Encounter with Mr. Bad Luck

by Michelle Marcos

  Two

  The ballroom at Hough House was spectacular. The gilt-edged tray ceiling hovered over the bustling room, a swirl of pastel-colored gowns and dark tailcoats. The mixed fragrance of flowers and champagne filled the room. The air was alive with the sound of tinkling conversation, and of the jaunty music from the quartet playing at one end of the room.

  Despite the elegant brilliance before her eyes, Isha felt momentarily uncomfortable. At events like this, there was always an immense pressure—mostly exerted by Lady Elmwood—to make herself comely and available on the unlikely chance that a nice gentleman decided to ask after her. Sometimes she'd be invited to dance, usually by some well-intentioned older gentleman who just wanted to pluck her from among the wallflowers. But mostly she would be left in a corner, seated beside some dowager, forced to feign interest in a detailed account of the old lady's foot ailments.

  But today was special. Maryan was being introduced to all as a grown-up young lady ready for marriage. Today, Isha could talk with zeal about a topic she was very fond of—her sister. For once, Isha looked forward to speaking with gouty and bunioned dowagers, for they would surely know an eligible young bachelor or two for Maryan. After all, Maryan was a charming girl, fluent in fashion and the arts, and a devoted romantic. She'd been dreaming about her coming out since she was a young girl, and she continually fantasized about meeting a handsome man who resembled Tom Cavanaugh or John Stanton, two stage actors she idolized. Maryan had a fluffy and outgoing personality, and she would surely dazzle all the men at the ball. And hopefully do the one thing that Isha couldn't…save their family from penury.

  Lady Elmwood stood outside the ballroom and adjusted the bows on her cobalt blue dress. She lifted a glass of champagne from a passing salver, and took a long drink to steady her nerves.

  "Now don't forget, Maryan. Eyes bright. Smiles wide. Curtseys low." Lady Elmwood gave Maryan an assessing inspection. "Oh, I do wish you had taken a little rouge," she muttered, pinching her daughter's cheeks.

  "Mama!" Maryan protested, crinkling her face.

  "Mama, she's lovely," Isha said. "Don't worry about a thing."

  Lady Elmwood took one look at Isha and her jaw dropped. "Isha, for heaven's sake, remove your spectacles before anyone sees you!"

  Isha's bad eyesight was burden enough, but more so when her mother forbade her to appear in public bespectacled. A woman wearing spectacles makes a spectacle of herself, her mother was fond of saying. Isha slipped off the round frames and tucked them inside her reticule. The world now went out of focus. Every face was now awash in blurry distortion.

  "Come, girls. I think I see young Lord Sharply's great-aunt. Let us go and see if we can arrange an introduction to him."

  Isha and Maryan fell into step behind their mother, who approached a stooped woman with a deflated face.

  "Your Grace," called out Lady Elmwood before executing a handsome curtsey. "What a delight to see you here."

  "Lady Elmwood," responded the older woman with a smile that made her wrinkled cheeks look like parting curtains. "I'm so glad you could come. It was only yesterday I was talking to the admiral about your sainted husband, Sir Rupert. He was a fine man, your husband."

  "He was indeed, Your Grace. Thank you for remembering him as fondly as we do. Oh, may I present my daughter, Isha?"

  Isha pinched her skirt and dipped perfunctorily. "An honor, Your Grace."

  "My dear," she responded with a gracious smile.

  "And this is my youngest, Maryan. We are presenting her to Society today."

  "Enchanting!" The duchess wrapped a papery hand around Maryan's chin. "The very first young man you should meet is my grand-nephew, Lord Sharply."

  Lady Elmwood's eyebrows lifted in a convincing display of surprise. "Oh? Is he home from university?"

  "Indeed. He begged us to let him go abroad to the East for the summer, but I don't expect it's safe for a young man to travel through India yet, do you? Too soon after the war."

  "I am in perfect agreement, Your Grace. But if Lord Sharply must be confined to England, perhaps we can help to find something to amuse him. We must start by having him over for tea. Mustn't we, Isha?"

  Isha perked up. "Of course, Mama. Perhaps Lord Sharply could give us his assessment of Maryan's paintings. My sister is quite the artist, Your Grace. One of her landscapes is hanging in Viscountess Renfield's private salon."

  "Good heavens. Pretty and talented. A rare combination. I shall endeavor to pass along your gracious invitation to my grand-nephew when—"

  The conversation came to a sudden halt as a loud crash echoed in the hall outside. Isha turned toward the startling noise, which sounded like a cacophony of cymbals. All eyes turned to look at the footman who'd tripped and sent a large tray of gold charger plates and fine crystal shattering upon the marble floor.

  Impulsively, Isha went to help the unfortunate man, whose face darkened to crimson with shame.

  "My goodness!" Isha said, crouching before him. "Are you hurt?"

  "I'm terribly sorry," he stammered, hardly lifting his face as he began to collect the plates, which were still spinning noisily upon the cold white floor.

  Baroness Windigate, the hostess of the party, wound through the crush of guests in a race to the hall. The baroness pursed her lips and turned to face her guests. "I do apologize for this disruption, ladies and gentlemen. Please help yourselves to more champagne as the servants clear away this upset."

  Isha stooped at the foot of a marble column to collect some of the chargers which had slid across the floor. As her head came up, something peculiar caught her eye. A man dressed in black bent over and picked up his walking stick from the floor—from the very place where the footman had tripped.

  A spark of anger ignited inside her. If the footman had tripped over that man's walking stick, the very least the gentleman could have done was to help the poor servant up.

  Isha squinted at him, trying to make out his face. All she could discern was that he had black hair, a black tailcoat, and most unusual of all, he was wearing a red cravat.

  Baroness Windigate approached her. "Please don't trouble yourself, Isha. The servants will look after this. I simply don't understand why my footmen have been so clumsy of late."

  The baroness was a distant cousin of Isha's mother, and she had organized this party especially to showcase Maryan. "I'm sure this was not your servant's fault, Cousin. Accidents will happen. Even intentional ones," she muttered to herself.

  "Intentional?" The baroness blinked her brown eyes.

  Isha shook her head. "Pay me no heed. Tell me, who is that man over by your footman?"

  "Which man?"

  "Him." Isha notched her chin in his direction, but the man had disappeared. "Oh. He's gone."

  "Who, dear?"

  "There was a gentleman standing there. A gentleman with a red cravat."

  "A red cravat? I don't remember seeing anyone wearing such a disagreeable article."

  The embarrassed footman collected the chargers from Isha's hand, and the baroness whispered to him in an angry tone. "I'll have no more of your clumsiness tonight, Jenkins. Just look at all this broken glass! Send one of the maids to sweep it all up. You're to stay below stairs for the rest of the evening. I shall have words with you later."

  "Yes, madam," he whispered, silently disappearing through a door.

  "My dear Isha, I can't begin to tell you about all the outrageous fortune there's been of late. Last night, my husband lost a large wager, and he threatened to cancel tonight's party. This afternoon, the coach carrying my lady's maid suffered an accident and she broke her arm. Then there was some bother with the greengrocer who delivered late, and consequently we'll be compelled to push dinner back for at least an hour. And that lovely five-tiered gateau that I commissioned Chef to make for tonight? The cat pounced on it! I shudder to think what will happen next. I'll count myself fortunate
indeed if the guests make it out of here with their lives."

  A flash of red appeared in the corner of Isha's vision. She turned to look and saw him.

  "There, Cousin! The man I was talking to you about. Behind the statue of the lion at the far end of the hall. Who is he?"

  Baroness Windigate turned to look. "I don't see anyone."

  Isha shot the baroness an incredulous glance and openly pointed at him. "There…leaning against the lion's mane. The man with the red cravat!"

  "My dear, your eyes are playing tricks upon you. There is nothing there but shadows. It's utterly unkind of Cousin Jessamine not to permit you to wear your spectacles—or at the very least employ a quizzing glass. Come, let us return to the ballroom. Maybe the gentleman you're looking for is in there."