Chapter 13 #3
Avoiding such events had become such a chore that Richard deemed it simpler to take the path of least resistance and finally accept the invitation.
Thus it was that he found himself, on that Wednesday evening, dressed in his finest silk breeches and black coat over a sapphire waistcoat, his collar points high on his cheeks and his cravat tied with architectural precision, standing at the door to Lady Moreton’s grand house near Grosvenor Square.
Every window glowed with the lights of a thousand candles, and even from the threshold, Richard could hear the thrum of the assembled crowds in the ballroom.
A bead of perspiration trickled down his back, despite the winter air behind him.
He had not yet even stepped into the chaos that was the ballroom.
A liveried footman took his winter coat and hat and showed him to the men’s withdrawing room, whilst another bustled off, presumably to tell Lady Moreton that her guest of honour had arrived.
He crossed the expanse of floor which had been shined and waxed until he could see himself in the tiles, careful that his dress slippers did not live up to their name and slide along the way.
A gentleman must, at all times, be elegant.
The bright house was modern and betrayed every luxury of the age.
It was lit with the new gas, and the lights shone brightly in his eyes.
There was something somehow artificial about these flames, but they were the way of the future, Richard knew.
There was no stopping progress, no matter how strange the light appeared to his sensibilities.
The open doorway to the ballroom promised more illumination still, now from the hundreds of candles that sat in the crystal-laden chandeliers dangling from the trompe l’oeil ceiling.
His mother appeared at one side, his father at his other, and the earl nodded to the butler. They were ready to be announced.
“Lord Matlock, Lady Matlock, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” the man declared to the room as the family passed through the doors. Lady Moreton rushed forward to greet the newcomers.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” she cooed as she reached him, “how delightful that you were able to join us. Your mother has told me of your time overseas, but I long to hear the tales from your own lips. Bermuda! The Summer Isles! How perfectly exotic! Perhaps later we may have a moment for conversation. In the meantime, welcome to my house. The dancing will begin shortly. Now, I must introduce you to…” and she reeled off a list of names that Richard would never be able to remember.
He was dragged around the room, greeting some old friends and acquaintances and meeting several new ones, until Lady Moreton sent a pointed look towards his mother and grasped Richard’s elbow. “Ah, Colonel, now I must make one more introduction. Have you met the lovely Miss Eastway?”
Aha! So, this was his mother’s plan. It was no surprise, really.
Indeed, he was almost amazed that it had taken so long to arrive at this point.
Here was Chosen Bride number one, for him to peruse and examine like a horse at auction, thereby to decide whether to marry her without any knowledge of her character or temperament.
No, he had been through this circus with Honoria Ingalls.
He would not be tempted again. How relieved he was that parents no longer negotiated marriages without their children’s permission, else he would already be standing at the altar.
Miss Eastway was pretty enough, with light golden-brown hair in a halo of ringlets that framed a round pink face with pale blue eyes.
She was about twenty years of age and giggled a great deal.
It was evident that she had been outfitted for the season with no regard to economy of funds, for even to Richard’s undiscerning eye, her evening gown was of the finest quality and latest fashion, cut perfectly to flatter her soft figure and of a colour to best suit her colouring.
The pale jonquil yellow made her glow, where pure white would have drained her of life—a clever choice by a clever modiste, he assumed.
Diamonds shone on each earlobe and around her neck, and she waved an exquisite, japanned fan through the air as if it held the eloquence of the ages.
Miss Eastway, it transpired, was the daughter of a baronet from the North who had been born wealthy and who had, by shrewd investments, accumulated a great deal more money.
The young lady, therefore, commanded a great fortune and her dowry could well support a man and his family in fine style.
How Lady Moreton managed to insert this all into a quick conversation of passing comments, Richard could hardly consider, but her meaning was clear, and it was the same as his mother’s.
There was nothing for it. “May I have the next dance if you are free, Miss Eastway?” To omit such a request would be the height of rudeness. Richard was in no mind to wed, but he was not discourteous.
“I would be honoured, Colonel,” came the fluttery response, and before long Richard found himself standing up with the young woman as the musicians began their set.
She had been well taught and danced with grace.
She was light on her feet and made pleasant conversation when the steps of the dance allowed it, flattering him and making meaningless comments all the while being charming and elegant.
“Bermuda! How charming,” she cooed for the fifth time as their role in the dance gave them some opportunity for conversation. “Was it very hot there? And the natives, were they savages? One hears such alarming things about the natives!”
He answered noncommittally, suggesting that some of the most savage behaviour he had encountered came from Englishmen, by which time their part of the dance required them to move once more.
But there was nothing about her that touched his heart.
She had lovely manners but little wit, and a fine education but little understanding.
Richard was certain she could embroider a beautiful hem and paint and play the pianoforte and speak French, but none of these accomplishments made up for an insipid personality.
How Emily would laugh at him. How she would gaze about this beautiful room and comment on the ridiculousness of it all.
The waste of candles, the mess of chalk on the polished floor, the amount of food on the side tables and in the supper room that would surely go to waste: all of these she would laugh at and utter some barbed statement about the profligacy of the nobility.
He could almost hear her voice in his mind.
“Why,” she would laugh, “each frock must have cost enough to sustain a village for a year! Which of these noblemen suffer struggling estates, whilst outfitting their wives and daughters in a year’s worth of income while their tenants suffer leaking roofs? ”
And, Richard considered, she would not be wrong.
How he missed her. As he executed the steps of the dance with Miss Eastway, he wished with all his might that it were Emily across from him, tracing the steps of the reel and making him laugh with her keen observations about those around him.
Hopefully it would not be long before the tides turned in their favour and Richard was granted the pleasure of receiving a response to his letter.
His, he considered, might only now have arrived, if it were not still aboard some ship in the middle of the Atlantic.
He wondered, not for the first time, how long it would take to hear back from her.
Miss Eastway said something, drawing Richard back from his wool-gathering. “Are you well, Colonel?” she asked, her voice sweet and bland.
“Yes, yes, apologies Miss Eastway. I suddenly recollected something from my time abroad and my mind wandered. It is no reflection on the present company, I assure you.”
And yet, when the time came to end the dance and solicit her for a second later in the evening, he merely brought her a cold drink, bowed, and wandered away to find solace with the men in the cards room.
This charade was repeated several times over the next weeks.
At each event his mother paraded another eligible debutante before him, and with each encounter he could not help but compare the lady to Emily.
Lady Anne tittered too much when she laughed.
Miss Noughton was too short and Miss Mildenham too tall.
And Miss Chelford was so buried in a cloud of lace that Richard never did learn what she really looked like.
No, none had Emily’s pleasing features, sense of humour, and good solid sense.
It was more and more certain with each young woman he met that he would never marry.