Chapter Five
The opening of the assembly rooms for the first dance of the spring was an annual event that Abigail tended to ignore as best she could.
Were Sophia here, Abigail would have expected to have been dragged to the dressmaker, the haberdashery, perhaps all the way to Exeter for something deemed ‘fine enough’ to impress the local inhabitants.
And she would begrudgingly have gone along to each business in turn, knowing that no matter which one she went into, or what she donned, no one would ask her to dance.
Abigail did not mind her wallflower status. She was not a woman who found herself enjoying the steps nor the sound of music—it held no great sway for her. Nor did the presence of any of the young men around Lyme particularly capture her regard.
This year, though, was a little different.
She certainly would not claim to be under Mr. O’Sullivan’s influence.
The idea of professing her attraction to him or demanding sweet nothings from him made Abigail laugh.
As a scholar, she did not think such things were entirely sensible.
But as they walked around the beaches and cliffs of Lyme, hour after hour, she had grown accustomed to his look of deep concentration, his cold blue eyes bright with intensity and interest as he studied whatever fossil or aspect of nature she showed him.
It was also refreshing to find another person to discuss her favorite theories or the latest articles she had read with.
For instance, there was the principle of faunal succession—that the rock formations that they were picking through contained fossilized flora and fauna—which meant dating these finds would be possible.
Mr. O’Sullivan frowned as she described the paper she had read, listening to her quote William Smith’s ideas. “And do you agree with his principle?”
Abigail could feel her chest quiver as she answered. She was touched that he wanted to know her opinion, rather than an estimated scholar’s.
“It is why I keep my notepads,” she had said ten days in their daily walk. The day after she had first taken him back to her workshop and showed him her collection of sellable ammonites, vertebrates, and devil’s toenails—all curiosities that would be sold in the summer.
As his strong, tanned hands had passed the curio between his fingers, she couldn’t look away from the dexterity of those fingers. The memory had lodged in her mind. As a woman used to pursuing whatever grabbed her thoughts, she wondered what it might be like to feel those hands on her.
Having debated the matter internally, since she could hardly admit as much to Judith, Abigail had come to one conclusion—the easiest way to have him touch her was for them both to attend the dance. Which was convenient, since he had said he would dance with her.
Admittedly, it had been offered as a way of rebutting Mr. Monaghan, but nonetheless, surely Mr. O’Sullivan was too much of a gentleman to withdraw his offer.
The potential appeal of having Mr. O’Sullivan touch her for a prolonged period of time, overrode her normal reluctances and now, although she would never admit as such, she could begin to understand Sophia’s excitement for a ball.
“Mr. Suchet asked if we would be attending the ball.” Abigail broached the subject with enough warning, knowing all too well the tickets for such an event would need to be purchased and as such, Judith was the best person to reason with for such expenses.
Judith started in surprise at Abigail’s interest.
“It was Mr. Suchet who seemed to think we would wish to attend,” Abigail said, wondering why the man enjoyed bothering her sister so much.
“Why on earth would he ask that?” Maria Schillers, their cook who had laid out the spread of dishes before the three of them, glanced over her spectacles at Abigail, clearly keen to eat rather than discuss the local landowner.
“I saw both Mr. Monaghan and him out and about. They stopped to talk to me. If Mother is right about us considering a match, then attending the spring ball seems like a sensible place to start.” Abigail omitted that this had been in fact a week ago, and both men had been decidedly rude.
“How strange,” Judith said with a frown, forcing Abigail to look up from her bowl of stewed rabbit and mushrooms, and concentrate.
“This and that.” Abigail did not wish to dwell too long on their various insults.
Nor hear quite why it was so bad that they had been rude.
She understood that they had—they had slighted both Mr. O’Sullivan for being Irish and her for being a spinster, and picking those insults apart seemed wearying.
“They mentioned that they both would be at the assembly rooms for the first of the Spring ball.”
Judith shot a long look at Miss Schillers, which Abigail could not understand. It held meaning that made sense to only them. Then Judith looked back at Abigail. “Do you think they meant to be sociable?”
“Indeed, since Mr. O’Sullivan was there, they asked if he would attend.
I imagine so.” Abigail took a hearty bite of her dish, tired of this conversation.
Judith was always convinced there were multiple meanings to everything anyone said.
Abigail doubted the truth of this. Besides, even if it were true, it did not mean it mattered much.
Mr. Suchet and his nephew could go hang as far as she was concerned.
“An excellent stew, Maria.” Abigail stirred the hearty offering with her spoon, enjoying the familiar taste, and hoping to redirect the conversation.
“Thank you, dear.” Miss Schillers was in her early seventies, and had been with the family since before Abigail was born.
She was part of the household, part of the very house itself.
If her grey hair, round spectacles, and wise, faded blue eyes were to go, Abigail would not be able to understand the world at all.
But she was not paying much attention to Abigail.
Instead, her keen eyes were focused on Judith.
“Will you both be attending the party then?”
“That we will,” Judith said, a real brusqueness to her voice. She appeared angry with both Mr. Suchet and Monaghan for something terrible, although Abigail could hardly guess what it might be.
*
The assembly room, which always housed the spring ball, was an imposingly grand space to Abigail’s na?ve eye.
Beautiful even. It was fitted with large but thin glass windows that sparkled because of the hundreds of candles that filled up the space.
They were dotted in either the half a dozen chandeliers that hung down from the ceiling, or were spaced out throughout the room.
It both created the illusion of sparkling light, and yet made the entire room smoky.
Someone had gone to the trouble of finding and hanging spring flowers throughout the room—small tulips, happy primroses, and Forsythia whose yellow blooms brightened up the space in a pleasing manner.
In years past, Sophia had been heard to whisper that this meant it was romantic, since there were spaces to slip away from the crowds unseen—to Abigail this seemed nonsense, and in fact the ballroom was just a little stuffy. Yet tonight, it seemed fresh and anew.
Abigail stepped into the ballroom beside her oldest sister, feeling proud of her evening ensemble, and revealed that for the first time she did not have to fear being upstaged by Sophia’s beauty.
If other women and ladies were likely to be considered before her, at least it wouldn’t be because of Sophia.
Abigail’s gown was a sprig muslin of a fine white cotton dotted with darker twisting vines of green, and tiny buds of roses.
The sleeves were delicately puffed. She had donned elegantly long cream gloves, and the ribbon beneath her bust of turquoise to match the one that was wound through her dark hair.
In the mirror at home, Abigail had been pleased with the image that looked back at her, and hoped that when Mr. O’Sullivan saw her, he too would be taken aback by her fine appearance.
For the first time in her recollections, she wished to be admired for her looks at a ball.
It certainly did not resemble her normal dirty attire, and practical appearance she adopted when they had been traipsing along the beach and cliffs.
Having worn a gown one day, she had given this up after twenty-four hours, as it was too complicated, and had worn breeches after that.
Looking around the ballroom, she took in the grand sight. From the milling families, the musicians, the dancers, the flashing candles, yet no matter where she looked, she could not see Mr. O’Sullivan.
“Ahh, Miss Guthrie,” Judith said as she curtsied to the older woman, who wore three plumes in her hair and a puce-colored gown.
“Allow me to introduce my nieces.” There was a note of pride to Miss Guthrie’s voice as she indicated the two young women to her side.
Both women were handsomely dressed in gowns that looked a little like Abigail’s sprig muslins but decidedly more fashionable.
Of course, she remembered them from their previous visits over the years, but she doubted they would recall her.
In their childhoods, both of the Costigan girls had delighted in teasing Abigail for her oddities.
“Miss Costigan and Miss Eugenia Costigan. Their brother is somewhere nearby. He was very taken with Miss Sophia, as I understand it. These are the other Fossey sisters I told you about.” The former lady was taller and had the most beautiful cascade of red hair imaginable, whereas the younger had paler tresses and an enviably curved figure.
Neither seemed to regard the brunettes before them as worthy of notice.
Again, Abigail felt a flush of annoyance at how women like the four of them were constantly in competition with each other.
“We had the pleasure of meeting your sister in Bath,” Miss Costigan said. Even Abigail could tell how insincere the comment was. It was not Sophia’s fault that most women envied her.