Chapter 39
With the upcoming St Martins ball Lucy found herself at least partially distracted from the discovery in the woods.
It was yet another secret to conceal, and one that offered up little more information.
Captain Dashwood might be able to follow other lines of investigation, but she was only left to speculate, which was as frustrating as ever.
Initially her parents were looking forward to attending the ball, but as it neared circumstances conspired against them.
Andrew Elliot caught an early-summer chill, finding his throat sore and his diet limited to soup and apple juice.
Alice Elliot avoided the illness, only to be struck by a bout of seasonal hay-fever.
Her sneezes echoed throughout Atherton in daylight hours.
They were, they both concluded, poor company for a ball and limited in any enjoyment they might experience themselves.
‘I am quite sure that the two of you will be more than adequate as representatives for the Elliot name,’ their father croaked.
‘Besides,’ said their mother, ‘it is far more important that two eligible young ladies attend than an old married couple. You are both … Achoo!’
Whatever Margaret and Lucy might both be in their mother’s eyes was lost in a fit of sniffing and sneezing, though they both felt assured it was a positive sentiment.
‘Of course, the coach will be available to you as I cannot imagine any business that might draw us urgently away.’
‘Thank you, Father.’ Margaret nodded. ‘But I have already arranged transportation for the two of us.’
‘Indeed? By whom?’
‘By Captain Dashwood. I sent a letter asking whether he might be able to transport all four of us as he has such a fine coach, one that Lucy helped build, no less. I thought it might be a treat for the family, and he kindly agreed.’
‘What an excellent idea,’ Andrew Elliot rasped. ‘It is a shame we cannot share the experience. I wonder if—’
‘Achoo!’
‘No. I’m afraid it will be quite impossible. But I’m sure he will understand we mean no disrespect. Margaret, you shall have to report to us on your opinion of your sister’s handiwork.’
‘Indeed I shall.’ Margaret smiled.
St Martins Hall was one of the finest estates in the district, second only to Rathbone Manor.
The vast grounds were always well tended, with an avenue of beech trees lining the road leading to the main house.
As the guests arrived, they assembled in the eastern ballroom; the room was bright, colourful and filled with talk.
The Elliot sisters walked in, each on an arm of Captain Dashwood, who was looking especially fine in his bright formal regimental coat.
Margaret had chosen to wear the dress intended for the now cancelled wedding.
Lucy was initially dubious about this, especially given that the ball was at St Martins Hall.
But Margaret dismissed her concern. Mrs Calloway had put good work into the alteration, and it would be a great shame not to wear the fine garment.
Besides, she’d noted, it was unlikely that George or Sir Walter St Martin had the faintest idea what the wedding dresses were to be.
This reasoning was correct, for there were so many in attendance and so many different styles and colours on display that Margaret’s attire would not stand out amongst them.
As soon as they entered, Lucy excused herself, heading off to a far corner.
‘I hope the ride did not make your sister ill.’ Dashwood frowned.
‘I am certain it did not,’ said Margaret. ‘It was as smooth as I have ever ridden. It is a busy room. She will take some time to compose herself, then she will join us. It is her habit to do so at such events.’
‘I am glad to hear she is herself.’
‘You are fond of my sister, are you not, Captain Dashwood?’
‘I am. She is a most singular creature.’
‘Then I hope your intentions are honest.’
‘Have I given you any reason to believe otherwise?’
‘To a protective older sister, no reason is required.’ Margaret smiled politely.
‘While Lucy sees a great many things that others miss, she misses a great many things that others see. She sometimes reads intentions poorly. And she thinks upon them greatly. So I must request, Captain, that you be open and honest with your intentions towards her, if not to me then absolutely to Lucy herself.’
He nodded. ‘I shall be as honest with her as I may and shall act to shield her from every harm I can.’
‘Thank you, Captain. I am glad we see eye to eye.’ The statement was more than metaphorical, as she spoke the words face-to-face with him, his eyes angled very slightly upwards.
He bowed, she curtsied, and they went their separate ways with a mutual understanding of the protection of Lucy Elliot.
In a corner, as sheltered as she could manage, Lucy found a seat and drew in steady, deliberate breaths, letting the noise wash past her.
Every crowd had its own resonance, formed from the numbers, the space, the atmosphere.
But it could be processed, turned into background noise, the sound of chattering songbirds.
There would always be an itch at the back of her eyes, the twitch of her hand, but those she could manage.
After a time, she opened her eyes, the bright ballroom filling out before her, people and voices all merged together. It was the sound of a ball, a single mass that she could filter as one.
She took another breath then stood, her feet solid beneath her.
Society awaited.