. Felicity spread her fan, keeping her comments private, and fluttered her wide, innocent-looking eyes. “Although intimacy wouldn’t be such a terrible thing.”
“Felicity!” Senza feigned a gasp. Her friend’s boldness no longer shocked her, but she did her best to appear as such, should anyone have overheard.
“Can’t help it, Senza.” Felicity sighed and fanned herself. “He was the most interesting partner I’ve had all month. Reminds me of Jane’s Wylie. Wouldn’t be a hardship to dance with him again.”
Well-acquainted with Felicity’s older sister and her dashing brother-in-law, Senza found herself nodding in agreement. “The way he looked at you, I dare say he’d like to be the only partner you’ll ever have again.”
“Well, he’ll be disappointed. Mr. Pembroke requested the next dance. A quadrille.”
“Miss Fyne.” A gentleman’s voice claimed their attention and the girls curtseyed. Senza was acquainted with Mr. Thomas, the son of a London barrister who did frequent business with her father. “I had wondered if you would be attending. Shall I have the honor of dancing with you?”
Senza gave him a perfunctory smile as she remembered their interactions from previous dances. Thomas tended to smile extra hard when he looked at her, and he emanated heat like a fireplace. But he was polite, and considerate of her comfort, and didn’t press conversation. Overall, dancing with Mr. Thomas was not a terrible thing, as he had a certain deftness of foot that survived most exercises. Thankfully, the quadrille involved more stepping than skipping. “Mr. Thomas. You may.”
He flashed a smile that looked borne in relief. “I’ll await you in the ballroom. Miss Fyne. Miss Keating.”
With a belated nod to Felicity, he hurried away, face beaming with conquest, presumably to await the arrival of his prize.
“That poor man.” Felicity clucked her tongue. “He just doesn’t understand, does he? He scampered off as if you’d promised to marry him.”
“As if I’d—wait. Who…?” The words died in her throat and Senza gaped, distracted by someone on the other side of the room.
Felicity craned her head to see who had stolen her friend’s attention.
The room faded around Senza, the noise of the guests thinning, the press of the crowd easing. A lone figure stepped into the doorway. The world just fell away, tatters and pieces that faded around her. The only real, tangible thing in the room was that stranger.
For a moment, Senza forgot how to breathe. Who was he?
Tall, but not towering. Nice shoulders, a handsome coat. The cut of the jacket hinted at a pleasant physique, the material gleaming darkly with a hint of silk. His hair was longer than the others wore, dark and smooth and drawn back in a ribbon, although a fringe had fallen loose. The strands hung down in a boyish tumble to frame his eyes, large and black and shimmering like obsidian.
Those eyes were fixed upon hers.
When he noticed her looking at him, he flashed a sharp, secret smile. Nothing boyish about it. That look made something inside her flutter, high up between her ribs. She struggled to draw a breath, her corset suddenly too tight—
And then, he was gone. Disappeared into the crowd. Vanished like a ghost.
She started after him without hesitation. She had to speak to him. The need was overwhelming and desperate.
There. That doorway. He must have gone through there.
Beyond, the wide corridor turned sharply around the perimeter of the cross-shaped ballroom. She scanned each direction, catching a glimpse of long black coattails flashing around the corner to the left. A throaty chuckle tickled the edge of her hearing. She bunched her gown and pattered after the voice, always a step behind.
Rounding the corner, out of breath, her disappointment blossomed. Still nowhere to be seen. Another snatch of soft laughter. She ran after it, turning corner after evergreen-trimmed corner. No open doors. No sign of him. Midway through the corridor stood wide the doorway to the ballroom within and she lunged to the mistletoe-clad archway, searching the crowd.
A hand reached out and pulled her back into the hallway.
“Senza.” Felicity held her arm fast and hissed her name. “What are you doing?”
Senza faltered, disoriented. She felt as if she emerged from a fog. What had she been doing?
“Are you well?” Felicity whispered, nodding and smiling to those around them. “What were you doing?”
“I…I don’t know.” Senza struggled to regain her composure. “There was a…a stranger. He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life.”
“If a stranger was visiting someone here, surely, we would have heard something. Someone that handsome wouldn’t remain unannounced for very long. Not with Miss Senza Fyne available for the marrying.”
“Oh, Felicity.” Senza stifled a groan, the desperate chase all but forgotten. “If you only knew how I dread these parties. I feel like I’m up for sale.”
Felicity grinned and snapped her fan with a coy giggle. “It only happens once, Senza, so you’d better learn to shop around yourself. You’ll have the pick of the lot and we less fair folk will have to settle for what is left. Be kind, and set aside a good one for me.”
An announcement from the far side of the room caught their attention. Senza scanned the crowd, the faces, hoping for another glimpse of the mysterious gentleman.
But he was nowhere to be seen.
Felicity linked arms with Senza and tugged her back into to the ballroom. Obediently, she followed, half her mind still focused on that handsome face. Half her mind, and half her heart.
By then, hopeful young men all but lined up for a chance to claim her hand, even if for a single dance. Senza was very obliging. After all, her husband would likely come from this clutch of eager bachelors and, despite her dislike for being treated like an object, she tried to keep an open mind.
After all, she had a job to do. She grimaced as she recalled her mother’s frequent words.
Being open-minded didn’t prevent her mind from wandering, however. Throughout the evening, she danced and smiled and laughed, all the while snatching peeks of the crowd, hoping to see that stranger.
The orchestra finished with a flourish as another dance ended, and she curtseyed to her partner. Mister…Bradley, was it? Charming man, strong hands. A bit quiet. Senza liked that. A quiet man wouldn’t be busy making ardent proclamations. She preferred a suitor to woo with action, not words, especially when a marriage was contract first and love match second.
If she were fortunate.
She reached to take Bradley’s arm, preparing to be handed off to yet another partner, when a gentleman spoke up from behind them. “May I?”
Shivers cascaded like a river of sparks down her back. That voice. Deep, hypnotic, the question curling itself through her. Bradley looked like he swallowed a feather and choked out a pleasantry, handing Senza off to the man who had appeared at their side.
Him. The stranger.
He took her captive hand and raised it to his lips, his dark eyes glittering.
A flush warmed her throat, spilling up into her cheeks. Who was he? They hadn’t been properly introduced. He shouldn’t be speaking to her, let alone pressing a kiss to her hand. It simply wasn’t done—
“Will I have the honor this evening?” He released her hand, but held her still with his gaze. That smile again, like he had a secret. Like he knew something about her and would love to tease her with it.
She couldn’t look away. For a moment, she was connected to him in a way she’d never felt before or would ever understand.
“Um—” She stammered, her cheeks on fire. “I’m sorry, I’ve promised the next several numbers.”
“Serves me right for waiting so long, bien-aimée. I will be content to wait for you.” He bowed low, sweeping out a slender hand in an eloquent gesture. “I would wait for you forever.”
A flash of that smile, deeper this time, de
ep enough to send flutters through her entire body. A smile and he was gone, like smoke on a breeze, like a shadow retreating from the sun.
“Miss Fyne.” Mr. Pembroke stepped through the crowd. “I believe I have the honor. Shall we?”
She nodded, quite at a loss for words, still in thrall of that brief interlude with the man who had no name. His voice echoed through her head, drowning out Pembroke’s polite chatter and frequent admirations for her friend, the darling Miss Keating.
One word repeated, over and over, a heartbeat in her head.
Bien-aimée.
French, for beloved.
Although the stranger was not to be seen again for the remainder of the evening, Senza danced every last dance with him, even if only in spirit.
Felicity, it turned out, didn’t have to worry about left-overs.
By February, there was a proposal from Mr. Pembroke. By March, there was a gown. By April, Senza’s ears were decidedly exhausted listening to her mother’s endless lamentations that her daughter was doomed to spinsterhood.
Every complaint only made Senza’s heart stonier.
The stranger had remained exactly that—few had actually admitted to seeing him at the ball, and those who did had no idea who he was or from whence he came. They couldn’t even agree what he actually looked like, either, and the half-dozen people who had seen him had offered a half-dozen descriptions.
He was No One. She felt as if a piece of her had been stolen and would never be returned.
With Felicity engaged and her June wedding fast approaching, there was a general air of expectation that she, too, must be married. She tried to endure the exercises as best she could and attempted more than once to envision her future. With Heaven’s grace, her life would turn out much like that of her parents, but a worry haunted her, never lifting itself from her heart.
That haunting feeling invariably left her with the memories of her widowed grandmother. While Grandmother had been well-loved and deeply admired, she had always seemed incomplete without Grandfather to stand beside her.