Chapter Four
Mr. Feldstaffer stood just inside the drawing room doors, attending Lady Caroline and Miss Sprite.
They were playing piquet, and he once more marveled at Miss Sprite’s rather personalized and convenient code of conduct.
The lady was against a whole laundry list of activities, but she magically made exception for the activities she preferred.
She liked to play cards. She was lethal at lottery tickets and sullen if she lost.
His bland expression would not have given away his wonderment at the lady’s picking and choosing what was wrong and right in the world. It would not even have given away what he was far more worried about.
Earlier that day, he’d seen the countess to her carriage, as that lady was off to make a call. His colleague and fellow League member, Mr. Harkinson, had been out strolling. When Mr. Feldstaffer had acknowledged him with a nod as he passed by, Mr. Harkinson had tipped his hat.
But then…he’d raised one brow in a questioning manner. Mr. Harkinson had raised a brow. Questioningly.
What was he questioning?
It sent a chill through Mr. Feldstaffer’s bones. If he were to ponder the absolute worst case, which he was very prone to do as a matter of temperament, he could only speculate that Lady Beatrix’s comment regarding Fanny Hill had somehow got out of the house.
A rumor such as that could sink a lady. If it had got out, what was he to do about it? What was The League to do about it?
Whatever Mr. Harkinson knew, whatever he’d been raising his brow about, Mr. Feldstaffer would discover it on the morrow. It was to be The League’s first meeting of the season, as was tradition, the Thursday after the opening ball at Almack’s.
He suspected one thing had gone wrong already, and he did not even know what was currently transpiring at Almack’s. Could there be things going wrong there too? Or perhaps everything was going very well.
Get ahold of yourself, Feldstaffer. Get your head out of the clouds. Of course something would go wrong at Almack’s. It would be the height of foolishness to go round blithely imagining that nothing had gone wrong. Wrong was a sly shadow, waiting around every corner.
Miss Sprite took that moment to shout, “One hundred and two points, I am over the Rubicon.”
As Lady Caroline sighed over it, Mr. Feldstaffer thought that one of these days he was going to tell their vicar of Miss Sprite’s unnatural interest in cards. He would be very interested to know how that upright lady would explain it.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Beatrix had danced with Lord Monroe for the opening dance of the ball.
He was a very genial gentleman and then there had been the thrill of the ball itself.
It was nothing like their faux balls at home.
This was under the warm glow of candlelight, and everyone was so lovely and dressed divinely. It was like dancing in a fairytale.
Lord Monroe gave her more than a few compliments.
Her dress, her hair, her eyes, were all said to be spectacular.
She began to wonder if her father were paying the gentleman.
She thought she was comely enough, but she hardly thought her eyes were the color of the gentlest doe’s.
They were brown, when it came down to it, not the sort of color poets swooned over.
Perhaps it was a usual thing when a gentleman danced with a lady.
How would she know anything about it? All Miss Sprite had said about dancing was that a lady was not to think too much about touching a gentleman’s hand.
It was fine to do while dancing because it was necessary, but it must not be thought about afterward.
Then she’d danced with Mr. Edwards, eldest son of Viscount Bradley. He was very genial too, though not as effusive about her looks as Lord Monroe had been.
After that, things took a turn. Lord Chester was down for the third dance. She had not seen him so far, but she assumed he was somewhere in the room.
As it happened, he was nowhere.
She had stood around, waiting to be collected.
Then the sets formed. The music began. She had not known what she should do with herself.
Her parents were long gone into the card room.
Her mother had commented that nowhere but Almack’s might they leave a daughter safely alone in a ballroom.
The patronesses were like having a dozen falcon-eyed Miss Sprites on the scene.
Beatrix did not think she could run after them. They would be playing cards with another couple. Other people would be within earshot. She could not embarrass them by asking what to do as if she were a child.
Should she just sit down and wait?
Considering she had no other idea about what was done at such moments, she did sit down. Miss Sprite had outlined the horrors of a lady sitting out, but she had never said what to do about it. She’d never said what to do if a gentleman was on the lady’s card and simply did not appear.
Beatrix attempted a look of unconcern, as if she’d always meant to be sitting out. For all anybody knew, perhaps it was her choice to do so.
On the other hand, it did look as if her card had not been filled. Did people note it and feel sorry for her? Pity was so embarrassing. No, it was more than that. It was humiliating.
She raised her quizzing glass as if she were enjoying the spectacle of the ball.
She forced a small smile and pretended at joie de vivre.
Aside from beautiful people everywhere, she saw Lord Chester’s grandmother in her bombazine, barreling in her direction.
She was like a black beetle scattering a field of butterflies.
The dowager sat down next to her. “He is not here, Lady Beatrix,” she said.
Beatrix thought that was rather stating the obvious. What was she to say about it? That she’d noticed?
“I’ll wring his neck.”
Startled, Beatrix said, “Perhaps he was delayed on the road.”
“He was delayed, no doubt,” the dowager said.
The dowager seemed to know why Lord Chester was delayed. If it were not some unexpected happenstance, what could it be?
She wondered if Lord Chester had deliberately not turned up. Perhaps upon meeting her at dinner, he wished to express his total lack of interest. Perhaps he had been far more offended by her mention of Fanny Hill than she had thought?
The dowager had fallen to silence next to her, though Beatrix could sense her heavy breathing, like an aggravated bull getting ready for a run at a gate. Beatrix concentrated on appearing delighted with the evening by casually raising and lowering her quizzing glass.
There comes a time, even in a country dance, when it would be far too late and rather ludicrous to join in.
That point had long passed. Beatrix put her attention to the dancers.
She dared not raise her quizzing glass to the gallery.
Did Lady Sefton see her sitting out? Did she wonder about it?
Did she wonder if Beatrix had caused some offense to cause it?
She was deeply, deeply uncomfortable, as if she would like to crawl out of her own skin. Beatrix reminded herself that her next dance was with Lord Gresham. She would be back with the dancers and not a point of interest for anybody to stare at.
Assuming Lord Gresham was present. It was a sickening thought. But no, he must be here. Not everybody had their own dowager putting their name down before they’d even arrived.
The dance seemed interminable. It seemed far longer to watch than to dance. It finally did end though.
As if on cue, just as the musicians stopped, Lord Chester strode into the ballroom. He glanced around and then seemed to pale, which was probably a result of his dowager’s deadly stare. He hurried over. “My apologies, I was delayed. My horse threw a shoe.”
“Well you’ve missed your chance,” the dowager said.
Lord Chester need not be told why Beatrix was sitting on a sofa. The dance he’d been proposed for had just passed.
“Nonsense,” Lord Chester said. “Whoever is next on Lady Beatrix’s card will not mind giving way.”
The dowager seemed to perk up over that idea.
Beatrix had another idea. She felt very irritated by being embarrassed by these two people.
Further, she would not dare interfere with Lady Sefton’s arrangements.
“I am afraid not,” she said. “Lady Sefton went to great trouble to arrange my card and I will not display a lack of appreciation for it by disregarding her efforts.”
Both the dowager and Lord Chester looked at her in some amazement.
Before they could counter this rather bold assertion, a gentleman approached her. “Lady Beatrix Bell?” he said. To her nod, he said, “Lord Gresham.”
He held out his hand. Beatrix rose and allowed herself to be led to the floor, leaving Lord Chester to deal with his not very amused grandmother.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Lord Chester had left the house on his horse well before his parents and grandmother were to depart for Almack’s.
Naturally, the dowager had caught him at the door and questioned him about why he was leaving so early.
He’d claimed he needed to visit a friend who had been struck down with an illness.
She’d narrowed her eyes and said, “Since when are you brimming with sympathy for the sick and dying? I had the flu last winter and you did not even bother to send any good wishes.”
“I did not have any to send,” he said, hurrying out of the house and leaping on his horse.
The truth was, he planned to visit Annie Wister before proceeding on to Almack’s.
The evening was to be deadly dull and he must fortify himself.
She had quite a few bottles from his father’s cellar in her set of apartments.
He might order a bottle from that very cellar and drink a few glasses in the drawing room at Portland Place, but he could not hope to do it without the uncomfortable company of his grandmother. She would negate any pleasure coming from a good claret.