“Who are you looking for now?” Edmund asked, crossing in front of her as the dance dictated and smirking to see her so turned-around.
“Nobody,” Juliet sang, turning back to him and shooting him a blinding smile.
“Good,” Edmund grumbled. “If we are dancing together, I do think you might at least give me the courtesy of not forever looking around at your neighbours as if you would rather be dancing with one of them.” He lowered his voice to little more than a whisper. “Perhaps this greying doddering fellow on my left would be more to your liking?”
“Don’t be bitter, Ed, it does not become you!” Juliet said as they moved away from one another for a moment. She took the opportunity to glance around and saw Maddy dancing again - but not with Mr Heatherington, which fact she noted with a small degree of relief. No, she was dancing with a gentleman whose back was to Juliet. Pausing a moment so that she almost missed her cue, she realised that this was the younger Mr Hodge and let out a sigh that she was not quick enough to moderate before she returned to Edmund.
“I think that Hodge fellow is quite smitten with your sister, Juliet. You must be careful, or he may edge your colonel out altogether.”
“Or your Mr Heatherington!” Juliet shot back. “Maddy was only too quick to dance with someone else as soon as her engagement with him was finished.” She lowered her voice. “It was a mean trick shoving him forwards like that, denying Juliet any option of another!”
“She did not complain!” Edmund remarked. “And I saw you were only too quick to dance with Nash.”
Something about the bitter tone that crept into his voice when he mentioned his friend’s name brought Juliet up short and she turned to look at him in surprise.
“I thought he was your friend!”
“He is,” Edmund said simply, in a tone that ought to bring the matter to a close. Juliet was not so easily dissuaded from her goal.
“I see, you bring friends home to introduce to my sisters but not to me. Do not think I do not see Mr Finch over there, dancing with poor Bess, who looks as if she would very much like to be rescued from him.” Her voice flattened. “Or is it only me you do not wish to share?”
“You know I do not care to share you!” Edmund said, blinking very rapidly as if he had discovered some speck of dust in his eyes.
Juliet wondered if he recalled, as she did, the hazy afternoon when he had asked her to marry him. He had been teasing, surely, for he had not mentioned it since and had run straight off to London to find a more suitable match. Juliet straightened, feeling as if someone had jammed a hot poker in her back. Mrs Gale had been only too clear that Juliet did not qualify as a sensible prospect for her only son. Friends, they might be, but they would never be more. Not that I mind, Juliet reminded herself. She loved Edmund dearly: he was her closest friend and confidant, save for her sister, but her pride still rankled at being told she was not good enough to marry him. Refusing, by one’s own choice, and being prevented, by the actions or prejudice of another were two different things.
But maybe Edmund thinks so as well, she thought, her eyes straying back to him almost in spite of herself. How quickly had he fled to London after that day? And how many elegant ladies had he taken great pains to mention in his letters to her, describing in detail their beauty, their position in the close, queer society in London? How different they were from me, in other words.
Edmund was watching her carefully all this time as if waiting for her to say something else and she forced a smile onto her face just as the last few notes of music strained over the crowd, met with applause from the onlookers and one or two of the dancers.
“Thank you, Edmund,” Juliet said, stiffly. “I think I shall go and find some refreshments.”
“Allow me to fetch you something -” Edmund began, but before he could move past her to the edge of the dancers, Mrs Gale appeared, thrusting forward a beautiful young lady who fairly dripped with lace. Juliet paused just long enough to recognise how absurd they must look standing so close together before she hurried off into the crowd, scarcely hearing Edmund’s mother introduce her charge.
“Edmund, dear! This is the charming Miss Drew I mentioned. She is so eager to dance and I know that you will not do her the dishonour of refusing...!”
Chapter Eight
Robert’s future looked decidedly brighter in the days that followed the ball. For one, life at Castleford began to become rapidly busier, as new visitors to the newly thriving spa town began to arrive and invite their friends to join them for a festive stay in the new “gem of the north”, and his father had ceased to quiz him on when he planned to marry. Robert could not help but wonder if it was because the elder Mr Hodge had begun to suspect some change in Robert’s feelings towards the idea of marriage after meeting one young lady in particular.
Madeline Turner. He turned the name over in his mind, marvelling at just how well it suited her. She was easily the prettiest young lady Robert had seen since his return to England, perhaps even before that. They had shared one dance and had not spoken a great deal, but Miss Turner had smiled a lot and seemed a little reluctant to part when the music finally ended and forced them to part. Or perhaps I imagined it, he thought, upon reflection. Still, imagined or not the notion of her enjoying the dance almost as much as he had was all the encouragement he needed to feel hopeful of the future. This in itself was so unnatural a feeling of late that Robert was happy to embrace it.
“Ah, here you are, Robert,” Mr Hodge declared, shuffling into the parlour one afternoon. He had a touch of gout, he claimed, which ailment had contributed to their decision to come north and to explore the newest spa-town that was now their home.
“Here I am!” he responded, leaping up and surrendering his own seat, nearest the fire, to his father.
Mr Hodge waved a piece of paper at him as he passed and Robert reached for it, his contentment shifted as he read the contents of the short letter addressed to them both.
I make it my concern to acquaint myself with all tenants in my parish, particularly those newly arrived in time for the festive season. Please accept this advance notice of my intent to call, then, on Thursday next at precisely two o’clock. I remain your humble servant, Revd. George Worthy, of St Bartholomew’s Church, Upper Clifton...
“Is that today?”
“Today is Thursday, is it not?” Mr Hodge’s eyes twinkled, and as the clock chimed, he nodded towards it. “And the time is...precisely two o’clock!” He arranged himself carefully in Robert’s recently vacated seat and stared, expectantly, at the door as if expecting the figure of a plump, genial reverend to wink into existence the very instant that the last chime died away. After a moment of tense silence, he let out a low sigh. “What a pity our new reverend is not quite as punctual as his letter led me to believe!”
“Perhaps it is not he who does not run to time, but our clock,” Robert suggested, walking out to the corridor to consult the grandfather clock, a very ornate expensive-looking piece that had been hired out with the house, and of which he was more than a little afraid to take responsibility for, lest it cease working while under his care. Thus far, all had gone well, for the servants cared for the house and its contents at least as well as they did for its inhabitants.
The grandfather clock claimed the hour, also, so Robert returned to join his father in the parlour and both men waited in silence as the minutes ticked by.
“Perhaps he has been delayed,” Robert suggested after ten minutes had passed.
“There may have been some emergency that he was called to,” he maintained, when ten minutes gave way to twenty. When they were rapidly approaching the half-hour, his father prevented him from summoning a third excuse by offering his own.
“Perhaps he merely decided that two bad-tempered bachelor gentlemen were more than his Christian kindness could extend to on this particular Thursday afternoon.”
“Bad-tempered?” Robert laughed. “Speak for yourself, Father. I am amiable, always.”
His father regarded him out of the corner of one eye.
“Lately, yes. I will grant you that recently you have gone even beyond mere amiability. You have been cheerful!” He uttered this last as if might have been a slight, and covered his mouth in feigned surprise. Robert rolled his eyes, but could not keep the smile from creeping onto his features.
“I confess I have felt rather more content of late. Perhaps it is the country air that has lifted my spirits.”
“Or the season,” his father offered. “How different this Christmas will be for you from last!” His own clouded and there was a slight quaver to his voice as he continued. “How different it shall be for us both!”
Neither gentleman spoke, each acknowledging, in the silence, the absence of Mrs Hodge, and how deeply her presence would be missed at Christmas, as it was always, no matter how far from their old home they now found themselves.
“But you must not let me drag you into the doldrums!” Mr Hodge said, clearing his throat and blinking his eyes rapidly as if to clear them of dust or the very rarest unshed tear. Then, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, he continued. “What was the name of that pretty young lady you danced with at the assembly, Robert? I recall her father’s name was Tiller, was it not? And their family was local, I believe.”
“Turner,” Robert clarified, feeling a sneaking suspicion that his father was only too aware of her name and had purposely substituted Tiller. Still, he could not help but relish the opportunity to voice it, even in passing. “Miss Madeline Turner, and she is one of four sisters, I believe.” He paused. “They do, indeed, live in Clifton.”
The bell rang to signify the arrival of their erstwhile guest, and Mr Hodge rubbed his hands together in glee.
“Wonderful! Then our esteemed reverend will be able to expand on our acquaintance. No doubt they, too, will look forward to celebrating Christmas in his small but thriving church in the midst of the most splendid parish grounds in all the county!” His eyes twinkled with fun as he recited the reverend’s words back at his son, and it was all Robert could do to swallow his laughter as their guest was shown into the parlour to join them.
“Mr Hodge, Mr Hodge I apologise most profusely for my delayed arrival! I do hope you will forgive me and allow me the luxury of explaining my absence...”
Robert leapt to his feet, eager to reassure their guest that no explanation was necessary, but Mr Hodge, who had little time for clergymen, seemed to have decided even before laying eyes on the balding, portly Reverend Worthy that that gentleman did not intend to live up to his name, and deserved no such indulgence.
“We are glad you have arrived here, at last, Reverend,” he said, at last, his voice sharp. “My son was just considering whether he ought to come out and look for you.” He fixed his sharp eyes on the little man, who teetered in shoes that looked uncomfortably tight, as Robert pointed him to another empty chair and sought to summon a tray of refreshments.
“I apologise!” the reverend said again, whipping out a large handkerchief and pressing it extravagantly to his shining forehead. “I was delayed, you see, visiting a certain family - quite established, you know, and such generous donors to the life of the church -”
“I see, so it is upon the contents of one’s coin-purse that the church determines a man’s worth, and not -”
“Reverend Worthy,” Robert put in, sensing his father teetering close to offering up a sermon of his own, and one from which the good reverend would not emerge edified in the slightest. “Please make yourself comfortable. I shall order some refreshments. Father, would you prefer tea or coffee?”
He escaped into the corridor, already knowing what his father’s choice would be and pulled the parlour door closed behind him just in time to avoid being overheard as he surrendered to a fit of convulsive laughter.
I must see to the refreshments and hasten back, he thought, biting down hard on the inside of his mouth to bring his mirth to a swift conclusion. Before Pa offers poor Reverend Worthy his full and uncensored opinion of the wrongs of the country clergy and gets us shunned just in time for Christmas!
JULIET DIPPED HER PEN in her inkwell and chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip before setting it to paper. She had only written a sentence or two before setting it down again in frustration, looking back over what she had written with despair.
This small book was her pride and joy. It contained a story she had been working on in secret for months now, but alas, lately she was finding it increasingly difficult to add to.
I have too many distractions in the lives of those around me at present, she thought, knitting her brow. I cannot spare any concern for the lives of fictional characters.
Blotting at the dull sentence she had written and fully intending to scratch it out later, she flipped back a page or two, scanning over her previous words and feeling the familiar thrill of excitement for the world she had been constructing from nothing. It had been one throwaway comment from her father that had inspired her to begin writing in the first place. She had despaired of the sentimentality of a novelist whose work she had been devouring until the story took a turn for the ludicrous and she had cast it aside, complaining to Mr Turner of her disappointment. Mr Turner had merely smiled and suggested that perhaps she ought to do better, as she undoubtedly was well able to organise people however she wished - whether real or fictional - and she might as well put her skills to good use.
Juliet sighed, running a fingertip over her previous work. Papa put rather too much faith in her abilities, it seemed.
If I was as skilled as he claims then the ball would certainly have been more successful!
No, that was not fair. The ball had been enjoyable enough. It could not really be considered her fault that Madeline seemed to prefer the company of the newly arrived Mr Hodge over the colonel, who had scarcely stopped laughing and drinking with his friends long enough to dance with anyone, let alone Juliet’s sister! It was not even this that irritated Juliet most of all, but that, save for Mr Hodge, it seemed to be Mr Heatherington to whom Madeline had shown a slight partiality. She had not even been disappointed that the colonel had not danced with her!
And Edmund is so smug about it! This was the most infuriating thing of all, for he was insufferable when he was poised to get his own way. She recalled the many times over the years when his victory had been all but guaranteed and his charm would rise to almost unbearable levels. In spite of herself, she smiled, thinking that she would rather like to take her friend down a peg or two by snatching a victory out from under him.
It is not only about winning, of course, she reminded herself. Her true concern was that Madeline should be happy, and if she thought the handsome, wealthy Mr Heatherington could truly make her sister happy then she would encourage the match, abandoning her stake in the contest altogether. But handsome though he was and wealthy though he might be, Juliet could not conceive of her sister ever loving anyone as arrogant as Edmund’s newly arrived friends.
The image of one friend in particular swum before her mind’s eye and she was forced to re-address her assertion. Not all of Edmund’s friends were arrogant, of course. Mr Weston had been quite charming and amusing, with the same easy smile and teasing manner as Edmund. It had been almost like dancing with Edmund, in fact, although without the comfort of being with her friend, and without the perennial consciousness that his mother would be watching their every interaction. Watching and disapproving. Juliet had never quite been able to relax around Mrs Gale since the day when Edmund’s mother had told her, politely but firmly that whilst Edmund may appear to care for her, the affection was surely fleeting, and any marriage between the pair would be a mistake thy would both come to bitterly regret.
Juliet was persuaded, now, that his mother had been right, for their friendship had rallied after their separation in a way she had doubted it could.
There was a knock at the door and Juliet started, sliding her book closed quickly at the arrival of Bess, who grinned at her from t
he doorway and skipped lightly across the room to join her at the window.
“How fares the authoress?” Bess asked, with a sly smile. “Hard at work?”
“Hard at something!” Juliet retorted, groaning. Bess had been the only one of her sisters Juliet had dared to confide in abut her secret project. Bess had even read a little of Juliet’s work and pronounced it “better than Shakespeare”, which enthusiastic praise encouraged her to continue, although she privately thought it likely her sister might be exaggerating just a fraction.
“How are you, Bessy? What are you doing this fine, dreary day?” She cast an accusatory glance through the window as if blaming the grey, wintry weather for the difficulties she had in writing.
“Looking for you!” Bess declared, with a dimpling smile. “We have callers and Mama asked that I fetch you.”
“Oh?” For half a moment Juliet dared to think it might be Colonel Black, come to apologise for his crass behaviour the night before. She shook her head, dispelling the notion immediately. The colonel did not even know of Juliet’s plan: how could he know that he had ruined it by acting so?
“Edmund is here,” Bess said, happily, for she was fond of their neighbour, as were all of the Turner daughters. “And his friends are with him.” This was not said with quite as much enthusiasm, and Juliet wondered if Bess’s opinions matched her own of Edmund’s fashionable London friends
“Why are you telling me?” Juliet asked, peevishly. She had not quite forgiven or forgotten Edmund’s snide victory over her the previous evening. He had not come all this way to gloat, surely?
A Winter Wager Page 6