The Queen's Ball

by Anthea Lawson

  Deborah clasped her hands together, bending the fancy paper. “To be invited to a ball at Osborne House is such an honor. You know, Walter and I went to London for Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee celebration. Absolutely marvelous.” She shook her head fondly, the colorful plumes on her hat blowing in either direction, then turned back to Clara. “Isn’t it gracious of the arrangement committee to extend the invitation to include you as well?”

  “It is indeed,” Clara said. Though she was becoming tired of the topic, she was glad for the interruption of her thoughts. She would much rather think of . . . well, anything other than Mr. Grant Mason’s rude behavior.

  “Such a benevolent ruler, our Queen Victoria.” Deborah pressed the letter to her bosom.

  Walter sat up taller in the seat next to his wife and raised a finger toward the ceiling. “And I shall be accompanied by the two most beautiful women on the island.” He grinned, his crooked incisor poking out beneath his furry top lip at a curious angle. “Won’t the other gentlemen be jealous?” He chuckled, and his wife joined in, her giggles sounding like they belonged to a young girl.

  Clara couldn’t help but smile at the merry pair. Deborah and Walter were both plump, their cheeks, chins, and tummies bouncing with every bump of the carriage wheels, and in the week since her arrival, they’d been nothing but cheerful. In their presence, Clara’s shyness and the horrible anxiety that came with speaking to strangers was nearly forgotten.

  Deborah was a distant cousin of her mother’s and among the few living relatives the London solicitor, Mr. Poppy, had been able to locate. Clara felt a mixture of gratitude for the couple’s kindness, as well as guilt for the imposition. Taking in an unknown relation could not have been a desirable situation for the two. But the Wickershams assured her again and again that her arrival was an unexpected ray of light in their dull lives.

  As pleasant as Clara found life with the Wickershams, Wardleigh Manor wasn’t home, and her heart ached to return to India. She was determined to do so as soon as the opportunity presented itself, which was another reason she’d been reluctant to lead the choir. Committing to something she may have to abandon before its time felt like a betrayal, and if there was one thing Colonel Brightly had taught his daughter, it was to be true to her word.

  As she thought of her father, the ache grew into a pain she could never get used to, squeezing her heart and compressing her throat. She looked through the window, blinking away tears. What had begun as a marvelous adventure eight months earlier—a steamship journey to England by way of Cairo, Athens, Rome, Venice, and Paris—had turned into a series of misfortunes. The foremost being her father’s sudden death in Egypt.

  Clara shivered, remembering the months of uncertainty in Cairo, the journey to England with strangers, and the long, cold winter she’d spent with her father’s great-aunt (twice removed) and her family in London. She’d been told how very different British society was in England compared to the close relationships of expatriates, and her firsthand experience only convinced her that she did not care for the community one bit. She missed her friends at the residency compound.

  Deborah reached across the carriage, tapping Clara’s hand, and pulling her from the dismal memories. “Here we are.” She pointed to the other window.

  The carriage crested the top of the hill, and the town of Brading spread out before them, looking like a page from a fairy tale book. The town was filled with blossoming trees and surrounded by rolling hills and acres of freshly planted fields, dotted here and there with farmhouses and an occasional manor. White buildings with pointed roofs and wooden trim clustered around a stone church.

  “Glorious!” Walter sighed. “One never gets tired of such a sight.”

  “And just wait, Clara,” Deborah said. “In a few weeks, spring will be in full bloom, and there is nowhere lovelier. Many claim the Isle is the Lord’s personal garden.”

  Clara forced a smile and wiped her wet eyes with the tips of her gloved fingers. She hoped, at the very least, that the Lord’s personal garden would produce some sunshine. She hadn’t been warm in months. The streets of the town were quiet, so different than the crowded bustle of Calcutta with its colorful markets and noisy chaos.

  When they reached the churchyard, Walter helped the ladies from the carriage, then bid them farewell as he left to spend an hour with other husbands of the Ladies’ Charity Society members at a local tap house.

  Deborah left to her meeting at the Barlows’ cottage, and Clara entered the church. She waved at the vicar, who read to the children seated on the front pews. Mr. Barlow acknowledged her with a nod and continued with his lesson.

  Clara shivered inside the cool building, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. For a few days after she’d arrived in London, she’d thought it fascinating how her breath turned into a white cloud in the cold, but the novelty of the phenomenon had worn off quickly. Being cold all the time was exhausting.

  She counted the children, and her nerves tensed as the number grew. Nineteen in all. How shall I ever do this? She started toward a pew to wait, but seeing Grant Mason, she changed direction, joining him where he stood on the side of the nave.

  His arms were crossed, and he leaned on one shoulder against the stone wall. He dipped his head to her but did not extend a greeting.

  Clara tried not to let his coolness bother her. She had business to discuss. “I-I wondered if I might speak with you for a moment, Mr. Mason.” Why couldn’t her voice sound more self-assured?

  He straightened, turning fully toward her, and Clara hadn’t realized until she faced him in the candlelit shadows how very imposing he was. Mr. Mason was tall and broad-shouldered with an athletic build. He wore a dark blue coat and a black necktie. As even in the dim light, his tanned skin stood out against the white of his shirt collar. His hair was cut short and side whiskers grew on his jaw. But it was his blue eyes that captured her attention. The light color gave the impression that he was looking at something far away or, more disconcerting, directly through her.

  She forced herself not to duck away. “Sir, I did not want to say as much in front of the Wickershams and the others on Sunday, but since this affects you as a fellow choir director . . .”

  His expression gave no encouragement, and the cool way he stared made her lose her train of thought. Her father would tell her to “stop rambling and come out with it.” She cleared her throat. “Mr. Mason, I was reluctant to accept the task of choir leader because I intend to l-leave the island, and I did not want to . . .”

  He continued to watch her, and her nervousness was joined by irritation. “I am informing you out of respect, sir. I did not wish to abandon you without warning to conduct the choir alone.”

  His expression did not change. “When do you depart?”

  Clara glanced toward the Bible class, wishing for some interruption. Mr. Mason was making her quite uncomfortable. She tightened her shawl. “Well, I am not certain. But I intend to return to India as soon as an opportunity presents itself.”

  “So you are leaving, but you have no plan in place to do so.”

  Perhaps it was a trick of the candlelight, but she thought she saw a smirk. Clara lifted her chin. “Not yet, but I will leave.”

  “You have family there,” he said.

  “No, I . . .” She clasped her hands together, hating to have to explain herself, especially when it was none of this man’s business. “I have no family there.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Mason’s brow ticked upward. “A suitor?”

  Clara shook her head. “India is my home. I . . .” She swallowed at the tightness in her throat. “I belong there.” She looked away from his piercing gaze, embarrassed that her emotions were getting the better of her. “You wouldn’t understand. People here are not like . . .” She shook her head, frustrated at her inability to finish a sentence. “You do not know how it is to live so far away from your homeland and have to rely on the people around you. They become closer than family.”

 
; He furrowed his brow. “You’re right, Miss Brightly. I do not understand. But I do see that you are keeping this from the Wickershams, and you do so to protect your own feelings, not theirs.”

  Her cheeks heated. “I do not see how that is any of your concern.”

  His eyes tightened, and his expression grew, if possible, more disapproving “The residents of Brading Parish are my people—my family, though we are not related by blood. We look out for one another.” He folded his arms. “Perhaps I understand better than you realize, miss.”

  Clara was tempted to wither under his gaze, but she stood firm, though she had to hold her hands tightly to keep them from shaking. “I do not mean to hurt anyone. I simply want to go home. And I do not deserve your censure, nor do I particularly care for your thoughts on the matter. I m-meant only to inform you because it affects my leadership of the choir. And so I have. Excuse me.”

  She hurried away to wait at the other side of the church. Her entire body shook. She breathed to calm herself and didn’t glance toward him again, though she could feel him watching her. It was only her imagination, but Mr. Mason’s icy stare seemed to make the temperature drop even lower.

  Half an hour later, Mr. Barlow closed the Bible and motioned for the choir-directing team to join him.

  “Children, this is Miss Brightly. She and Mr. Mason are going to teach you a song for the May Day festival. Please give them your attention and sing your very best.”

  Mr. Barlow patted Clara’s arm as he passed, nodded at Mr. Mason, then departed through the church doors.

  A small girl with dark curls followed behind the vicar, and Clara wondered if she was his daughter, or perhaps she needed to get home to bed. Curiosity about the little girl vanished when Clara saw all the children staring at her. Suddenly, her skin felt extremely heated, and she started to sweat. Her breath even felt hot and difficult to draw into her lungs. She removed her shawl and laid it on the front pew.

  “H-Hello.” She formed her mouth into what she hoped was a convincing smile. “As the vicar said, I am Miss Brightly.” She took a calming breath, knowing that if she became too nervous, her stammer would grow worse. She looked toward Mr. Mason, but he had taken a seat on a pew across the aisle, apparently not planning to participate.

  “Is it true you’ve come from India?” an older boy with curly blond hair asked.

  Clara turned back to the children. She nodded, discreetly wiping her damp palms on her skirt. “Yes, that is true. Now before we sing, I’d like to speak to you for a moment about chorale performance. The goal of a choir is to sound like one voice. Each vocalist matches his or her—”

  “Did you ever see a tiger?” another boy asked.

  “And a snake charmer?” a girl asked.

  Clara halted the speech she’d prepared, feeling a drip of sweat slip down her back and reminded herself to breathe in and out steadily. “Yes. I saw snake charmers quite frequently in the Calcutta marketplace, and I did see a tiger once. He was in a c-cage.”

  The children spoke among themselves, and she clapped her hands to quiet them and hopefully recapture their attention. “Now, children, we have only a short time to rehearse, and―”

  “Have you ridden an elephant?” the curly haired boy asked.

  She held up her hand to forestall any other interruptions. “If you would please save your questions until—”

  “Elephants live in Africa, not India.” A smaller boy with freckles leaned forward over the pew, whispering loudly to the blond boy.

  “They live in both,” the first boy replied in an equally loud whisper.

  “As I was saying . . .” Clara tried to ignore the boys’ conversation, but their distraction derailed her train of thought. “I . . .” She swallowed. “The festival is very soon, so I thought we should sing a hymn you already—”

  “Africa.” The freckled boy punched the other on the shoulder.

  “They live in both.” The blond boy reached back to return the punch.

  “B-Boys, please . . .” Clara’s voice caught, and she clenched her hands into tight fists to keep calm.

  Perhaps they should just sing, and she’d speak to them later about their vowels and sound. “The song I’ve chosen is ‘Gentle Jesus, Meek and Mild.’” She purposely avoided looking at the two boys arguing about elephant habitats, though they were very distracting. “Before we sing, I’d like you all to stand and move to the choir seats. Arrange yourselves by size, taller in the back.”

  As if she’d opened a box of puppies, the children tumbled out of the pews. Boys wrestled, pushing one another, and girls squealed, jumping out of their way when the shoving got too close. The argument about elephants drew other participants, and before long, pandemonium had taken over the choir rehearsal.

  Clara guided a crying girl to one of the choir seats, then turned back, pulling a boy down from the pew and pointing out where he should sit. “Everyone m-move to your correct—” She broke off her words when she realized none of them were listening. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. Her breathing became difficult, her hands tingled, and she feared another attack of nerves would take over if she did not calm herself and the unruly children down.

  “That is enough.” Mr. Mason’s voice cut through the turmoil. The tone was not loud, nor was it angry, but it caused everyone to listen. “Take your places.”

  He stepped through the crowd and laid a hand on the freckled boy’s and the curly haired boy’s shoulders, leading them to the choir seats. The other children followed, moving quietly to their spots. Mr. Mason sat behind them.

  Clara’s stomach was hard with embarrassment, and her thoughts muddied. She blinked rapidly, praying no tears would betray her utter humiliation. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Stand please,” she said. “And let us begin.” She hummed a note, raised her hands, and led the children through the song.

  They sang, and she sang along automatically, but her mind wouldn’t stay with the task. What was she doing? She wasn’t cut out to lead a choir. Just speaking to people was difficult enough. And there was Mr. Mason, sitting smugly in the back row, happy to show her and everyone else that she wasn’t up to the task.

  When the song ended, she forced a smile. “Very nice. Thank you. That is all for tonight.” She turned and hurried down the aisle and outside. All the while, her throat grew tighter. The instant the church doors closed behind her, the tears she’d held back all evening overcame her defenses and burst out in a torrent. She wanted her ayah, she wanted her friends, she wanted to go home. But more than anything, she wanted her father.

  Chapter Three

  The morning following choir practice, Grant dismounted in front of the Wickershams’ house. He gave the horse’s reins to the stable boy, then stepped up the front stairs of Wardleigh Manor, but paused before knocking. He fingered the soft wool of the shawl Miss Brightly had left behind at the church and considered for the hundredth time exactly what to say.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling extremely ashamed for his treatment of the young lady and for his narrow-minded assumptions. He’d assumed her haughty and had attended the rehearsal hoping to see her fail, thinking Miss Clara Brightly needed a dose of humility. But as he’d watched her speak to the children, it became increasingly clear that her temperament was not so much conceited as it was nervous. Though she’d tried to hide it, her hands shook as well as her voice. She had been completely terrified.

  He knocked, berating himself for his ungentlemanly behavior. He should have stepped in earlier when he could clearly see her dismay.

  The housekeeper opened the door and, upon Grant’s inquiry, informed him that Miss Brightly was away with Mrs. Wickersham, making visits with the Ladies’ Charity Society, but Mr. Wickersham was at home if he would please follow her to the library.

  Walter rose from his chair, grinning when Grant entered and sent for tea. “A visit from Grant Mason, how fortunate for me.” He shook Grant’s hand, clapping him on the shoulder. “How are you this fi
ne day, sir?”

  Grant grinned in return. It was nearly impossible not to do so. The man exuded cheerfulness. “I am well. I’d hoped to find Miss Brightly at home.” Seeing the knowing twinkle in Walter’s eye, he hurried to explain. “She left her shawl at the church last night.”

  Walter glanced down at the folded cloth in Grant’s hand. “I see. Very good of you to return it. She will be happy to have it back. Poor dear is always cold. Used to jungle climates, I suppose.”

  The housekeeper arrived with a tea service.

  Grant accepted a cup and poured in a spoonful of sugar, taking a grateful sip.

  Walter stirred his tea, then set the spoon onto the saucer. “And how goes the children’s choir?”

  “Rehearsal went . . . well,” Grant said, fully aware that his words were a lie. “Miss Brightly is quite a competent musician.” That, at least, was the truth.

  “Oh, I am glad.” Walter’s shoulders relaxed. “I admit I was rather worried. Clara didn’t speak much on the way home from town last night.” He sipped his tea. “But that is nothing new. She doesn’t speak much at all. Very shy, you know.”

  The bitter taste of shame rose in Grant’s throat. “I see.”

  “Young lady’s been through difficult times.” Walter set his cup onto the low table in front of him, then leaned back, knitting his fingers together over his ample belly. “From what I’ve been able to piece together, her father’s passing was quite tragic. He died suddenly on a tour in Egypt. Poor Clara was stranded for months without family or friends as the consul general sorted things out.” Walter shook his head. “He finally made contact with a relative and sent Clara to London to live with a distant relation she didn’t know, and from what I gather, the situation was . . . difficult.”

  “How so?” Grant set his cup onto the table and rested an ankle on his knee.