Waltzed

by Anthea Lawson

  And that would be that.

  High time Ellie turned her mind to the practicalities of becoming a governess. As soon as the endless labor of preparing for the ball was ended, she must find herself a position. Perhaps Lady Merriweather would help—though Ellie had to admit that was a bedraggled and forlorn hope. Clearly, there was to be no ball gown, and she doubted her godmother would bestir herself overmuch to help find a place for Ellie.

  Then one of the maids knocked at her bedroom door to tell her she was wanted in Delia’s room, and the day exploded into a whirlwind of activity.

  “Which necklace should I wear?” Delia demanded, waving at the jewelry spilled across her dressing table. “You must help me decide.”

  It was not as simple as that, of course, because every suggestion Ellie made was countered with reasons why that particular item would not suit. There were no earbobs to match. The color would clash with Delia’s underskirts. And so on, until Ellie’s jaw was clenched tight with frustration.

  Just as Delia finally settled on her choice, Abby dashed into the room.

  “Oh, Ellie, there you are! Come tell me which combs I should put in my hair this evening.” She grabbed Ellie’s hand and towed her out the door.

  At least Abby wasn’t nearly as fussy as her ill-tempered sister. She and Ellie even laughed together as one of the feathered hair ornaments refused to stay in place.

  “I don’t fancy looking quite so much like an ostrich,” Abby said, pushing the offending plume out of the way.

  “More reminiscent of a cockatoo, I think,” Ellie said. “Here, let’s try it in this direction.”

  In the end, Abby abandoned feathers altogether in favor of white silk flowers that set off her auburn hair beautifully. But there was no time left for Ellie to attend her own preparations before dinner.

  As the family ate, she tried not to glance too often at the clock upon the dining room mantel. The minutes ticked away; each lost moment a lead weight dropped upon Ellie’s heart. Sinking. Sinking.

  At last Lady Tremont set down her fork, signaling the meal was at an end.

  “The carriage will be drawn up at nine,” she said to her daughters. “I expect you to be ready promptly. We don’t want to keep Lord Christopher waiting to claim his dances.”

  “But how will we find him in the crowd?” Abby asked. “Surely it will be a dreadful crush.”

  “I’ve no doubt he will locate us,” her mother said. “After all, how could he not be drawn to two of the most lovely young ladies in London?”

  Abby tittered, and Delia looked smug. Ellie lifted her chin and tried to pretend she hadn’t been slighted once again.

  “Oh, Ellie, it’s too bad you aren’t coming with us,” Delia said, her voice sweet but her eyes sharp. “Shall I say farewell to Lord Christopher from you?”

  “There’s no need,” Ellie replied calmly. “As it happens, I have a suitable gown.”

  Lady Tremont’s expression hardened instantly. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s true.” Ellie met her stepmother’s stony gaze. “I am coming to the ball. Now, you must excuse me. There’s not much time left for me to prepare.”

  Before her stepmother could reply, Ellie rose and hurried from the room. She ignored Lady Tremont’s call for her to stop and didn’t slow her pace until she’d reached the safety of her bedroom.

  There, she closed the door and leaned against it a moment to let her racing pulse slow. Goodness, it had felt good to assert herself. Along with putting aside her mourning clothes, she vowed to continue pushing away the haze of sorrow that had made her so malleable to her stepfamily’s demands.

  Sorrow and, if she were honest, despair that Papa had left her nothing. But the fact that she had no dowry didn’t mean she ought to be treated as a servant.

  And . . . She drew in a wavering breath, trying to catch hold of the truth.

  It also didn’t mean that Papa hadn’t loved her with all his heart.

  Tears pricked her eyes as she realized how the notion had shadowed her ever since his death, the insidious thought that if he’d cared for her more, he wouldn’t have left her in such straits.

  She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe past the tightness in her chest. Inhale, then exhale.

  Papa had loved her, and wanted everything good for her. The knowledge unfurled in her heart like a flower opening to the light, and she couldn’t believe she’d let herself lose sight of the fact. He had loved her. A tear slipped down one cheek, and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

  Whatever unlucky turn his fortunes had taken, he certainly hadn’t meant it to happen, and had no doubt been distraught at the fact.

  But there was no changing the fact that he had left her penniless. Her task now was to go bravely into the future, not spend the rest of her life as a dejected orphan in her own home.

  And the first step was to don her costume and attend the Queen’s Ball, showing the world that she was out of mourning and ready to carry on.

  She rang for Henderson, who was aware of Ellie’s late nights working on her costume and stood at the ready to help her prepare for the ball. With the maid’s help, Ellie would manage to be ready on time . . . she hoped.

  Thank goodness the ball gown was simple, as was her chosen coiffure—a bun over each ear, dressed with leftover pieces of the gold ribbon.

  “There you are,” Henderson said, fastening a garnet choker about Ellie’s neck. “You look lovely, I must say. It’s good to see you in colors again.”

  “Thank you for all your help.” Ellie turned and pressed the maid’s hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’ll miss you when I go.”

  “Go?” Henderson’s eyes lit up. “Have you heard from Lord Christopher, then?”

  “No.” Ellie swallowed, trying to ignore the spike of pain at hearing Kit’s name. “I only meant when I obtain a position as a governess elsewhere.”

  The older woman’s expression fell. “As to that, perhaps whatever household you go to would be in need of a chambermaid too. I wouldn’t want to stay here without you, Miss Ellie.”

  “We shall see what turns up, then.” Ellie tried to give her a cheery smile. “I’d be glad of a friend, wherever I land.”

  It was doubtful, of course, that they could find such a situation—and even if they did, she suspected Lady Tremont would not give a good reference to any servant leaving her household. But there was no use borrowing trouble, at least not tonight. On the morrow, she would face up to the difficulties ahead.

  Henderson consulted the pocket watch pinned to her bosom. “You’d best hurry. There are only five minutes to spare.”

  Hastily, Ellie jammed her feet into the tight slippers and snatched up her reticule. She paused to give Henderson a quick kiss on the cheek, then, taking her skirts in both hands, hastened down the main staircase to the foyer.

  The ball awaited.

  9

  Ellie’s stepfamily was gathered in the foyer below, opulently dressed and coiffed for the ball. They turned to watch as she descended the stairs. The looks of surprise on Abby’s face and envy on Delia’s were gratifying, but the narrow-eyed stare of Lady Tremont sent a shiver down Ellie’s back.

  Still, her stepmother could not keep her from attending.

  “What a singular costume,” Delia said. “A pity it doesn’t match our gowns. You’ll look like a raven among peacocks, I’m afraid.”

  It was true that Ellie’s somber colors were quite a contrast to Abby and Delia’s pastel garb, but she wasn’t overly concerned. The white silk overskirt she’d added to her gown—the lining taken from a moth-eaten woolen cloak—along with the gold and scarlet touches, transformed her costume from dreary black to an understated elegance.

  Abby, as usual, was more effusive. “But how clever! I never would’ve guessed you could do it, Ellie. Look—there’s bits of my scarf.”

  “And my ribbon.” Delia gave her a dark look. “I wish I might take it back from you
.”

  She took a menacing step forward, fingers crooked as though she were planning to rip the ribbon from Ellie’s dress.

  “Delia,” Lady Tremont said. “No need to be so undignified. Ah, here comes the blackberry cordial I sent for. We could use a bracing sip before we go out, don’t you think?”

  One of the maids hurried up, a decanter of the dark liquid and four small goblets balanced on a tray. Just as she arrived, Delia stepped forward, knocking against the girl.

  The maid lurched, the decanter of cordial swaying perilously. Lady Tremont snatched it up and then, looking Ellie right in the face, tipped it over onto her gown.

  Ellie yelped and jump back, but it was too late. Sticky purple-black liquid splashed over the white overskirt of her costume, staining it instantly.

  “What a clumsy thing you are,” Lady Tremont said, turning to the maid. “Clean this mess up at once.”

  “Milady.” The girl bobbed a frightened curtsy and scurried away, the empty goblets rattling on the tray.

  “Oh no, Ellie,” Abby said, genuine distress in her voice. “Your dress is ruined.”

  Ellie wanted to protest that it wasn’t so, that she could still go to the ball, but the tight knot in her throat prevented her from saying a word. She could not deny that Abby spoke the truth.

  “Unfortunate.” Her stepmother’s tone held an undercurrent of triumph. “It seems you won’t be joining us after all. I’m afraid we can’t linger, however. Girls, the carriage awaits.”

  Delia gave a satisfied sniff and turned to follow her mother, but Abby lingered a moment.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll give your regards to Lord Christopher, shall I?”

  Ellie, lips pressed together to keep from sobbing, managed a nod.

  Then they were gone, and she was left standing in a puddle of blackberry cordial, her hopes for the evening as ruined as her permanently stained gown.

  Kit arrived punctually at the Queen’s Ball. That is, he meant to arrive on time, but he hadn’t realized that the line of carriages would extend so far down The Mall. After a quarter hour where they moved forward perhaps five yards, he knocked on the window of the cab he’d hired and told the driver to let him out. It would be easier simply to walk, despite the impediment of his ornate, full-skirted coat and somewhat ridiculous bloused sleeves.

  At least his hose-clad legs were unencumbered. As he strode toward the palace, overtaking several carriages, he wondered how the gentlemen of the Stuart court had kept their shins warm in winter.

  It was a temperate enough evening for a stroll, however. The Mall bordered St. James’s Park, which breathed green and silent in the London dusk. Kit savored it. If the carriages were any indication, Buckingham Palace would be packed tighter than the crowds haggling for bargains in the morning marketplace of Sylhet.

  “Lord Christopher!” a voice called out as he passed a nondescript black coach.

  He glanced at the open window framing Abigail Tremont’s head. Part of him wanted to act as though he hadn’t seen her and hasten his steps, but the rest of him wondered how Ellie fared. She’d been much in his thoughts since their meeting in the park, and he felt guilty at how quickly he’d brushed off her suggestion that they marry.

  At the very least, he owed her an apology, even if he had very good reasons why they could never make a match.

  “Hello-oo!” Abigail waved frantically at him, and he could no longer pretend he hadn’t seen her.

  He slowed his steps and moved closer to the carriage, trying to catch a glimpse of Ellie.

  “Good evening, Miss Tremont,” he said to Abigail. “Are you looking forward to the ball?”

  “Oh, so much.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “Our dance, most particularly.”

  Kit simply nodded, not wanting to encourage her. Someone inside the carriage spoke, and she turned her head a moment, nodded, then looked back out at him.

  “Would you like to come up with us?” she asked.

  “Is there room?” he asked doubtfully. The only thing worse than going at a snail’s pace would be simultaneously enduring being smothered by four sets of voluminous skirts.

  “Sadly, Ellie’s not with us,” Abigail said, then her voice brightened, “which means there’s plenty of space for you!”

  “Ellie’s not here? Why didn’t she come?” he asked, a pang going through him. Was she that unhappy with him, that she would forgo the event just to avoid his company?

  “There was a . . . mishap with her dress,” Abigail said. “But I know she’s sorry to miss the ball. And seeing you, of course. Shall we stop the carriage?”

  It was a moot question, for the vehicle was already at a standstill, but Kit shook his head.

  “I’m enjoying my stroll, thank you. But I’ll wait for you at the entrance. I look forward to our dances.”

  In truth, he looked forward to discharging his duty and giving Ellie’s stepsisters their requisite turns about the floor. The rest of the night would be spent in trying to muster up a spark of attraction for the handful of young women he’d identified as the best candidates for his suit.

  Surely, he reasoned, there must be some warmth between himself and the woman he was to marry—especially if was carting her off to India. But so far, he’d felt nothing but a resigned sense of responsibility as he sought a bride. And time was running out.

  “Very well,” Abigail said. “We shall see you anon, Lord Christopher.”

  He nodded to her, then lengthened his stride. The remainder of his walk to the palace was spent pondering whether there was any other solution besides marrying a girl with money. Alas, no other possibility presented itself.

  With a heavy sigh, Kit glanced up, wishing he could see the stars. Only the faintest spatter of constellations were visible as he passed between the gas lamps, and he missed the diamond-strewn night sky of India with a sudden, fierce yearning.

  Perhaps he needn’t marry after all. Perhaps he ought to return to Assam and . . .

  And what? Dismiss the workers, watch the tea bushes die, and return to Calcutta to beg a position as a junior officer in the Company?

  Which was worse: being trapped in marriage with a wife he had no feelings for or seeing all the family’s hope of a prosperous future wither away?

  There was no answer, and dwelling on such grim thoughts was no way to spend the evening at a fancy dress ball. Even if Ellie Tremont wasn’t going to be in attendance, he could enjoy himself—or at least try.

  With a last glance up at the distant, nearly invisible stars, Kit stepped onto Buckingham Palace’s porticoed entrance. At least, while he waited, he had an entertaining parade of nobility to watch.

  Finally, the carriage bearing the Tremonts pulled up. He went forward to greet them, compliment them on their costumes, and offer his escort up the stairs. He could not help noticing that Lady Tremont looked entirely too self-satisfied as they ascended.

  There was another wait at the door while the Lord Steward verified the attendees and announced their arrivals, but at last their turn came.

  “Lord Christopher Newland,” the man bellowed. “Viscountess Tremont and the Honorable Misses Delia and Abigail Tremont.”

  Abigail giggled at the announcement, then turned to Kit. “Do you think our dance will be soon?”

  “I most fervently hope so,” he said, though not for the reasons she thought.

  Unfortunately, there were any number of presentations to the queen and prince before the orchestra struck up. The first dance was a polka, and he dutifully took Delia out upon the floor. She alternated between flirtatious looks and an artificial-sounding laugh that soon grated against his ears, but Kit did his best to be amenable. For Ellie’s sake.

  His waltz with Abigail was a bit easier to bear, despite her moon-eyed gazes and heavy sighs every time he guided her into a turn.

  “Will Ellie be at home tomorrow?” he asked. He could not leave London without saying goodbye.

  “We all will be.” She gave him a
bright look. “Why, are you planning on paying us a call? How delightful.”

  So much for his hopes of seeing Ellie alone. Perhaps they could meet in the meadow once more, instead. If he gave the butler a note, could the man be trusted to pass it to Ellie without alerting Lady Tremont?

  Kit attempted to steer the conversation back toward safer ground, but it seemed Miss Abigail was determined to view everything he said as a particular flirtation toward her. Finally, he gave up and simply danced—no easy feat, considering the crowded condition of the floor.

  At the conclusion of the waltz, he returned Abigail to her mother, then fled as quickly as he might. There were other young ladies in attendance he must seek out—no matter that he had little enthusiasm for the task ahead.

  Indeed, there was Miss Olivia Thornton, a young heiress whom he’d met at a musicale the week before. Ignoring the heavy sensation in his chest, he went to pay his regards and ask her to dance.

  He was determined to make up his mind by the end of the evening. The sooner he chose a bride, the sooner he could return to India. The rains would not hold off just because he was squeamish about doing his duty. His future—indeed, his family’s fortune—depended on it.

  10

  Ellie huddled beside the fire in her room, a thick shawl over her shoulders, and tried not to let misery engulf her. In the hour since her stepfamily had departed, she’d tried desperately to scrub out her gown, but it was no use.

  There will be other balls, she told herself.

  But none with Kit in attendance, and that was the bitterest blow of all, that she would not be able to say goodbye.

  “Miss Ellie!” Henderson knocked on her door, her voice urgent. “There’s a delivery for you.”

  “What is it?” Ellie rose, suddenly feeling the aches of all her labors echo through her bones.

  “Just come—quickly.”

  When Ellie opened her door, Henderson took her by the elbow and towed her rapidly down the hall.