Chapter 17 #2
Fanny laughed with her lips closed. “I like the way you Americans say what you think.”
“Aren’t we just saying what everyone thinks?”
“Let me see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” said Annabel.
Fanny excused herself and went to wait near the pianoforte for an opportune moment to intervene. Annabel kept an eye on Lady Gidding-Wedmore, with a Lackington on either side taking turns gossiping in her ear and now and then glancing their way.
“I think they’re talking about us,” Annabel whispered to Cassie.
“So, let them talk. We’re talking too. About how come the men get to drink and smoke, and we have to be here doing—what even is this bullshit?”
“The drawing room is where women socialize, show off their good manners, and generally maintain, you know, decorum. Conversation, needlework, music.”
“Conversation! Needlework! Music!” Cassie said, imitating her sister. “So, the guys get to party, and we do this?” She looked down the hall where smoke billowed out of the room, rolling her arms as if coaxing it toward her. “It’s not fair. Billy hates smoking. And I love smoking.”
Mrs. Lackington was looking at them with something of a sinister air.
“Really, Cassie. I’m worried,” Annabel said. “Do you think we gave ourselves away?”
“These people are clueless.”
“Well, we need to cultivate friendships with them. Even the Lackingtons.”
Cassie turned her attention to them. “Did you catch Harriet throwing shade? ‘Wherever it is you’re from,’” she said, mimicking her contempt.
“Well, we aren’t from Virginia.”
“She doesn’t know that. It’s not like there’s internet!”
“But they matter, the Lackingtons. We need everyone to accept us . . . into the fold.”
“So, I’m supposed to start now, just like that? Giving a shit what people think?”
“It would help.”
Cassie looked at Mrs. Lackington, who smiled at her falsely. She smiled falsely back, in a one-upping-you sort of way.
“Wit and charm, then. Fine.”
Cassie took Annabel by the hand and led her to an empty settee by the ladies. Harriet turned to them with a plate of bonbons.
“Ladies, won’t you help yourself. I brought them back with me, from Paris. They’re divine.”
“Don’t mind if I do, thank you,” said Cassie, who took one bonbon, thought better of it, and took three.
She noted Harriet’s rather surprised look.
“I’m going for flesh and curves. I’ve come to understand it is all the rage,” she said, popping the first bonbon into her mouth.
She chewed while rolling her eyes in ecstasy. “Divine, indeed!”
At that moment, Althea mercifully stopped playing.
“Oh, thank god,” said Cassie but, still chewing, was mercifully misunderstood.
The other women paused their conversation to offer faint applause—a kind of tapping of fingers on one’s palm—as Fanny whispered politely in Althea’s ear.
“Isn’t Miss Warnaby an utter delight?” said Lady Gidding-Wedmore, with her usual singsong optimism. “And I hope will soon be my Fanny’s sister-in-law.”
“One could do worse,” said Mrs. Lackington.
“What’s everybody’s hurry?” said Cassie. “To marry everyone off?”
They all looked at her in horror. Annabel’s stomach clenched. She gave her sister a wide-eyed what-are-you-doing look that flew beneath the others’ radar.
“What I mean to say is that Fanny—Miss Gidding-Wedmore—doesn’t seem to be in any particular hurry to marry, so why is everyone so eager for her to do so? Perhaps Mr. Warnaby is not a good fit. Why doesn’t someone ask her?”
This, as Fanny and Althea joined the group. No sooner had they sat down, than Lady Gidding-Wedmore turned to her daughter.
“Fanny, our Miss Blake is asking as to your views on marriage.”
“In general, or in particular?”
“Either will do,” said Cassie.
“Well, one must ask, is one marrying for money, for power, for status, or love? Because I have three of the four already.”
“I knew I liked you,” said Cassie. “Which complicates things, I admit.”
“Love,” said Mrs. Lackington, oozing with sarcasm, “is all the rage.”
“I believe it may have staying power,” said Annabel. “I boldly predict.”
They all looked at her with mild shock when Althea burst into the conversation at a gallop.
“Oh, I will marry as soon as I am asked; I never even worry about it. But I have a system to assure that the right man will propose. It’s all about dancing.
You see, I’ve determined, based on mathematics, that a man will never ask you to marry him unless you have consented to three dances, at which point he feels you are as good as won.
So, if you don’t like your dancing partner, simply refuse him at all costs.
Better for the second dance, imperative for the third. Hide if you must.”
“Oh god. Now I like you too,” said Cassie.
Althea leaned in, titillated. “But I admit I am reformulating my plan, since my brother confided that, last he was at Almack’s in London, he was told the Prince Regent will soon give the waltz his formal blessing! Just think of it! How could one possibly marry a man one hadn’t waltzed with?”
Oh dear, Annabel thought, now I like her too.
“The Prince Regent, legitimizing the waltz?” said Lady Gidding-Wedmore. “Imagine!”
“Of course, you might think he already had, had you just read the newest Lady’s Weekly, as I have!” Althea was nearly bouncing at the edge of her seat. Her ringlets bounced with her. “Why, I nearly fell off my chair when the heroine consents to a waltz! At her very first ball!”
Annabel tucked her chin to hide her surprise. But she felt quiet pride that, on top of the first chapter of her novel being actually published, it was already the subject of drawing room discussions.
“Scandalous!” Mrs. Lackington sucked in a breath. “Miss Warnaby, a young lady of your reputation should not be exposed to such lurid literature! It is beneath you!”
“Oh, Mother,” said Harriet. “I was the one who gave it to her.”
Mrs. Lackington looked at her daughter, aghast.
“I know you would have me read sermons and conduct books, but it is all the fashion.” Harriet side-winked at Annabel, who was once again surprised to have Harriet on her side.
“I confess, I read it too,” said Fanny. “And while I admit being momentarily tantalized by the heroine’s choice, it is imprudent to jeopardize one’s standing for a fleeting moment of, shall we say, pleasure.”
“Indeed! Thank goodness Almack’s rules do not travel this far!
” Mrs. Lackington was nearly apoplectic.
“Why, the waltz is nothing but an indecent German dance, an obscene display popular with prostitutes and adulteresses, meant to lower the morals of our youth! I should like to have a word with the author!”
“Or . . . authoress?” said Harriet. “One never knows these days, does one?”
Harriet smiled at Annabel, who returned her best stoic gaze.
“Elliot is a man’s name,” said Althea. “And he seems to know a good deal about grouse hunting. And whist!”
“But she, a good deal more about waltzing than any man would care to,” said Fanny.
Cassie rolled her eyes, bored with the conversation. Annabel was glad she didn’t seem to be tracking it. When D’Evercy walked in with Warnaby and Billy, she hoped that would put an end to their speculations about the novel’s author.
“Ladies,” was all he said, and all that was necessary. As usual, his brooding magnetism changed the air in the room.
“Tell me, Mr. D’Evercy,” said Lady Gidding-Wedmore, “where do you stand on the matter of the waltz?”
He hesitated, as the whole room hung on his answer. “I confess having waltzed once, while away.”
Mrs. Lackington looked at him, alarmed. Annabel looked at him, relieved.
“And quite liked it,” Harriet gloated, “as I recall.”
Looks shot around the room like a pinball machine, variously aroused and scandalized.
Annabel looked down at her lap. She may not be able to compete with Harriet, but the thought of the two of them waltzing, and in Paris, was a direct hit, like a kick in the shin.
She waited for D’Evercy’s next move. Being the gentleman he was, he would have to respond in turn.
“It was fine, Miss Lackington. As a momentary diversion, of course.”
Harriet took the blow but rebounded. “Actually, Mr. D’Evercy, we were talking about novels.”
“I read a novel once,” said Billy. “Well, most of one.”
Fanny laughed, assuming it a joke. “How clever you are, Mr. Doofus.”
“I don’t think William is joking,” said Cassie.
“One novel was quite enough for me as well, Doofus,” said D’Evercy.
“I don’t believe D’Evercy’s joking either,” said Warnaby.
“Why, Mr. D’Evercy?” said Annabel. “Are you not an admirer of novels?”
“As a species of amusement, I suppose I prefer more earnest temptations.”
Annabel had been mostly quiet up to now, on edge as the ladies debated the question.
They couldn’t have known how personal it was to her—that it was, in fact, her they were debating, as well as the nature of novels altogether.
But this was D’Evercy himself. It was more personal than he could have known.
She stood to meet his gaze, unrehearsed but impassioned.
“But, Mr. D’Evercy! A novel is like a door to another world. That opens outward, shows you what’s possible, but inward, too, where you discover another self, another possible you, in a way you never would have . . .” She realized they were all staring at her. “. . . had you not read it.”
The tension in the room was thick and weighty. It seemed no one challenged D’Evercy, not ever. Annabel tucked her skirts and sat down. She could feel him studying her.
“Annabel moment,” murmured Cassie. “Classic Annabel moment.”
“Well,” said D’Evercy, clearing his throat with a subtle smile, admonished and amused all at once. “It is possible that I have some rethinking to do.”
Annabel exhaled and smiled into her lap.
“Actually, Mr. D’Evercy,” Harriet said to regain the upper hand, “we were talking about women writing novels.”
“Indeed!” said Mrs. Lackington. “Women waltzing is barely more tolerable than women writing. I should think the world nearly at an end!”
Althea’s eyes got round as coins. Everyone looked at D’Evercy, again awaiting his reply.
“For once, Mrs. Lackington, we quite agree.”
Harriet smiled at Annabel like a cat who’d outsmarted its mouse and now had it cornered.
Annabel closed her eyes, knowing she’d been had.