Someone To Love

by Mary Balogh

  Avery kept his distance from South Audley Street during the following week. He also dined each evening at one of his clubs with acquaintances who made not a single mention of either bonnets or the education of Lady Anastasia Westcott. It was very refreshing. On the afternoon of the eighth day, however, having just returned from taking Jessica to Gunter’s for an ice in an effort to raise her still-drooping spirits, he stepped into the drawing room to pay his respects to her mother.

  “Anastasia is ready to meet the ton,” she told him without preamble, “or as ready as she will ever be. We had quite an argument about how it is to be done, but I will not bore you with the details.”

  “Thank you,” Avery murmured.

  “We decided upon a full ball,” she said. “Nothing less will do, though one hesitates to call it a come-out ball at her age. She will make her curtsy to the queen at the next Drawing Room, and the ball will be held on the evening of the following day. We had a spirited discussion upon where it would be held.”

  And having promised not to bore him with details, she proceeded to do just that as she poured him a cup of tea he did not want any more than he wanted the details. It seemed that the dowager countess could not host the ball because she was too elderly, and Cousin Matilda was hopeless. The Molenors lived so far to the north of England that if they were to trip and fall they would land in Scotland. They came to town only once in a long while and really knew hardly anyone. So they would be a poor choice as hosts of such a grand event. The house the new Earl of Riverdale had leased for the Season did not even have a ballroom, a fact that more or less excluded him and Cousin Althea from the running, and it would be entirely inappropriate to use Westcott House for the occasion.

  Avery could see where she was headed from a mile away.

  “So you see, Avery—”

  Must he? He interrupted her. “The ball will be held here, of course,” he said with a sigh, and sipped his tea—it was just a little better than lukewarm. “Was there ever any doubt?”

  “Well, there was,” she said. “Everyone knows you are finding this whole business with Anastasia tedious, Avery. You have not shown your face at Westcott House for a week or more, and you have not expressed one iota of interest in the progress we are making with her. She is not a relative of yours, of course, and you cannot be expected to care. I am delighted that you agree the ball must be held here. I shall borrow your Mr. Goddard, if I may, and start planning.”

  “Ah, but I do not lend out Edwin’s services,” Avery said, setting his cup and saucer back on the tray and preparing to make his escape before he found himself being treated to a description of ball gowns. “He might be offended. I shall have a word with him, and you may provide him with a list of prospective guests in the unlikely event he should forget anyone, and with any special request that may occur to you.”

  “That,” she said, “is what I meant by borrowing him, Avery.”

  “Quite so,” he said, and strolled in the direction of the door. He had better warn his secretary of his impending doom.

  He had been resigned to the fact that next year would be filled with tedious frivolity when Jessica made her come-out. But a ball at Archer House this year? It was enough to make one flee to a hermitage somewhere far away. There was no point, of course, in hoping that the guest list would be confined to a select few. His stepmother had distinctly referred to the occasion as a ball, and no ball in London could be deemed a success if it could not also be judged after the fact as having been a sad squeeze. The duchess and her mother and sisters would invite everyone with any pretension to gentility, and everyone with any pretension to gentility would accept, for Lady Anastasia Westcott was still the sensation of the hour, probably of the whole Season, the more so as her unveiling, so to speak, had been a tantalizingly slow process so far. Even at the theater no one outside their own party had secured an introduction to her.

  “You will, of course,” the duchess said before he could effect his escape, “lead Anastasia into the opening set, Avery.”

  “Will I?” he said, turning his head back toward her.

  “It would certainly be remarked upon if you did not,” she told him. “And Alexander will lead her into the second.”

  “And then a succession of possible suitors for her hand?” he asked.

  “Well, she is twenty-five years old,” she reminded him. “There is no time to be lost.”

  “But her fortune will knock several years off her age,” he said.

  “Certainly,” she agreed, not having noticed any irony in his remark. “But I do wish she would take more advice about her clothes, especially her ball gowns. They are all so very plain, Avery. And she does not have much of a figure to compensate.”

  Ah. He had not escaped the ball gowns after all.

  “But,” he said, “it is always better to set the fashion than to follow it.”

  “To set a fashion for plainness?” she said, her eyebrows shooting upward. “How absurd you are sometimes, Avery. And it was very unwise of her to insist upon employing that girl from Bath as her personal maid. An experienced maid could do much for her appearance. And that new young footman of hers—have you encountered him yet? He is quite extraordinary. But do not set me off.”

  “I shall not,” he promised, recalling the scene in which said footman had laughed aloud with said maid at something he, Avery, had remarked, just as though they were all chums of long standing.

  Finally he made his escape. Though not unscathed, by Jove. He was doomed to host a grand ball at Archer House within the next few weeks. What a crashing bore.

  Though perhaps not. It would be Anna’s first real exposure to society, and it might be interesting to behold. She might be interesting to behold.

  Ah, and he must ask Edwin Goddard after he was warned of what was looming if he had made any progress yet in his inquiries about the Reverend and Mrs. Snow, possibly still alive, possibly deceased, of somewhere in the vicinity of Bristol—somewhere with a church. But everywhere had a church. That was not much of a clue.

  If they were to be discovered at all, however, his secretary would find them. Avery had recently raised his salary. He must do so again in the not-too-distant future. If Edwin were to leave his employ, he would feel rather as if a limb had been lopped off.

  * * *

  Anna’s debut into society had been the subject of much animated discussion with her grandmother and aunts. Her wishes had not been consulted. In Elizabeth’s opinion, delivered with a twinkling eye when they were alone together, the dowager and the aunts would come to some sort of agreement, and an opinion from the rest of them would be so much wasted breath. Lady Anastasia Westcott must be presented to Queen Charlotte at an upcoming Drawing Room. That had been unanimously agreed upon early. All else was open to argument.

  At one end of the spectrum was the notion that Anna ought to be eased into society gradually by appearances at various select soirees and dinner parties and concerts. At the other end was the suggestion that her debut appearance ought to be at a grand ball hosted by one of their number. One was more likely to learn to swim, Aunt Mildred had said by way of analogy, if one was hurled into the middle of a deep lake than if one merely waded into the shallow edge of it.

  One was also more likely to drown, in Anna’s opinion.

  But she held her peace. It was a matter upon which she really had no firm preference. She had made the decision to remain in London, to learn the role of Lady Anastasia Westcott and take her place in society. Beyond that, she was at the mercy of her relatives, who knew better than she how the transition was to be accomplished. Balls, soirees, concerts—they were all beyond her experience and equally impossible to imagine.

  The proponents of the grand ball idea won the day. And Aunt Louise won the less vigorous argument about where the ball would be held. It was to be at Archer House with the Duke and Duchess of Netherby as host and hostess.
The date was set for the day following Anna’s presentation at court. It would be preceded by a dinner, and then she would stand in a receiving line with the duke and duchess. Everyone who was anyone was to be invited, and Grandmama would be astonished indeed if anyone declined. The ton was agog to meet the earl’s daughter who had grown up in an orphanage in provincial Bath. Anastasia would have a partner for each set of dances—no one had any doubt of that, though she would open the ball with the Duke of Netherby and dance the second set with the Earl of Riverdale.

  Anna had not seen the duke since the day Harry left to join his regiment.

  She would apparently be allowed to dance even the waltz because of her mature age, though there was a strange prohibition against younger girls waltzing until they had been granted permission by one of the patronesses of Almack’s, whoever they were.

  It was all enough to interfere with Anna’s appetite for several days ahead of time. She had never attended so much as an assembly in Bath before coming to London, and the queen had been someone who sat upon a throne somewhere in the clouds, only a little lower than God’s. It was easier, she found as the days went by, to keep her mind blank and live from hour to hour. Though that was more easily said than done, of course. The appetite loss did not reverse itself.

  * * *

  Dear Joel,

  I am too exhausted to sleep. That is what utter, mind-numbing terror does to a person after it is over.

  I HAVE MET THE QUEEN. AND I HAVE TALKED WITH HER. Forgive me for yelling again, but it is not every day a poor orphan gets to meet royalty. It is the most daunting thing one could possibly imagine, though the queen herself is the most ordinary-looking mortal and smiles vaguely about her and looks as though she wishes herself elsewhere, as I daresay she does, poor lady. But the liveried . . . persons who get one organized and properly lined up with one’s sponsor (the duchess, my Aunt Louise) are far grander and altogether more intimidating than a mere queen. And the whole thing is set up to make the process as uncomfortable as it could possibly be for the participants. When one’s turn comes and one has been properly announced, one has to approach the chair (throne?) and execute the curtsy one has rehearsed for weeks—a very deep and graceful one reserved purely for royalty. Then one has to subject oneself to the vague but kindly smile of Her Majesty and anything she may care to say. And THEN comes the hard part, for one must back out of The Presence without tripping over one’s train. And the train IS OBLIGATORY but may not be looped over one’s arm.

  I hoped and hoped when my turn came that she would have nothing beyond a few murmured pleasantries to say to me, as with the two very young ladies who preceded me. But alas, she knew of me, Joel—me, Anna Snow! She looked at me with what seemed like a spark of real interest and asked if it was true that I had grown up in an orphanage on one bowl of thin gruel and a dry crust of bread each day. But I disappointed her. I told her that we had been served three wholesome meals every day as well as a light supper at bedtime. I believe—I cannot be sure—I even added that the soups had always been thick with vegetables and often some meat too and that the bread was freshly baked every day except Sundays. But by that time she was looking vague again and I was given the very firm signal from one of the frightening minions to start backing out.

  I did not trip over my train. But did I PRATTLE? I shall have nightmares tonight, though Aunt Louise assured me I did not.

  There are a thousand and one details of your last letter I want to comment upon, not least your all-too-brief mention of Miss Nunce, the new teacher. But I am too weary to hold my pen much longer. I shall write again tomorrow. My mind will need distracting, for tomorrow evening is THE BALL. Oh, sometimes I wish, wish, wish, that letter from Mr. Brumford had never found me. I ought to have hidden beneath the desk. I am getting silly with tiredness. I am going. But know that you remain

  The dearest friend and confidant (however abused!)

  of Anna Snow

  * * *

  Late the following afternoon Anna was still wishing she could wake up as from a lengthy, bizarre dream and find herself in her narrow bed in her tiny room in Bath. But she was not dreaming, of course.

  “And,” she said aloud, “one can never go back.”

  “Oh, I hope not, Miss Snow,” Bertha said as she twisted Anna’s hair into a rather intricate knot high on her head and teased free some tendrils that she would proceed to curl and arrange becomingly about her face and along her neck. “I would hate to have to go back. I hope you keep me on even if I did iron that crease into the back of your brown carriage dress yesterday without noticing. It came out when I ironed it again, though I really had to press hard. It’s funny, isn’t it, how creases go in so easily but are an absolute pest to get out? I love being here and being treated almost like a nob myself because I am your personal maid. And I love being able to see Oliver every week instead of having to wait for a letter twice a year. He has to be the world’s worst letter writer. He has just had a very good report on his apprenticeship, though, and is almost certain to be kept on when he is finished, though his dream is to have his own shop. Oh no, I never want to go back. I only want the next three years to pass quickly until we can get married, though I ought not to think that way, ought I? It is wishing my life away, and my life is very sweet now just as it is. I can’t believe how sweet it is. John Davies says the same thing, and Ellen Payne in the kitchen. Oh, look how these curls are turning out. Don’t they make all the difference to your appearance? I always thought you were fine looking, Miss Snow, but I didn’t realize how pretty you are.”

  “Am I?” Anna asked with a laugh. “Is not prettiness for girls, Bertha? I am twenty-five.”

  “Well, you don’t look old,” Bertha assured her. “You don’t look a day over twenty. You are going to be the most gorgeous lady at the ball.”

  “Well, thank you.” Anna got to her feet, her coiffure complete, and looked at her image in the long mirror. She would very probably be the least gorgeous. She had seen the way everyone dressed for the theater, and presumably they would dress even more grandly for a ball. But she was satisfied with her appearance. Her gown would shimmer in the candlelight, and she liked the color, though she had hesitated over the bolt of fabric when she first saw it. It was a vibrant pink, and a color she had never associated with herself. But Madame Lavalle had unrolled some of it and draped it loosely across her body and directed Anna’s attention to a mirror—and Anna had fallen in love. Perhaps she did look younger than her years, or at least no older. And the pink seemed to add a glow to her cheeks when she had feared that it might do just the opposite.

  Madame Lavalle, she thought, had earned her fake French name and accent. She really was both talented and skilled. The neckline was a little lower than Anna would have liked, though not nearly low enough to please all her critics. But she liked it and the close-fitting bodice and short, straight sleeves. The gown flattered what little bosom she had—as did the stays she was wearing. The skirt fell straight from below her bosom and yet gave the illusion of wafting about her as she moved. The modiste had wanted to add a train, which would look very becoming, she had said, carried over my lady’s arm as she danced, but Anna had declined. After yesterday, she was extremely glad she had. Her satin dancing slippers, embroidered with silver thread, matched the color of her dress almost exactly. Her elbow-length gloves were silver.

  Oh, in the privacy of her dressing room she would believe that she looked gorgeous. Why not? She thought ruefully of her Sunday best dress and the two day dresses she had brought from Bath, all of which had disappeared from her room. Her best shoes too and, of course, the old ones. She smiled at Bertha’s image in the glass.

  “No, we must never wish to go back, must we?” she said. “Only forward. My first ball, Bertha. Spend the evening on your knees, if you will, praying that I will not trip over my partner’s feet in the very first set—or, worse, over my own.”

  Bertha shrieked
and then laughed. “Never tempt fate like that,” she said.

  But the first set was to be with the Duke of Netherby, whom Anna had still not seen since the morning of Harry’s departure more than two weeks ago. He would not let her trip over anyone’s feet. It would be too much of a blow to his own consequence. Oh goodness, she would be dining at his table within the next couple of hours. After that she would be standing in a receiving line with him and Aunt Louise, and then she would be dancing a quadrille with him. She felt suddenly breathless and reminded herself that he would probably wish himself anywhere else this evening except where he actually would be. He would look bored and doubtless would be feeling bored too. How very lowering!

  She was smiling as she turned from the mirror. “Oh, I am nervous, Bertha,” she admitted.

  “What? You?” Her maid looked incredulous. “We always used to marvel over how nothing could ruffle your feathers, Miss Snow. You have nothing to be nervous about, especially after yesterday. You look gorgeous, and you are Lady Anastasia Westcott.”

  “So I am. Bless you.” Anna took up her plain silver fan, which had been her one extravagance when she had gone to the shops to help Elizabeth find new dancing slippers. She squared her shoulders and left the room. Cousin Alexander and his mother would be arriving soon with a carriage to escort Elizabeth and her to dinner at Archer House.

  They were the last to arrive. All the other guests were gathered in the drawing room and turned as one to greet the new arrivals. There were hugs and handshakes. There were several voices speaking at once. And then Anna found herself the focus of critical attention.

  “I suppose you look as fine as you can ever expect to look, Anastasia, if you remain stubborn and refuse to take advice from those who know better than you,” Aunt Matilda said—the first to offer an opinion. From her, it sounded almost like praise, and Anna smiled. “Come and kiss my cheek—after you have kissed your grandmama’s.”

  Anna kissed both.