by Nicole Byrd
“Yes, thank you,” Clarissa replied, too embarrassed to admit that all his instructions were a jumble in her mind.
But when Monsieur Meidenne had been shown out by the footman, she turned to Gemma and cried, “Oh, Gemma, I can’t. Let me just go into the country and hide out in some little cottage for the rest of the Season!”
Gemma came closer and gave Clarissa a hug. “My dear, of course you will be clumsy at first. Do not berate yourself. With practice, you will soon be gliding across the dance floor like all the other young ladies.”
“Only if it is greased,” Clarissa muttered, thinking of the village festivals of her childhood when eager lads had tried to climb a greased pole to win a prize.
Gemma laughed. “Come along, let’s have some tea and cake, and then perhaps we will go out and look into the shops.”
Remembering her last disastrous foray into London’s shopping area, Clarissa felt a flicker of alarm. “No,” she said before she thought, and then, when Gemma looked at her in surprise, added, “I mean, I don’t wish to be more of a charge on you than I have already.”
Gemma’s touch on her arm was gentle. “My dear, thankfully, we do not have to worry about finances. That time is behind you. And your wardrobe must be sufficient for the time when you go into Society.”
Clarissa felt even more dismay, but she tried to hide it. She was not certain which prospect was more alarming, seeing the feared image out of her past rise up out of the crowd once more, or making her bow to the Ton.
Dominic was sitting at his desk perusing a report of investment earnings when he became aware that a footman stood in the doorway, a silver tray in his hands. How long had he been there; had the servant spoken? Dominic wasn’t sure. At least his servants were accustomed to their master’s eccentricities.
“Yes?”
“A note for you, my lord.” The footman brought the missive in and placed it carefully on the polished desktop.
Dominic nodded his thanks and, without enthusiasm, unfolded the single sheet of paper. He scanned the scrawled handwriting, and he frowned as he read:
The tempestuous young lady’s name is Miss Clarissa Fallon. Although her family is not titled, she has every claim to the status of gentlewoman. She lives with her brother, Captain Matthew Fallon, lately of His Majesty’s navy, and her sister-in-law, Lady Gemma Fallon, at the address below. She has not yet made her bow to Society but is expected to venture out, soon.
I shall hold you to our wager.
It was signed, The Honorable Timothy Galston, and there was an address in the West End added at the bottom, the site of the Fallon household.
Dominic’s first impulse was to ball the paper into a crumpled wad and toss it toward the fire. It fell short, and just as well. After a moment, he stood and retrieved it, smoothed the creases he had made and looked again at the address.
He had given his word, and as to why—he had been a damn fool. It was not the lure of a silly wager, but the look he had glimpsed for the briefest of instants on the girl’s face—a look of stark terror. He had been reminded of one of his foot soldiers, about to go down beneath the charging hooves of a French trooper’s steed.
Dominic put one hand to his brow, resisting the urge to touch the jagged scar at the side of his face. He had dreamed again last night, dreamed of sitting on his horse and lifting his sword to order his men forward, then the shell exploding—red hell opening like some deadly flower and tumult so deafening it was beyond the range of his ears—
He shook the images away. It was not his own injuries that haunted him so much as the memory of the shattered bodies of the soldiers who had paid much more dearly than he . . . men who had been in his charge. . . .
A good commander hardened himself to the loss of his men, did not regard it, or so he had been often told during his years of military service. Wellington had cared, and Dominic recalled that example with relief. Perhaps Dominic was not mad, because even after years away from the battlefield—he had not stayed to see the last bloody struggles, called home by his family obligations when he had inherited the title much sooner than anyone had expected—sometimes the carnage still flashed unbidden into his mind. And his dreams . . . his dreams were barely on the edge of sanity. . . .
He drew a deep breath.
Life went on. With the help of a good agent, Dominic managed his estate, and he was an easy taskmaster for the servants in his employ. The only thing he wanted, desperately longed for, was never again to bear the responsibility for anyone else’s life or well-being. That was one of the primary reasons he held himself aloof from any possible entanglements, though it was a habit that drove matchmaking mamas to despair, he was told. And he would be more than happy to be considered a hardened case, he thought, frowning. All the better if the matrons left him alone and stopped nagging him to turn up at every dance or dinner party.
And it was that same aversion that had made this cub Galston’s accusations so hard to bear—the charge that he was causing distress to strangers—and that, really, was another reason he had been weak enough, startled enough, not to find a way to evade this insane wager. That, and the look on the unknown girl’s face.
But it was done. And she was unknown no longer.
He drew a clean sheet of paper toward him and dipped his pen into the inkwell.
Clarissa had endured another shopping excursion. Although she kept peering into the crowd, hardly able to concentrate on the new gloves and ball slippers that her sister-in-law insisted upon ordering for her, at least no nightmare face appeared out of the mass of people that thronged the streets.
They returned home in time to meet Clarissa’s new governess before dinner, although now the official title had been changed to governess/companion, since Clarissa was really too old to need a governess, or she would have been if she’d had the proper training in her earlier years, and this lady was not really a governess at all.
This woman was taller and thinner, with a formidable hooked nose and faded hazel eyes, and when they were introduced she gazed at Clarissa with apparently genuine regard.
“This is Miss Pomshack, Clarissa,” Gemma explained. “She was kind enough to serve as a companion to my friend Louisa, now Mrs. Colin McGregor, before Louisa’s marriage.”
Clarissa made her very best curtsy, hoping to show the new companion that she was not, after all, totally unteachable. The woman smiled down at her.
“I am sure we will enjoy a most pleasant time together, Miss Fallon. I hope to do my humble best to assist you as you master the intricacies of social propriety. Even though, as my father the vicar always said, it is the goodness inside one’s soul that counts the most, I fear that Society does judge us too often by appearances.”
Not sure whether she was supposed to be cheered or alarmed by this statement, Clarissa nodded.
Gemma took Miss Pomshack away to see her room, and Clarissa remembered she was expected to change her dress for dinner. She went up to her room and was struggling to reach the hooks at the back of her dress when Ruby, the youngest housemaid, came into the bedchamber.
“Oh, miss, let me. You should wait for me to help you.”
Clarissa bit her lip. She could not get back into the habit of waiting for servants to assist her with the simplest of tasks. Inside, she still felt that she should be the one fetching and carrying, hurrying to answer someone’s bidding. But she could not explain that to Ruby. She muttered an answer and allowed the maid to help her out of the gown and into a fresh dress for dinner.
As Ruby brushed out her hair and pulled it back, resetting the pins, she said, “You’re very quiet tonight, miss. Do you like your new companion?”
“I suppose,” Clarissa told the girl. “I haven’t spent much time with her as yet. She can hardly be worse than the last one!” Then Clarissa realized she should not have said that to one of the servants. Bloody hell. “Please don’t repeat that, Ruby,” she added.
“Of course not, miss,” the maid agreed, although she grinned.
It was so hard to remember that she was the lady now, not one of the servants and still free to gossip with the rest of the staff. Clarissa swore again beneath her breath, then bit her lip. Another fault she was trying to break—Oh, it was hopeless!
At dinner Clarissa said little as she concentrated fiercely on her manners, remembering to use—and hold on to—the proper silver, as she listened to Gemma make polite conversation with the new member of the household. Her sister-in-law had come to know the older lady during the time that Miss Pomshack had served as her friend Louisa’s companion, although Gemma would always be gracious to anyone, familiar or not. Would Clarissa ever be able to function with the same seemingly effortless poise as her sister-in-law? She couldn’t see how.
At least she kept all her silverware on the table this time, although the knot in her stomach prevented her from eating very much. When the ladies withdrew to the drawing room and left her brother alone with his wine, Miss Pomshack favored them with a discourse on the sermon she had heard the Sunday before—“Very well presented, though my father the vicar would perhaps have explained more clearly the concept of Christian charity”—and Clarissa allowed her mind to wander. When her brother joined them, she said her good-nights as soon as she could and went up early to bed.
Once again, Ruby came to help her disrobe. Clarissa thanked her and, catching the servant in a yawn, sent the girl off to her own bed as soon as she could.
“I know you’re tired,” Clarissa said when the maid protested.
“But I ’aven’t brushed out your ’air yet,” the girl said.
“I can do it myself,” Clarissa insisted.
So Ruby took her leave. Clarissa picked up the silver-backed brush and stared into the looking glass atop her bureau as she brushed out her fair hair. It was only an accident of birth that had one girl doing the chores and the other being waited upon. What gave Clarissa the right to be the “lady,” even if she could ever again feel entitled to that role?
Her expression wan, the girl in the glass stared back, and no answer presented itself.
It was the way of the world, her brother would say, not unkindly. Why did that answer no longer satisfy her?
Clarissa blew out her candle and climbed into bed. Although she soon dropped into sleep, her dreams were confused and sometimes frightening. Once, she woke and found she was breathing hard, the bedclothes tumbled around her. She had been running, or trying to run, but her feet had seemed enmeshed as if in a bog, leaving her powerless to flee as a vicious face loomed nearer. The figure—larger in the vision than in real life—reached out to grasp at her. . . .
Drawing a deep breath, Clarissa stared into the darkness. The bedchamber was empty. It was only another nightmare. Only . . .
But Clarissa had to rub her damp cheeks on the sleeve of her nightgown, and it was a long time before she slept again.
Clarissa came down to the dining room rather late and found that her brother had already supped and departed. Gemma was still at the table, although she seemed to have finished her breakfast. Miss Pomshack sat on the other side, her attention on her plate and the thick slice of ham it held. A pile of mail sat at the side of Gemma’s plate, and she gazed at a letter in her hand.
“Good morning, Clarissa. I hope you slept well?”
“Not ’alf bad,” Clarissa lied, then blushed at the cant expression as she paused by the sideboard to glance over the hot plates of eggs and kippers and sausage and ham. After her light dinner last night, she felt very empty. “I mean, tolerably.”
“The most amazing thing,” Gemma said. “You are invited to a dance.”
“What?” Clarissa almost dropped her plate. “Who—I mean, is it your friend Louisa or your brother Lord Gabriel?”
“No, that’s what is so astounding,” Gemma admitted. “This is a lady—Lady Halston—whom I barely know. Why she has asked us all—most pointedly including you, and not that many people know that Matthew has a sister about to make a late debut into Society—I have no idea.”
Clarissa felt a shiver of alarm. She set her plate down, then, knowing that Gemma would be concerned if she ate nothing, took a piece of toast. But when she sat down and the footman poured her a cup of tea, she chewed absentmindedly on the bread and found it as tasteless as a withered leaf. “But I—I don’t have to accept, do I?”
To her alarm, Gemma didn’t answer at once. “This might be a nice way to break the ice, Clarissa, before we have a ball to launch you into Society. A dress rehearsal, as it were. Mrs. Halston says it is only a small affair.”
Clarissa had an unbidden image of a rock being launched into the air, only to sink like the stone it was.
“But I’m—I’m not ready,” she stuttered. “And I’ve told you before, as generous as your offer is, that I don’t really want a debut ball.”
“The dance is two weeks away. And the dancing master will return this morning.” Gemma’s tone was soothing, and she ignored Clarissa’s last comment. “I’m sure in a fortnight you could be prepared.”
Under Gemma’s kind gaze, Clarissa found herself unable to argue further. Perhaps Gemma realized that Clarissa was never going to feel truly prepared to run Society’s gauntlet.
“I’m sure you can do it, Miss Fallon,” Miss Pomshack said helpfully. “And have some marmalade, do, and some butter. That toast must be very dry.”
Clarissa accepted the cut-glass bowl of fruit preserves and put a spoonful of the tart marmalade on her toast. The lump in her throat made it hard to swallow. Two weeks!
When they went upstairs, Miss Pomshack assigned her a section of Milton to read, and then they discussed the poet’s work together, Miss Pomshack correcting Clarissa’s diction when she dropped her h’s or used a cant phrase not becoming to a lady. At least Miss Pomshack seemed to have more patience than the last governess! The poetry, as elevated as its theme was, did not hold Clarissa’s attention, and the hands on the mantel clock seemed to move too quickly. Before Clarissa was ready to face another dance lesson, the clock chimed eleven o’clock.
She heard steps in the hall and felt her heart sink.
Smiling in reassurance, Gemma came into the room with the dancing master behind her. Clarissa tried to compose her expression.
“I shall play for you when you’re ready, Monsieur,” Gemma said. They had already had the rug rolled up.
Clarissa made a polite curtsy. Her brief infatuation with the instructor’s good looks had faded. There was nothing like treading on a man’s foot and feeling like a fool to cure one of a momentary crush. And the Belgian’s expression when he bowed and approached her was guarded, his dark eyes wary, so she feared that he felt as little enthusiasm for the lesson as she.
Clarissa was sure she remembered nothing of yesterday’s lesson. Apparently, Monsieur Meidenne was of the same opinion. Today, he began with the most basic instructions.
“Now, mademoiselle, we will pretend z’e musicians are z’ere, where Lady Gemma sits at z’ pianoforte. Z’e most socially eminent of z’e guests will stand at z’e front of z’e lines, ladies on z’e right in one row, men on z’e left. We shall pretend z’at we are z’e first couple. So if you will take your place opposite me?”
Trying not to blush with nervousness, she obeyed.
He put the book of instructions he always carried on a side table, then returned to his position. He glanced over at Gemma.
“My lady, we will begin today with somez’ing simple, perhaps ‘Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot.’ ”
“Maggot?” Clarissa wrinkled her nose. “What does that—”
He ignored her. “Z’e music is a slow three-quarter time, so it should be easier for you to comprehend, no?”
No was all too likely the right answer, but she pressed her lips together and did not make it.
“In z’e first phrase,” he told her, “z’e first man and woman—z’at is you and I—cross over and exchange places.”
Gemma played the tune, and Clarissa did as she was told, at least today
managing not to step on her instructor’s toes as he passed.
“Now—ah, we need a second lady. Perhaps you would be so good as to help us, madam?” He nodded to Miss Pomshack, who rose at once.
“Of course,” she agreed, her manner gracious. “I do not dance in company these days, but in my youth, I was considered a first-rate dancer.” She took her position next in line to Clarissa, and Clarissa had a moment to relax as she watched her instructor pass back to back with the governess. They both performed more credibly and with more grace than she.
“No, no, do not just stand z’ere,” Monsieur Meidenne scolded, glancing over his shoulder. “You should be doing z’e same with z’e second gentleman.”
There was no second gentleman, of course, but Clarissa obliged by pretending to pass, back to back, with an invisible man.
“Now, observe,” the tutor said. He circled by himself and then turned the governess once around by her right hand. “You will do z’e same.”
Confused, Clarissa started toward Miss Pomshack, but the tutor exploded. “No, no! You will rotate yourself once and z’en turn z’e second man round by z’e right hand.”
“I’m sorry,” Clarissa said, knowing that her face had reddened.
“It is noz’ing, we will try again,” he said. Gemma, who had paused and looked up in concern, played the tune again. This time Clarissa was able to follow the pattern.
“Bon, good,” the tutor said. “Now, you and I, mademoiselle, will turn with our left hand halfway, cross over and cast.”
“What?”
“Go into z’e second couple’s place as we change sides,” he told her.
Clarissa tried to obey, but again he stopped her. “No, no, on z’e outside of z’e line! Everyone knows z’at!”
Everyone except Clarissa. She thought wistfully of her days cleaning out hearths and scrubbing floors. That had been easier than this!
“Now z’e first and second men go back to back with z’eir partners.” Monsieur Meidenne demonstrated, while Clarissa drew a deep breath, trying to keep it all in her head.