Chapter Fifteen
SARAH HAD PROBABLY attended hundreds of Plumpton’s assemblies—and even, once, one in the Upper Assembly Rooms at Bath. Yet for all her experience of dancing, she had never felt quite so breathless with anticipation as she did that evening.
She had dressed with what could only be described as excessive care in the new gown sent over by Jane.
The dress, a creation of rose-pink silk, boasted gauze sleeves and a ribbon sash the exact shade of the satin one she’d impulsively bought at the market.
Though most likely a coincidence, Sarah took it as a very good omen as she tied her hair with the ribbon.
Anne—playing lady’s maid for the evening—gave an admiring whistle as Sarah twirled so she could inspect her.
“The earl will drop dead when he sees you,” the maid assured Sarah.
“I rather hope he doesn’t, Anne,” Sarah laughed; she wanted at least one dance from him first.
Anne’s praise only added to her excitement and Sarah near-skipped down the staircase runner to the hall, where her father was waiting.
“You’ll be the most beautiful girl at the ball,” he said gruffly, as he opened the front door.
“I don’t think spinsters can be referred to as girls, Papa,” Sarah teased, though his words meant more than she let on.
As they drove to Plumpton, Sarah’s excitement met with nerves.
What if Lord Deverell cried off on the assembly and she was left wandering the periphery of the dance-floor alone?
Her worries eased considerably as they drew up in front of The Ring’o’Bells and she sighted Northcott’s carriage parked alongside the other vehicles.
Plumpton’s assemblies were not a grand affair by anyone’s standards. They were held in a large room above The Ring which, on quieter nights, hosted the whist club—or Mr Marrowbone, when he’d had too much to walk home.
Sarah and her father joined the queue and waited restlessly with everyone else for Mrs Canards to hurry along. As usual, Mrs Canards was inspecting every voucher as though it might be a forgery, especially those belonging to those she deemed unworthy of entry.
“Look at that ink, Mrs Wickling,” she called to her companion, as she held Mr Henderson’s voucher up to the light. “It’s all smudged—I suspect it’s a fake.”
“It’s not my fault The Ladies’ Society print their vouchers on the cheap,” Mr Henderson retorted, snatching his voucher back from her.
“And it’s not my eyes’ fault your breeches are so tight, Mr Henderson,” Mrs Canards retorted, without missing a beat. “I should bar you from entry on grounds of indecency alone.”
“I wasn’t aware the dress code included a breeches inspection,” the young lad answered, turning to the waiting queue to make certain they could hear him. “Shall I turn and give you the full view, madam?”
Loud laughter erupted and Mrs Canards turned a violent shade of red. Sarah fretted that she might do an injury to Mr Henderson, until Mr Mifford appeared from upstairs.
“Is there a hold up, Mrs Canards?” the vicar mildly enquired. “The ladies of the Parish Society are fretting about the empty hall.”
“Things are moving smoothly, Mr Mifford,” Mrs Canards replied, shooing Mr Henderson away with a scowl then beckoning the next in line.
“Very good,” Mr Mifford smiled benevolently. “Remember, Mrs Canards, God is always watching.”
As the vicar disappeared back upstairs, Sarah distinctly heard Mrs Canards murmur to her friend; “A pity He wasn’t watching when when Mr Mifford donned that waistcoat, now we all must suffer.”
After Mr Mifford’s intervention, the queue moved at a faster pace.
Once Mrs Canards had taken their vouchers, Sarah and her father ascended the rickety stairs to the assembly rooms above.
There, they found half the village present, dressed in their finest clothes.
The younger ladies, like Miss Morton, wore gowns modeled on current fashion plates, whilst some older villagers wore fashions that belonged to the last century.
None more so than Mrs Foxford, whose towering powdered wig and alarming rouge would not have been out of place at the court of Marie Antoinette.
“It’s said she wore that when she went to view Anne Boleyn’s head roll,” Sarah’s father whispered, as the elderly lady tottered past.
Sarah made to scold her father but was distracted by the sound of Mary calling her name with excitement.
“Over here,” the Duchess of Northcott called, waving her white gloved hand.
Sarah and her father made their way over to the group, who stood near the small ensemble of musicians. As they approached, the Earl of Ashford—dashing in a dark suit—detached himself from the herd.
“Miss Hughes,” he called, striding over to meet her. “I’m so glad you came.”
Lord Deverell leaned over her hand to bestow a kiss to the back of her glove, then moved to shake her father’s hand.
“Mr Hughes,” he said, his voice a shade deeper than usual. “I’m happy to see you again.”
“And I you,” Sarah’s father replied pleasantly, though as he released Lord Deverell’s hand from his grip, Sarah noted the earl wince a little.
Mercifully for Lord Deverell, Mrs Mifford swept over to greet them and promptly whisked Mr Hughes away to help her fetch some lemonade. Sarah stood shyly for a moment, glancing at the earl from under her eyelashes as she willed her brain to think of something to say.
“Might I see your dance card, Miss Hughes?” the earl asked cheerfully, relieving her of the obligation to think.
“This isn’t Almack’s, my lord,” she laughed, as she fished in her reticule. “We don’t have fancy dance-cards, just a printed page the Ladies’ Society sell to raise extra funds for charitable causes.”
She handed over the pitiful scrap of paper and braced herself for him to scoff at the provincialism of it all. But Lord Deverell accepted the page in silence, folded it with care, and tucked it into the pocket of his evening coat. He then offered her a satisfied, if slightly wicked, smile.
“W-what are you doing, my lord?” she stuttered.
“Ensuring all your dances belong to me,” he answered firmly.
As though he had commanded it, the musicians struck up the first song of the night. Lord Deverell took Sarah’s arm and led her to the centre of the dance floor for the first dance, which was a country set.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you look?” he whispered as he took her hand.
The music began, negating her need to reply.
They moved together in time, stepping and turning with the rest of the set, but she was keenly aware of every moment they touched.
The light pressure of his hand on her waist, the warmth of his palm against her gloved fingers; it was all too much and not nearly enough.
As they danced, every thought fled Sarah’s mind—the murder, Mr Henderson’s reveal, even Mrs Canards’ watchful eyes. It was only as Lord Deverell guided her through the final figure and the set came to an end, did Sarah recall where she was.
“You dance so well that I imagined myself in a grand ballroom and not above The Ring’o’Bells,” Sarah said with a laugh, as Lord Deverell took her arm to escort her back to the group.
“Ballrooms, chandeliers, orchestras,” the earl waved a dismissive hand. “They matter not, all that matters is that it’s your hand I’m holding.”
Sarah was so charmed that she had to fight the urge to disguise her nervousness with a joke.
Now was not the time to quip that his fondness for Plumpton might waver once he found himself elbow to elbow with Mr Marrowbone in the lane behind The Ring, which served as the gentlemen’s convenience on assembly nights .
For once, she allowed herself accept a compliment and settled for grinning stupidly at him instead.
“My goodness,” Lord Deverell paused mid-step, his expression confused.
Sarah’s heart skipped a beat as she wildly wondered if he’d suddenly been struck by a realisation that he was an earl and she a nobody.
“Is that Mr Leek and Mrs Fawkes?” he continued in a whisper that combined horror with fascination. He nodded toward the far side of the room where Sarah, with a discreet peek, spotted the pair readying to dance.
Mrs Fawkes’ red hair was piled high atop her head, her dress cut low at the bosom.
Sarah was reminded of Mrs Mifford’s prediction that the lady would soon be seeking a new lover—and, judging by the direction of Mr Leek’s enraptured stare, she had already found a likely candidate.
He was gazing at her with reverence, though it was certainly not the beading on her bodice that held his attention.
“Well,” Lord Deverell said with surprise. “I didn’t think he had it in him.”
“I didn’t think he’d come,” Sarah added, “Mrs Canards said he was most upset that The Ladies’ Society wouldn’t raise funds for his collection.”
They watched silently as the pair took to the floor for the next set, their eyes only for each other. Sarah spotted Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling muttering furiously to each other as they also observed them dance.
“I thought we would be the scandal of the evening,” Sarah quipped, with some relief.
“Don’t tempt me,” Lord Deverell warned. “I’m holding on by a thread as is.”
A giddy thrill went through her at the idea she held some sort of power over such an important man. To think she had expected to find him nothing but a pompous horticulturist—
“My goodness, I nearly forgot,” Sarah gasped, turning to glance back to Mr Leek. “Mr Henderson in the butcher shop told me that he saw Mr Leek out walking on the night of the murder.”
“But, Mrs Vickery said he was at home all evening,” Lord Deverell answered slowly. Sarah could see the wheels and cogs of his mind whirring behind his grey eyes.
“Well, Mrs Vickery thinks the sun shines out of his—” Sarah stopped herself just in time before continuing carefully. “We don’t know why she lied but we do know that she is very loyal to Mr Leek. Remember what Mrs Mifford said about him saving her from a life of poverty?”