Chapter 6
THE WAKEFIELD ASSEMBLY ROOMS STOOD AT THE FAR END OF town like a beacon, smooth white stucco lit by the now big round moon, torchlights leaping out front on either side of the proud, columned entrance.
Annabel wondered how she could have missed it yesterday: the handsome building holding court at the far end of the pristine market town that seemed to take its Regency Society as serious business.
It being a weekend night, she’d expected families, tourists, rowdy pub goers, but the streets were quiet and barely recognizable, except for the carriages waiting their turn to pull into the half-circle gravel drive to deposit their passengers.
Annabel was agog when James handed her down amidst a cluster of fancy coaches she’d seen pictures of but never in person—curricles, gigs, barouches, landaus—immaculately preserved, mint condition down to the wheels.
Handsome people disembarked by twos and fours in stunning costume, every detail considered.
They prattled merrily to each other as they filed up the stone steps to the blazing-white building at ease in their cosplay, happily inhabiting the pretend of it all.
Annabel turned to James. “A ha’penny country dance?”
James crinkled his twinkling eyes. “You seem like the sort who can hold her own,” he said. “And I’ll be waitin’ right close when you’ve had yer fill.”
He so looked the part of a coachman, from his hat and coat down to the missing tooth, it made her wonder whether the society assigned roles, or if people picked the person they wanted to be.
There was so much she didn’t know. Being a first timer, with no guidance at all, and no idea of the rules, Annabel would have to wing it.
***
“Miss Annabel Blake, Kidlington House.”
The butler, strictly in character, repeated Annabel’s name when she said it as if it were her third or fourth ball of the summer season, instead of the first of her life.
He looked past her, unsmiling, the way he seemed to do with everyone, but handed her a dance card with a small pencil attached by a ribbon, which she promptly put in the small drawstring purse dangling from her wrist. She was the only unaccompanied party, as far as she could tell, but the burbling throng didn’t seem to notice, sweeping her along in a current of swooshing satins and silks to the entrance where the ballroom unfurled like a new world in front of her.
The great room was fresh and airy, with understated elegance but a buoyant optimism.
Its walls were a robin’s-egg blue; the ceiling soared into crisp white cornices and covings with neoclassical motifs.
There were two stately marble hearths, one on each side.
The second tier boasted a viewing balcony on the left and musicians on the right, playing a jaunty tune.
Beneath them, partygoers assumed their posts, some to watch and gossip, others to mill about—young women racing to fill their dance cards as fast as they could.
But the swirl at the center, the beating heart of it all, was comprised of eight couples dancing in longways formation under a chandelier with at least a hundred real candles that set the whole room aglow.
How many times Annabel had dreamed of a night like this one.
But even her novel-fueled imagination was never as expansive as this—Bunty had said it—the oldest Regency Society in all of England.
Here was the inspiration she needed to rewrite her novel.
She’d make herself invisible, be a voyeur the whole night, commit each detail to memory: the dancers’ light steps and bouncing ringlets; the bold red of a military uniform here and there; the gilt mirrors multiplying the candlelight; the clink of crystal; and fresh flowers, yes, billowing out of enormous vases.
They were Bunty’s doing, no doubt. But where was Bunty?
Annabel was suddenly aware that she was holding up the progress of partygoers who lightly buffeted her shoulders as they passed her to enter the ballroom.
She spied an open doorway on the left, no doubt leading to the viewing balcony.
She threaded her way through the crowd and up the stairs to the railing, the best perch for surveying the room.
Whoever Bunty was pretending to be, she’d know her when she saw her.
“I beg your pardon.”
Annabel turned to find a lovely young woman in an understated crème silk that matched her fair complexion, pink-hued pearls at her neck, and a subtle smile on her face.
“I could not help noticing you from the first,” she said.
“Have we met?” said Annabel.
“Are you not Miss Blake?”
Annabel looked at her, flummoxed. “I am Miss Blake. But how do you know me?”
“Oh, Lady Gidding-Wedmore knows everything of everyone, and her nose for new blood is, well, better than any foxhound.”
Impressed, Annabel played along. “I’m sure Mrs. Taylor put her up to it.”
“I confess, I do not know a Mrs. Taylor.”
“Bunty Taylor?”
The young woman shook her head. Annabel looked below at the froth of costumes, accoutrements, feathers, jewels. But so far, no Bunty.
“Perhaps she goes by another name when she’s at a ball?”
“What a novel idea! I should consider it myself.” The young woman curtsied lightly, as her status allowed. “But for now, I am Fanny Gidding-Wedmore—Mother’s firstborn, only born, and, as she will tell you within moments of meeting you, best born as well.”
Annabel curtsied in turn. “Annabel Blake, currently of Kidlington House.”
“That much we’ve determined.”
Fanny’s easy familiarity made Annabel relax, and she’d done it without breaking character. Maybe all newcomers were subjected to this gentle welcome, more initiation than test. The society was “always on the lookout for new blood,” after all.
“And an American at that,” said Fanny. “We do like an American now and then in our midst. For your freshness, I suppose.”
Bunty had said that too. That the society was strict with its rules but might approve of her. Annabel liked the way Fanny was forward and coy at the same time. She leaned in, hoping for some insider tips.
“Shall I continue to play along, then?”
Fanny laughed lightly. “Only if you intend to survive the ordeal. Under my careful tutelage, of course.” She turned her attention to the crowd below. “Let’s see. Hmm. I should first introduce you to our dramatis personae.”
“Oh, please do.”
“Best at a safe distance, I assure you.” Fanny looked out over the festive crowd.
“Look there,” she said, with a tactful incline of her chin toward a jolly, round man in a black tunic, with red cheeks and a tuft of hair sprouting from the bald peak of his head.
He seemed to be pontificating, sloshing his glass of syllabub as he did.
“That will be our Reverend Tudor, who does not preach gluttony, but enjoys the practice.”
Annabel contained a small burst of laughter behind her glove.
Fanny then indicated a woman of middle age and middle looks, whose face was pinched in a permanent scowl. “That is dear Mrs. Lackington, who cares only for status, income, and property, especially whatever isn’t hers.”
“Well, it is the Regency Society, after all.”
Fanny seemed too refined to snicker but pulled it off with a charming side-eye.
“You’ll see when you meet her,” she said. “Mrs. Lackington has a particular talent for making everyone else’s business her own. Consider this fair warning.”
“Honestly, I can’t wait.”
Then, with an almost imperceptible tip of her head, Fanny indicated a group of young girls, all with the same tight ringlets and petal-pink cheeks, standing with their apparent ringleader, practically licking their lips at any good-looking man who passed.
“There you have Miss Althea Warnaby, holding court with her gaggle, whom she would drop in a minute if the right man asked for a dance. A young regiment man, preferably. With good breeding, of course, though if not, good breeches will do.”
On cue, the master of ceremonies called a quadrille.
They watched as a young man in military garb approached Althea, who, just as Fanny predicted, abandoned her gossiping flock for her rightful place on the floor.
Annabel looked down to marvel at the orderly movement of couples who knew every step by heart.
The whole magnificent scene was like every Austen novel coming to life.
Every species of character, the quirks and eccentricities. Here they all were, on full display.
She could hardly contain her awe. “So, this is the Regency Society.”
“Where for want of anything better to do, we shall all perish of sameness,” said Fanny, perfecting the boredom of a wealthy young woman required to find it all a bit beneath her.
“Oh, but it’s wonderful. All of it! Civilized and elegant and romantic, and, well—there’s nothing like it back home. Nothing that comes close.”
“Another reason to like the Americans!”
“I just can’t believe anyone would go to this much trouble.”
“Oh, it is no trouble to Lady Gidding-Wedmore, now entering on the left.”
Annabel turned to see a large woman proceeding into the assembly room ball as if she owned the place, feathers spouting from her headpiece, jewels crowding her vast décolletage.
When one of her entourage whispered in her ear, she threw back her head and laughed loud enough to compete with the hubbub of music and patter.
“And better than I could’ve imagined her. Is she really your mother?”
“Quite, I’m afraid.” Fanny sighed. “And there will be no avoiding her. We must all pay homage.”
“I look forward to it!”
Fanny studied Annabel. “You’re quite game, aren’t you? I must say, I admire it.”
Annabel was mostly just being herself, but it seemed to be working. She turned back to the resplendent scene. “Honestly, I’m a little overwhelmed.”
“Well, I am wont to be underwhelmed. So, we make a perfect pair.”