Chapter 11
Lucy wandered the room with the hope that the contents might give her some better clue as to the nature of the new occupant, but as yet, Elsworth had not been decorated with anything more than modest furnishings.
It was a charming and intimate space. While some of the larger estates were sprawling affairs, Elsworth had been constructed with an efficiency of size and flow that appealed to her practical mind.
Were she to build a house to her specifications, it might well be a fine starting point.
It was the perfect venue for an early spring gathering, where the collection of torches and bodies kept at bay the cooler evening air without overheating those in attendance.
Likewise, Lucy approved of the meal – simple local fare, but well prepared and more than enough to meet the appetites of those in attendance. Again it reflected the tone of Captain Dashwood, eager to please his new neighbours, but not given to unnecessary extravagance.
If there was one excess of the event, it was in the dances, the number of which was greater than at any ball Lucy had ever attended.
It was well indeed that the food had been filling, for the effort of participating in every dance exceeded the endurance of every man and woman present, save Captain Dashwood himself, who insisted on remaining on the floor with an indefatigable vigour.
After a cautious test of her dress in the first dance, Margaret had concluded her additional stitching was sufficient and danced several numbers, twice with Oliver St Martin.
Such a repetition of partners would usually be cause for rumours of a match but, constrained as they were by the limitations of her height, a certain leeway had been tacitly granted to the pair by district society.
Lucy danced first with Ford Mayhew, whom she always found a sufficient partner, though often a little off-rhythm. She then danced with George St Martin, who could have been an excellent dancer rather than merely a good one, were it not for his habit of being more spontaneous than timing allowed.
It was not until the end of the evening that Captain Dashwood approached Lucy and requested a dance.
She eyed him for perhaps a moment too long before replying in the affirmative.
Her feet were weary, but she could not resist her desire to discover more about the man.
If he noted her hesitation, he certainly was polite enough to make no mention of it.
There was a roughness to his hands that surprised her, from the grip of reins perhaps. Margaret had mentioned that he rode well. Yet his touch was light, almost cautious, as if gauging hers. And warm, though perhaps she was confusing the warmth for her own.
You shall have to say something presently. She cut into her thoughts. And it must be a topic other than the texture of his hand.
‘You approve of Elsworth Manor?’ he asked, relieving her anxious obligation.
‘It is a fine residence. Do you plan on staying long?’
‘Alas, that is not wholly in my hands. I am here at the behest of my father.’
‘I have heard he has been ill of late. Has he improved?’
‘I fear his decline is a steady one. He was a bachelor until late in life, and he is not getting any younger.’
‘No one is getting younger. That’s how time works.’
‘Quite true.’ He laughed. ‘He still has his wits, but can no longer travel.’
‘But you can, I understand. I have heard tell you’ve recently returned from Africa?’
‘Sierra Leone. A small place—’
‘On the western coast,’ Lucy finished.
‘Indeed.’ He nodded. ‘Have you travelled, Miss Elliot?’
‘Only as far as Edinburgh when I was fifteen. My mother had distant family there.’
‘How did you find it?’
‘It was on the main road.’
He smiled and she breathed a sigh of relief that her humour had landed.
‘Was there much opportunity for dancing in Sierra Leone?’ Lucy asked.
‘Alas, no. My time was often spent in less elegant engagements.’
‘Take care with that word, Captain. There are many young women in the district in search of an eligible gentleman.’
‘Why do you assume that I am?’
‘Eligible?’
‘A gentleman.’ He smiled again.
In that moment, in that look, Lucy was assured she had been quite right, that there was something beneath the mask of conformity he wore so well.
‘I can only speak for myself, Captain, but I should be most disappointed if you were not.’
‘Eligible or a gentleman?’
It was her turn to be enigmatic, as the dance circle moved on and she left him with a demure expression that belied the pounding in her chest.
When next she encountered Captain Dashwood, the dancing had concluded, her pulse had settled, and the conversation had been reviewed half a dozen times in her head. She found herself on the edge of a collective discussion about Continental delicacies.
‘Frustrating, I say,’ George St Martin complained. ‘I’ve developed a taste over the years for Belgian hot chocolate, but now you can’t get your hands on the stuff for love nor money.’
‘Textiles are in equally short supply. Though it is something of a boon for the local industry,’ Lucy noted.
‘I can’t wait for the whole mess to be over,’ George continued. ‘How is Napoleon doing? Surely he can’t hold out much longer?’
There was an uneasy pause and Lucy noted a flare in the eye of their host, as if the ignorance of the man was a personal affront.
‘He controls most of Europe,’ Lucy said evenly.
‘Ah. Well. I dare say we’ll be able to push him back again, right, Captain?’
‘I hope so,’ Dashwood replied, his voice cool. ‘For if we do not, I dare say it will only be a matter of time before he makes his way here. Whereupon I suspect your lack of chocolate shall be the least of your inconveniences.’
Again there was a silence, this time more deliberate.
Captain Dashwood straightened up, visibly collecting himself. ‘My apologies, Miss Elliot. This is meant to be an evening of merriment. I shall take my leave to see what remains of supper. The dancing was more effort than a march.’ He bowed and smiled, the latter more forced than the former.
As Dashwood headed away, George shook his head. ‘I seem to have hit a nerve there. Good of him to apologise to me.’
Lucy smiled, but did not correct him that, in truth, Dashwood had apologised to her.
Rough hands, but a light touch, she recalled.
Soon after, the men retired for brandy and cards, leaving the women to discuss the events of the evening. Margaret was pleased with how the night had turned out, extolling the virtues of both the dancing and the food.
‘I was quite impressed. More than one assembly has been catered with food too rich or too sparse to be sustaining. I suspect Captain Dashwood has something of an army pragmatist in him. And he danced with you, Lucy, which was nice.’
‘He danced with almost everyone,’ Lucy said, dismissing the comment humbly. ‘There were certainly enough numbers. I hope the musicians were well recompensed.’
‘He didn’t dance with everyone.’ Margaret laughed. ‘He seemed quite selective.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. He wasn’t just asking anybody is what I mean.’
As talk moved on to a different topic, with Margaret explaining her dress alterations to Sarah Mayhew, Lucy turned her thoughts inward, glancing at her dance card to refresh her memory.
For the second time that evening she felt a certain chill of revelation towards her host. Dashwood’s dance partners had been varied across the evening, which had seemed to her to be out of politeness or casual interest.
He had danced with Lucy, but not Margaret.
He had danced with Sarah, but not her sister, Anne.
In Lucy’s mind, she filled in his dance card, checking off names. It became clear that over the course of the evening he had danced exactly once with a lady from every household in attendance.
There were innocent explanations for this, of course, the most likely being a desire to familiarise and ingratiate himself with as many people in the district as he could. Not unheard of for a man new to the area, and a bachelor at that.
But perhaps, as he had intimated, not a gentleman.
The intention of the dancing might well have been innocent, but the process was studied, which was what drew Lucy’s curiosity. Studied. That had been the word she had used earlier in the evening, but it no longer quite seemed to fit.
She sat in silence for some time before she found the word she wanted to describe his actions.
Tactical.