A Dance of Manners

by Cynthia Breeding, Kristi Ahlers, Erin E. M. Hatton

  Stumbling through the brambles, Ellen emerged somewhat ungracefully into the space of a small clearing. She took in the scene before her, in the same instant hearing the incongruous bleat of a distressed sheep. The man knelt on the ground with his back to her, reaching into a thickly-grown thorn bush from which the bleating issued. It was to this trapped creature that he gave his tender addresses.

  Notwithstanding the absurdity of this scene, Ellen would have been put off by the man's appearance alone. Dressed in a rough woolen farmer's smock, dirty breeches and mud-caked boots, his image bespoke poverty and filth. She imagined the stink that might emanate from such an object, and held her scented handkerchief to her nose in delicate prevention. His thick, dark hair was worn long—usually an oddity of old men, not young, who universally cut their hair in the fashionable Grecian style—and was untidily queued at the nape of his grimy neck.

  Ellen contemplated retreat, but it was too late, for the man had sensed her presence and turned. She caught the impression of narrow, creased eyes, a ruddy complexion, and a full mouth that curved in amused surprise.

  He stood to acknowledge her with a perfect bow. His courtly manners took her aback. Was this mockery, for such a rudely dressed specimen to address her with the grace of an equal?

  “Forgive me, lady,” he said with a smile that was almost a smirk. “I would have welcomed the chance to be properly introduced, but it seems it will be denied me. I am Roderick Benton, farmer at Meadowbrook.”

  “Miss Ellen Spencer,” she said tersely, wondering whether she should give her hand to this cretin, and whether her glove would be ruined if she did.

  The exit of the forgotten sheep spared Ellen the indignity. Mr. Benton turned round with a cry of exasperated surprise and shouted after the bounding creature.

  “Off you go, aye!” he shouted. “Go and get yourself stuck in another thicket.” He watched it go with a laugh and turned back to Ellen, looking at her under a dark cocked brow. “Stubborn animal. He needs saving at least once a week.”

  In spite of herself, Ellen laughed.

  “And what does a fine lady as yourself in this wretched corner of woodland?” Mr. Benton asked, looking her up and down in a manner Ellen found quite disconcerting.

  “Exploring my land,” she said, drawing herself up and placing just the slightest emphasis on the word my.

  “Oh, of course,” he said with a smile, not showing any inclination to move. He was beginning to infuriate her. “And do you find it to your liking?”

  “All but this wood,” she said primly. “I am considering having it cut down.”

  “Well, then, you shall command a fine view of my house, for it is just beyond the forest edge.” Mr. Benton indicated the direction casually and leaned against the trunk of a nearby tree.

  “Perhaps I will leave it, after all.” Ellen would have to let the trail grow over, as well. How strange that a man so filthy and poor should have the speech and easy demeanor of a gentleman. He seemed intent to stay with her, alone in the quiet wood, and Ellen felt their isolation keenly. He was staring at her, the boor. And yet, the intensity of his eyes, the ropes of muscle in his exposed, sunburned neck held her attention.

  With a sudden shudder, Ellen remembered herself.

  “I must go,” she said, adjusting the ribbon of her bonnet awkwardly. “I am pleased to have met you,” she added with a quick curtsy, though she little meant it. She could hardly wait to flee back to Alderfield and forget the existence of Mr. Roderick Benton. Thank heaven farmers wouldn't be included in her society.

  * * * *

  Ellen tapped her fingers impatiently on her vanity table as she heard the crunch of gravel under carriage wheels and the sound of a cheerful greeting. Her father was below already, waiting to meet their guests in the hall. She should be down there, too, but for the inexperience of her new maid. Constance was a country girl, the best of Uncle Edwin's retained servants. Having worked here for years, with no mistress in residence, she wasn't, however, accustomed to the standards of a London lady.

  Constance pinned the last section of hair and stood back, wringing her hands in concern. As well she should be concerned, for this was the third arrangement. It was an improvement on the first two attempts, Ellen conceded as she examined her reflection. Not the best, but it would have to do. Time was short.

  Thanking Constance, Ellen stood and eyed herself critically in the full-length glass. Dark curls piled regally on her head, embellished with fine, looped plaits and enticing tendrils around her face, crowned with a delicate tiara of crystal and pearls. Her gown was of embroidered white lawn over heavy blue silk, just low enough to show the white curves of her high bosom. She was pleased with the progress of her figure—she had long left the awkward angles of childhood, though she would never become unpleasantly plump. Her mother had been the same.

  Not for the first time, she wished her mother could have been here with her. She would have been so proud of her. Ellen banished the thought, lest she should weep. A ball was no place for mourning. She put on her gloves, held up her arms and waited for Constance to button them, then took up her gossamer shawl, leaving the mirror behind. It would be Ellen's guests’ turn to appreciate her now.

  Ellen glided down the steps with all the grace she possessed. Perhaps these simple country folk might be relaxed in their customs and manners, but they were a perfect rehearsal stage for the coming Season. All eyes were on her as she stepped off the staircase and took her father's proffered arm. Her father smiled, assuring her of her loveliness.

  “Allow me to introduce my daughter,” he said to the arriving guests, “Miss Ellen Spencer.”

  “How do you do?” the guests inquired politely, their eyes wide with the appreciation Ellen desired. She would quite enjoy this, after all.

  It was as the orchestra was tuning their instruments and the last of the guests were entering that Ellen had her first indication that the evening wouldn't be as pleasant as planned. She looked up at the new arrivals just as her father announced them.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Benton, and Mr. Roderick Benton,” he said. Her eyes snapped wide and she managed a clumsy curtsy as the elder Mr. Benton and his wife passed by. Roderick gave her a sideways smile and a neat bow, following his parents toward the ballroom.

  Ellen stared after him in shock for a moment, then seized her father's arm and took him aside.

  “What are they doing here?” she hissed.

  Father seemed taken aback at her vehemence and shrugged. “Mr. Benton is one of the foremost gentlemen of the county. He and his son paid me a visit soon after we came to Alderfield, and I felt it only meet that we should invite them.”

  “But Father, they are farmers.” What would her friends think of this?

  “Gentlemen farmers, Nell, my dear,” Father said, patting her hand. “There is a difference. Now go, enjoy your ball.”

  Ellen complied, though she couldn't imagine a ball less enjoyable than one with Roderick Benton as a guest. She determined she would not dance with him, even if he were the only man who asked her.

  As it was, she needn't have worried, for he didn't ask her. Others did—young men passable for their style and situation. Roderick danced with others, as well—in fact, as far as Ellen could reckon, he had danced with everyone but her by the end of the night. Not that she was paying attention, of course.

  They crossed paths many times, as the intricacies of the dances brought them into and out of alignment like planets in the heavens. Each time Ellen made a point of not speaking, and Roderick followed suit, though each time she looked at him, she caught his eye upon her, smiling with some secret amusement. His regard bothered her more than she cared to admit. Each time she was obliged to hold his hand, she felt she should cringe, but the dry warmth of his hand was too pleasant to loathe.

  At one point, during the Polonaise, as Roderick circled behind her back, she felt the hot moisture of his breath on her neck and inhaled despite herself. Instead of the expected waft of farm odors
, she was surprised to scent a clean, spiced aroma more agreeable than most she had experienced in the finest ballrooms of London. The fragrance washed over her, raising the heat in her cheeks, and causing her to miss a step.

  When the music ceased, she excused herself from the dancing, pleading exhaustion. She could have danced forever, in all truth, but she removed herself from the danger. She could no longer despise Roderick for his filth—that was certain. In fact, she had ceased altogether to find his person repulsive. But, she would always, always hate Roderick for refusing to ask her to dance.

  * * * *

  Prudence Hargrave and Anna Belmont were not the sort of friends Ellen would seek for herself under normal circumstances, but as Kate was on the other side of the country, she contented herself with their society. The girls were close to her age, after all, and the nearest to her station that could be found in Fairbrook. After meeting them at the ball, Ellen found them pleasant and decided she must befriend them, if only to unburden her troubled mind.

  For troubled it was. Since the ball, she had not been able to force Roderick Benton from her mind. Therefore, she gathered her companions around her as a wall against his onslaught, encouraging them to shun him as she resolved to do.

  “Well, he is not so bad,” Prue defended meekly once as they walked the street of Fairbrook village. Ellen merely shook her head.

  “It is all too clear that living in the country you ladies have been hindered from the good society that is your right,” Ellen said, stepping into the doorway of a decent millinery shop. “If you could spend but one evening in a ballroom in London, you would forget Mr. Roderick Benton even existed.”

  “Tell us about the men in London,” Nan appealed, her face beaming broadly.

  Ellen obliged, conjuring in memory the clear air of the park in the afternoon, the stolen glances of the opera, and the fleeting touches of the dance. Nan sighed in longing, and Ellen felt almost sorry for her that she could not go.

  “If men are so thick in London,” said Prue thoughtfully as she fingered a length of awful-colored ribbon, “how is it that you are not yet engaged?”

  “I have only been out in society the one Season,” Ellen said, drawing Prue's attention pointedly to a more suitable shade of ribbon. “And I was presented late. Father wanted to wait until he got his title, and present me properly to the Queen.”

  “You have met Queen Charlotte?” Nan gaped.

  “Well, of course,” Ellen said. “It would not be proper for a gentleman's daughter to be brought out without first meeting the Queen. Though I hardly met her—she merely looked me over and gave her approval.”

  Prue still looked skeptical, so Ellen looked at her narrowly. “One cannot be expected to find a husband in one short month. I shall do better next Season with my new dowry—Father has agreed to settle upon 30,000 pounds. I defy any man to resist me now.”

  Prue and Nan looked suitably dazzled.

  “And when you have your fine London husband,” Nan said with a giggle, “you will have to invite his fine friends to come to Alderfield.”

  “So I shall,” Ellen said, trying not to look critically at Nan. She would have some hard work ahead before she could bring any fine London friends here.

  Prue having bought her ribbon, the three ladies left the store. Ellen raised the hem of her wool walking dress as she stepped down to the street. As she lifted the brim of her bonnet, she looked straight into the eyes of Roderick Benton.

  “Ah, Miss Hargrave, Miss Belmont, Miss Spencer,” he said with a delightful smile. “Well met.” He gave a little bow, which the ladies returned in kind. Ellen rankled at the implied slight of naming her last. Surely, he had done that intentionally.

  “Mr. Benton,” the three girls chorused in unison.

  “We are just on our way back to Alderfield,” Nan continued.

  “I am on that way, myself,” Roderick said with a disarming smile.

  “Then you could accompany us.” Prue boldly moved closer to him.

  “I suppose I could,” Roderick said, offering Prue his arm, though he looked over his shoulder at Ellen with an irascible grin that shook her to the core. Nonsense. I have resolved to hate him. And besides, if Prue and Nan could forget him with one taste of London life, then so can I.

  Ellen looked up at Roderick's straight back and starched white collar, with the tail of dark hair shining against it. Please forget him.

  * * * *

  Summer cooled to Autumn, and Autumn's glory faded to Winter, and so passed an endless succession of mediocre parties and commonplace days. Some of the young men had been bold enough to show a preference for Ellen, but she had quickly discouraged them. Where their courage had flickered before, her cool disregard snuffed it out. A couple of them went on to other pastures—far from greener. One even snatched up Nan Belmont the very day after Ellen snubbed him the evening before.

  So it was that she graced Anna Belmont and Edward Surrey's Christmas wedding as Maid of Honor. She should have felt honored, walking up the wide aisle of the little country church in a gown that rivaled the bride's. But the honor was difficult to see amid the humiliation of being forced to stand next to Roderick Benton. Had she known he was Ned Surrey's dearest friend, she never would have assented to stand for Nan.

  Roderick was aloof as usual, and Ellen smoldered with ire. She could hardly decide which angered her more—the fact that he ignored her to the point of rudeness, or the fact that his lack of regard bothered her at all. And yet, it did. Among the train of would-be suitors in Fairbrook, only Roderick had shunned her. And among the young ladies, only she had failed to elicit a flirtatious word or a simple invitation to dance from him. With rising frustration, Ellen turned her attention back to the ceremony.

  Nan and Ned were exchanging their vows now, and Ellen listened patiently. She longed to be saying such words herself, before the next year was out. They might be said in finer dress and company, in St. George's church instead of a country chapel, but they would carry the same meaning. Security, success, desirability.

  For a fleeting moment, as she watched her friend speak softly to her new husband, Ellen almost envied Nan. Almost, except of course the fact that Ned and Nan had not a farthing to pass between them. Nan's fortune, despite her decent breeding, was little, and Ned was a farmer. Nan would regret her choice in a month's time, Ellen wagered, once the money dwindled and the stockings wore out. She would have fared better had she taken Ellen's advice to come to London.

  The ceremony ended and the small party of guests migrated to the Belmont home for breakfast. Ellen had to admit, as she watched Ned bring Nan a cup of steaming chocolate, that he was an attentive and kind-hearted husband. She suddenly realized Nan would never want for a companion. They might be poor, but they would be happy. The thought crossed Ellen's mind that Ned might have asked her first, had she encouraged him in the slightest. She felt the expected relief at the idea of her narrow escape, with an aftertaste of loneliness.

  Suddenly, the small drawing room was too stuffy, and Ellen slipped away for air. She pulled on her soft wool walking dress over her gown and donned her bonnet before she went out into the chill, clean air. That was something she liked about the country—the air was sweeter here than in the city. London's air was full of vile vapors and stenches. Here there was only the frost and the sweet smell of decaying leaves and windfall apples.

  She had hardly walked to the edge of the garden when she heard footsteps behind her and turned. To her surprise, Roderick Benton stood there, smiling enigmatically and looking for all the world as though he had sought her on purpose. He made no move to leave, and Ellen realized with a sinking feeling that he had sought her presence.

  “Mr. Benton,” she acknowledged with cold formality, taking a hesitant step to show her eagerness to get away.

  “Miss Spencer,” he replied, holding up a gloved hand to forestall her escape. “Would you take a turn with me?”

  Ellen frowned, taking his measure. This was the first time he
had invited any attention from her—the first time, indeed, that he had spoken to her without any trace of mockery in his voice. All sense within her cried out to turn away, to flee from him, but the constraints of decorum demanded she stay. Besides, she was overcome with curiosity to see what he would say. He offered his arm, and with trepidation, she accepted it.

  To her chagrin, he closed his fingers over hers securely, and her sensibilities revolted. Such familiarity—and yet, she found she could not object—did not want to object.

  “Miss Spencer,” he began, then paused with a smile. “Nelly...”

  Ellen began to sense the direction this conversation would take and opened her mouth to protest. She would not have her say, however, as he forged on.

  “My sweet, Nelly,” he said, his voice softening to a tenor quite different from his usual jocular tone. “I have a proffer to make to you, and I pray you will hear me.” Ellen was stunned into silence. “Please do not turn me away for modesty's sake—you are beautiful, and you must know that.”

  Ellen blushed madly, frustrated with her mutinous feelings. She bolstered herself with thought of what the Patronesses of Almack's would say. Roderick went on.

  “I must profess, my heart's desire, that I love you—I have loved you since the first moment I saw you in that clearing, all flushed from your ride.” He turned toward her, bearing in his eyes the full weight of his affection and affliction. “You have won my favor, above any other. I know I am but a farmer's son, but I beg you, please, to marry me.”

  Ellen stopped walking, stunned to immobility by this man's audacity. Any small measure of tenderness she had felt toward him vaporized in the wake of his words. Not only had he the gall to propose to her in the first place—and that was cheek, indeed—but he made his regard sound like an honor. Well, she would take this puffed-up peacock down a notch or two. Dropping his arm, she rounded on him.