Chapter 40
Lucy engaged briefly with Emily Danforth, a girl slightly younger than herself, who was enchanted by the ball and lamenting that her friend Charlotte was not there to see it.
Given that the ball only existed due to the dissolution of Charlotte’s engagement, Lucy failed to see how this would work, but she decided that Emily would not be given to discussing Hume’s definition of causality.
To Lucy’s relief the girl was instead soon distracted by the arrival of another friend.
Lucy glanced around the room with a more analytical mind.
It was certainly a fine assembly, with every well-positioned family in attendance.
Captain Dashwood was speaking with Sir Walter St Martin, Margaret with George St Martin, and Oliver with Lord Rathbone.
Having travelled here with the former two, she decided to approach Oliver.
The young man was dressed in a fine blue overcoat, another excellent testament to the work of Mr McDonald.
Lord Rathbone, on the other hand, wore a very sharp, charcoal-grey suit that might have seemed dull on another man, but on him somehow managed to amplify his presence as a strong, sober gentleman.
‘Miss Elliot.’ Oliver bowed. ‘Have you met Lord Rathbone?’
‘Not formally,’ she replied.
The older gentleman made a faint smile, seeming to approve at once of her honesty and discretion. ‘You have a reputation of having a quick mind, Miss Elliot,’ Lord Rathbone commented.
‘Then I shall do my best not to disappoint. Though I must confess, I shall be quite adrift if the discussion is one of finance.’
‘Only by tangent,’ the lord replied.
‘Lord Rathbone is well respected and involved in the war effort,’ Oliver explained. ‘It is vital that we be prepared for future engagements.’
‘Mr St Martin was gauging my opinion on what areas of focus we are currently engaged in,’ Lord Rathbone explained.
‘And is that of interest to a man such as yourself?’ Lucy asked Oliver.
‘It is. Especially regarding current investments. For example, we have, at the moment, naval superiority over the Channel, thus it is wise to invest in shipbuilding and associated elements.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Lord Rathbone interjected, ‘it is an area in which I cannot offer advice for speculation. It is true that we are attempting to catch up with Napoleon at present in many areas of industry. But I cannot speak in any detail for fear of secrets or hints slipping to Continental ears.’
‘Then I shall ask no more,’ Oliver said, ‘for I should sooner be poor in pounds than rich in francs.’
‘Outside of the war, I should recommend investment in coaches. Would you agree, Miss Elliot?’
‘Perhaps,’ she replied.
‘I suspect there are some impressive advances on the horizon.’ Lord Rathbone smiled knowingly.
‘If coaches are your interest, then I believe you will find Miss Elliot more than apt for such conversation. She once spent an entire card game opining on the benefits of rear-axle release joints.’
‘Front axle, surely,’ Lord Rathbone corrected.
‘Obviously front axle,’ Lucy nodded. ‘Why would you even bother with a release joint in a rear axle?’
‘Why indeed?’ Oliver demurred, gradually realising he had likely just eliminated himself from his own conversation.
The eastern ballroom of St Martins Hall was as perfect for dancing as could be desired.
The musicians were of excellent calibre and the dancers moved with fine procession, circling the hall in grand swoops before easing to a close, all parties going their separate ways.
Lucy hoped that Captain Dashwood, who had danced with Emily Danforth, would come her way, but she was met by the familiar smile of George St Martin.
‘Miss Elliot. Might I have the pleasure of this next dance?’
‘I would be honoured, sir,’ she replied cordially. The man was not, at present, high in her estimation, but there was decorum to maintain and it would not do to refuse the host a dance.
They entered the dance in silence and she could not conceive of a topic upon which they might settle comfortably.
She was not alone in this observation.
‘You are unusually quiet, Miss Elliot. I hope I have done nothing to offend you.’
‘Forgive me, Mr St Martin. You are an excellent dancer and a fine host. I must confess, with some regret, a part of me does wonder at the propriety of holding such a grand ball, marvellous though it is, so soon after the disappointment of your engagement.’
A faint frown crossed his features, whereupon he nodded then turned to a muted smile.
‘I cannot fault you on such an opinion. I hope it should not reflect too ill on me. I was very fond of Charlotte. One should be as a groom, of course. I had hoped at first that the match might still go ahead, but the scale of the scandal made it quite impossible. I felt it was for the best for all involved that it be called off swiftly and decisively. I have never been one to dwell on the past, but perhaps seek opportunities too recklessly.’
‘It is through no fault of yours that her father fell from grace. And I do not deny the great weight that impressions may force upon our decisions.’
‘If it is any consolation, I think it has taught me some caution in approaching matrimony. I promise you I shall not get engaged again for at least a month.’
‘That is a grossly perfunctory delay, sir.’
‘It was a joke, Lucy.’
‘Oh.’
She shifted discussion to the architecture of the ballroom and was more than happy to expound upon it for the remainder of the dance.
During a break for refreshment, Lucy found herself looking out at the full moon as it rose above the forest. She wondered what the Night Racing crowd might be doing with the usual races suspended.
Some were here of course, and Molly and the staff at Atherton were likely going about their regular business.
But what of Torres and crew? Were they home at their castle?
Were they out on some country road testing new designs?
Or perhaps they were off challenging racers in another district altogether.
Lucy was quite sure the next time Torres raced, his coach would feature a clockwork coil boost, quite possibly one superior to her original.
And there would be more after that. Competition spurred innovation, and there was certainly as much competition between Lucy and Elsa as there was between Torres and Dashwood.
Refilling a cup from a large punch bowl, she was already turning her mind down a path of invention.
She stared at the upturned silver lid. A lantern in front of a convex reflective lens would focus the light to better illuminate the road.
But it would need a wind shelter. Did ships use the same?
Perhaps Dashwood’s footman, Jim, might know. Or perhaps the captain himself.
Since their arrival at the ball, she had yet to speak with the man.
He had danced with several ladies across the evening and she felt certain he would ask her at some point.
During the one other dance they had both sat out, she was waylaid by Sir Walter St Martin.
He had seemed in an agitated mood, not unexpected for the host of such a large number of people, and he was happy to talk with a familiar face.
He enquired as to the health of her absent parents and recommended peppers as a fine remedy for hay-fever and insisted that he supply her with a jar of preserves before she left.
She had accepted politely and they parted amicably, but by this point she had lost sight of Captain Dashwood, as busy as the room was, and did not see him until the next dance on the card, when she was already on the floor with someone else.
All at once she felt uniquely frustrated with the man.
Why ever did he entangle her in his affairs in such a way?
Investigation and espionage convoluted every aspect of their interactions so that no one knew the true nature of their connection, least of all Lucy herself.
She was already predisposed to overthinking things.
The addition of so many variables made for an indecipherable courtship.
She knew she had felt several moments of genuine attraction towards him.
Their experience in the woods had seemed to suggest he felt the same, but she was all too aware of her shortcomings in such areas.
What if she had entirely misread genuine romantic affection from him?
What if she had simply projected her desires upon him, just as she had done long ago with Ben Krippingworth?
The thought of this possibility caused a momentary imbalance that threw her off the step of the current dance, mercifully near its end.
She curtsied, thanked her partner, then crossed to the side of the room, catching sight of her agitated features in a mirror.
She closed her eyes and took a breath.
Underwood, Thornbrook, Rawleigh, Pemberley Cross, Norfolk.
She opened her eyes again, this time satisfied that the young woman in the mirror looked more composed.