Chapter 3
Vauxhall was a dream.
Thousands of glass lanterns glittered in the twilight, hung from trees and lampposts and every pavilion.
I couldn’t fathom how many there were—they floated and danced through the night like impish sprites, and the effect made me catch my breath.
I twisted around, determined to take in everything all at once.
Great trees disappeared into the night sky above us, stars sparkling through their branches.
In the center of a large grove, an enormous orchestra building spilled out music for the rows of dancers, and to my left, a stately colonnade stretched beyond my sight.
Supper boxes ringed the grove, outfitted with tables and chairs, and were painted with cheerful scenes.
Hundreds of people milled about—eating, dancing, exploring—and I thrilled to be a part of it all.
I’d long wished to visit Vauxhall, but Mother had never approved, considering her views on the intermingling of classes, dining in public, and extravagant entertainment.
For years, I’d read about Vauxhall’s many delights, my head full of wistful imaginings.
I had been afraid that the gardens could not possibly live up to my expectations.
This, however, was far beyond even what I had hoped for.
I felt myself being swept away into the magic of the night—the wafting smells of baked ham and sweets, the violins trilling, the laughter and conversation—but it took only one glance at the long-faced, reticent man beside me to leech away my enthusiasm.
Mr. Rawlings’s presence was like an anchor, dragging me back from that welcoming tide.
Mr. Rawlings had not offered me his arm and walked with both hands clasped firmly behind his back as if I would try to take his arm myself. He needn’t fear. The last thing I wished was to be any closer to him.
I tried my best to ignore him as I took in the sights. It was my own fault, really. I should not have taunted him.
Ginny and Jack strolled ahead of us down the Grand Walk, a wide pathway that ran through the entirety of the pleasure gardens, lined with towering trees.
Ginny glanced back at me, and I sent her a look of such long-suffering that she took pity on me.
She spoke a word to Jack and they stopped, waiting for Mr. Rawlings and me to draw even with them.
“It looks as though the next dance is about to begin,” she said meaningfully.
Did she think to force Mr. Rawlings to dance with me? He didn’t seem to have heard her; he was gazing off to his right with a staid expression.
Ginny and Jack exchanged a look, and I sighed. I did not want to become a charity case wherein they were forced to look after me like a spinster sister.
“You must dance,” I encouraged them. “I would enjoy watching from here. Everything is so lovely.”
Ginny hesitated, not wanting to abandon me.
“I hardly think Ginny should be dancing in her condition,” Jack said.
“My condition?” Ginny turned to him, brow raised.
“Yes,” Jack said. “We really ought to find somewhere for you to sit. You don’t want to grow overtired.”
“I am expecting a child,” Ginny said with wry exasperation, “not wasting away from consumption. I could certainly dance if I wished to.”
“Undoubtedly you could. It is the should I am concerned about.” Jack’s eyes had a roguish gleam to them. “You might be ready to be a mother, but I am quite counting on the next two months to make myself serious enough to be a father.”
Ginny bit back a smile, realizing he was teasing her, and I felt again that tinge of guilt that I was holding them back.
“Go,” I insisted. Ginny dearly loved to dance, and they deserved to enjoy their evening, especially with the baby coming. “I shall be perfectly fine here with Mr. Rawlings.”
Ginny still looked uncertain, so I gave her my best smile and a wink, showing her how entirely unaffected I was by the brooding gentleman beside me.
She saw right through that little farce, but thankfully, she did not protest again. “Come, husband,” she said, taking Jack’s hand. “While we dance, I shall instruct you on all the ways women are quite capable, even when plagued by conditions.”
They moved toward the grove in front of the orchestra.
Several dancers stared at Ginny. Some simply looked surprised to a see a woman clearly with child preparing to dance, while others muttered in obvious disapproval.
One woman even stepped to Ginny’s side and said something I could not hear, but Ginny only offered a polite smile and waved the woman off.
I grinned. Two years ago, Ginny would never have dreamed of flouting one of Society’s rules. This was Jack’s influence, no doubt.
The dance began, and Ginny and Jack disappeared into the crowd. Which left Mr. Rawlings and me standing there in perfect awkwardness. On my part, at least. He seemed entirely unperturbed, which was beginning to grate upon my nerves.
After a few minutes of silence, I couldn’t bear it any longer. “Might I assume you do not dance?” I asked tartly, keeping my attention fixed on the dancers.
“Aye,” he said in his even tone. “I do not dance.”
“A relief, to be sure.”
A long moment, then he shifted almost imperceptibly. “A relief?”
“Well, yes,” I said. “It is a convenient excuse, considering I do not wish to dance with you, and you do not wish to dance with me.”
I thought perhaps I’d surprised him with my bluntness, but it was difficult to tell. He reminded me of the statue in our garden at home—cold and expressionless.
“I mean no insult, Miss Lacey,” he said carefully.
“Oh, I am not insulted,” I said. “You would need to try much harder than that.”
He said nothing in response, though he cast me a sidelong glance.
Appraising me yet again, though I doubted anything could change this man’s opinion once he’d formed it.
I looked away, disliking his militant inspection.
If only Mr. Drake could have come instead of Mr. Rawlings.
Then I would not have this edgy wariness pervading my body, or the irritation that refused to dissipate.
No matter. I did not need Mr. Rawlings’s good opinion. If I’d learned anything over the years, it was that I only needed the love and trust of a few good friends.
I paid no heed to Mr. Rawlings for the entirety of the dance, tapping my foot to the music and smiling as I watched Ginny and Jack move about the floor.
When the dance came to an end, everyone clapped for the musicians and began to disperse.
Out of the sudden lull, a bell rang, a cheerful chime in my ears.
I straightened as a great rush of people swarmed past us with excited expressions.
“Beatrice!” Ginny appeared at my side again, slipping her arm through mine. “Hurry, or we shall miss the Cascade.”
Oh, the Cascade! I’d read about the attraction a dozen times at least, and I would be loath to miss it.
We moved together through the crowds, all flowing down the Grand Walk, past the curve of the supper boxes, and into a more thickly forested area.
Lanterns lit our way, though it was darker here than in the main grounds of the gardens.
I could see now why Vauxhall had something of a reputation.
How easy it would be for a lady or gentleman to slip away for a romantic assignation, hidden away by the shadows and rustling trees.
I glanced at Jack and Mr. Rawlings walking behind us. Jack spoke seriously, and Mr. Rawlings listened with an expression of irritated tolerance. Were they discussing the case?
Mr. Rawlings raised his eyes, and I snapped my head forward before he could catch me looking.
The crowd milled about a small clearing in the wilderness ahead. A wide black curtain stretched along one side of the glade. Ginny and I managed to inch our way to the front until we had a decent view, Jack and Mr. Rawlings right behind us.
A bell rang again, and the curtains parted.
I could not help a gasp of delight. Before us stood a miniature scene set on a stage, a rural landscape of open hill country complete with a bridge, miller’s house, and water mill.
Wooden coaches and wagons crossed the scene, lifelike in their movements and accompanied by the sounds of wagon wheels.
But what drew my eye was the artificial waterfall at the center, seeming to run down a sloped hill to turn the wheel of the mill before gliding away again.
For a moment, it looked so perfectly real—the silver flowing movements, the clever lighting, the sound of roaring water.
“How do they do it?” Ginny asked, fascination clear in her voice.
I tried to recall what I’d read of the attraction. “The waterfall is made of tin,” I said, leaning closer to inspect the scene. “Tin sheets and mechanical belts turned by a team of men. But I haven’t any idea how they make the sounds.”
Mr. Rawlings cleared his throat behind me, as if he wanted to answer but stopped himself.
For the best, in my opinion.
After we’d spent several minutes enjoying the spectacle, we moved to one side of the glade to allow others the chance.
“Absolutely incredible,” Jack declared. “The ingenuity of man knows no bounds.”
“What did you think of it, Mr. Rawlings?” Ginny tried to involve him in the conversation.
“Entertaining enough,” he said. And that was it. Nothing more.
I addressed Ginny and Jack. “Shall we walk to the Hermitage and have our fortunes told?” If the stories were to be believed, Vauxhall employed a hermit to tell fortunes to any guests found wandering in the deep reaches of the gardens.
“Yes, let’s,” Jack agreed, holding out his arm to Ginny. She paused, glancing my way. She did not wish to abandon me to Mr. Rawlings’s less-than-enviable company yet again.
But to my utter shock, Mr. Rawlings—after a moment of tense hesitation—stepped to my side, extended his elbow, and spoke in a flat, emotionless tone. “Miss Lacey?”