Chapter 15
"'It is a truth universally acknowledged that a ruined woman in possession of a scandal must be in want of social exile."
Eveline muttered these words as she stood at the entrance to Lady Carlisle's ballroom, her stomach performing acrobatics that would have impressed the performers at Astley's Amphitheatre.
The golden light spilling from the doorway seemed less like welcome and more like the flames of social purgatory.
"Cease your dramatics," Harriet commanded, though her grip on Eveline's arm suggested she too felt the weight of what they were about to face. "You've confronted Latin texts that would make grown men weep. Surely you can manage a ballroom full of gossips."
"Latin texts don't whisper behind their fans about one's moral failings," Eveline replied, smoothing the rose silk of her gown with trembling fingers.
The dress had been her mother's choice for her last Season, before she'd given up on making a match, before the position at Everleigh Manor, before everything had gone so spectacularly wrong.
"Nor do they cut one dead in public view. "
"No, but they do contain far more substance than anything you'll encounter in that ballroom." Harriet's tone brooked no argument. "One evening, Eveline. Show them you haven't been broken by their whispers."
The footman at the door announced them with perfect diction that seemed to echo through the sudden hush that fell over the nearest conversations. "Miss Fairweather. Miss Whitcombe."
The effect was immediate and devastating. Like ripples in a pond, silence spread outward from their position, conversations dying mid-sentence as heads turned with the precision of a well-drilled regiment. Fans lifted to hide mouths that whispered words just loud enough to be overheard.
"...the audacity..."
"...that creature who entrapped poor Everleigh..."
"...heard she practically threw herself..."
"...spent the entire night doing heaven knows what..."
Each word was a barb, carefully aimed to wound while maintaining the pretense of private discourse. Eveline kept her chin high and her expression serene through sheer force of will, though she felt each whisper like a physical blow.
They progressed through the ballroom with agonizing slowness, the crowd parting before them not out of respect but from a desire to avoid contamination by association.
Ladies who had once smiled at her in passing now turned their backs with theatrical precision.
Gentlemen who had partnered her in country dances suddenly found urgent business elsewhere.
"The plants are particularly fine this evening," Eveline observed with false brightness as they took refuge near a cluster of potted plants at the edge of the room. "I've always admired Lady Carlisle's dedication to horticulture."
"Eveline..."
"Did you know that the fashion for palm trees in ballrooms originated with the Prince Regent? Apparently, he wished to recreate the atmosphere of his Pavilion at Brighton. Though I suspect these particular specimens have witnessed less scandalous behaviour than their royal counterparts."
"You're babbling."
"I'm deflecting. There's a distinct difference.
" Eveline accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman who managed to serve her while somehow conveying disapproval through the angle of his silver tray.
"If I focus on botanical history, I'm less likely to notice that I've become a social pariah. "
The orchestra struck up a cotillion, and couples moved onto the dance floor with the easy grace of those secure in their social standing.
Eveline watched them with the detachment of an anthropologist observing a foreign tribe—interesting in theory, but ultimately incomprehensible in their rituals and customs.
"Miss Fairweather." A young gentleman materialized before them, his cravat so elaborate it threatened to strangle him with its own ambition. "Might I have the honour of this dance?"
Harriet's smile could have frozen the Thames. "I thank you for the compliment, Mr. Ashworth, but I am not dancing this evening."
The gentleman's gaze flickered to Eveline for the briefest moment before skittering away as if burned. "Surely you cannot mean to waste such lovely music standing among the palms?"
"I find the palms excellent company," Harriet replied. "They neither gossip nor make unwelcome advances."
Mr. Ashworth's face reddened. "I merely thought...well... it seems a shame."
"What seems a shame," Eveline interjected smoothly, "is a gentleman who cannot accept a lady's polite refusal. Unless, of course, the concept of consent is as foreign to you as basic courtesy appears to be."
The young man's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish before he executed a stiff bow and retreated. Several nearby matrons who had been pretending not to eavesdrop suddenly found urgent need to adjust their gloves or examine their fans.
"That was perhaps unwise," Harriet murmured, though her eyes danced with suppressed mirth.
"Wisdom fled the moment I entered this ballroom.
I might as well embrace folly with enthusiasm.
" Eveline drained her champagne in a most unladylike fashion.
"Besides, what more can they do to me? I'm already ruined, cast out, a cautionary tale for young ladies who dare to possess both intellect and independence. "
"They could make things worse."
"Could they? I've already achieved the social equivalent of a Greek tragedy. The chorus of gossips has pronounced my fate, the gods of propriety have turned their faces from me. All that remains is for me to deliver a soliloquy about the cruel vagaries of fortune before exiting stage left."
"You're mixing your theatrical metaphors."
"I'm mixing everything. My metaphors, my prospects, my..." She broke off as another wave of whispers reached them, this time accompanied by titters of laughter that held all the warmth of winter wind.
"...Lord Hatherleigh says she was quite disheveled..."
"...emerging from His Grace's private chambers..."
"...always did think herself above her station..."
"...bluestockings always come to bad ends..."
The laughter that followed this last observation was particularly galling, coming as it did from Miss Hastings, who Eveline knew for a fact couldn't conjugate a Latin verb if her life depended upon it.
"I believe I need air," Eveline said abruptly, her carefully maintained composure beginning to crack like ice under spring sun.
"The terrace doors are just there..."
"No." The thought of fleeing to the terrace, of being seen to retreat, was unbearable. "No, I won't give them the satisfaction of driving me out. I'll stand here among the palms like a botanical specimen if necessary, but I won't run."
"Excellent," said a calm masculine voice behind them. "Though I've always found that palms, while decorative, make poor conversationalists."
Eveline turned to find Theodore Browne standing with his usual understated elegance, his evening clothes impeccable without ostentation. His hazel eyes behind their wire-rimmed spectacles held both sympathy and something that might have been admiration.
"Mr. Browne," she said, surprised into genuine pleasure. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"I could say the same." He executed a perfect bow that somehow managed to encompass both ladies equally and which was a subtle but pointed reminder to anyone watching that he saw nothing scandalous in acknowledging Eveline publicly.
"Lady Carlisle is my second cousin, or perhaps my third cousin.
I can never quite recall which, despite her annual attempts to explain the connection at Christmas dinners. "
"Family gatherings must be wonderfully confusing," Harriet observed, clearly charmed by his easy manner.
"Gloriously so. Last year I spent an entire evening calling Great-Aunt Agatha by the wrong name.
She was too polite to correct me, which led to a fascinating conversation about her apparently fictional stint as a missionary in Ceylon.
" His smile was self-deprecating. "But I suspect you ladies are not particularly interested in the Byzantine complexities of the Browne family tree. "
"On the contrary," Eveline said, grasping at the lifeline of normal conversation. "Byzantine complexities are rather a specialty of mine."
"Of course they are." His expression grew more serious as he took in their isolated position and the careful distance other guests maintained. "Miss Whitcombe, might I be so bold as to request the honour of the next dance?"
The request fell into a moment of silence as the current set concluded. Several heads turned their way, fans lifting in anticipation of what promised to be excellent gossip fodder.
"That's very kind," Eveline began, "but I couldn't possibly..."
"Nonsense." His voice carried just enough volume to be overheard by their eager audience. "They are fools, Miss Whitcombe, every last one of them. Dance with me, and let them see you cannot be crushed by their petty judgments."
There was steel beneath his mild manner, she realized. A quiet defiance that called to her own stubborn pride. To refuse would be to admit defeat, to acknowledge that their whispers had power over her.
"Very well," she said, placing her gloved hand in his. "Though I warn you, my dancing may have suffered from recent lack of practice."
"Then we shall muddle through together. I've been told my waltz resembles nothing so much as a bear attempting to ice skate, so we should make an excellently matched disaster."
Despite everything, Eveline found herself almost smiling as he led her onto the floor. The crowd parted before them with obvious reluctance, clearly torn between avoiding contamination and securing the best view of impending catastrophe.