32. The Ellesmere Ball
THE SUPERMOON CASSIE WISHED FOR ANNABEL NOW ROSE LIKE A triumph in the sky, big and brazen, lighting not just the way to Ellesmere, but all ways, there and back.
When Annabel emerged from the carriage, she lifted her face to admire its wondrous abundance in the deep indigo sky.
She drew strength from it, felt her own light grow brighter.
Guests milled about outside the door, waiting their turn to enter and be announced.
But when she stepped down, they turned to witness the arrival of the guest of honor and parted naturally to let her pass into the house before them.
There, her own name echoed in the vestibule and susurrated on everyone’s lips.
Miss Annabel Blake.
Lady Gidding-Wedmore and Fanny, greeting guests as they streamed inside, sparked in unison at the sound of her name.
“Look at you,” said Lady Gidding-Wedmore, dripping with jewels and glee. “I must say, you are the sun, the moon, and the stars—a universe entire!”
“Thank you, Lady Gidding-Wedmore. But I’m afraid it’s still just me.”
“Well, ‘just you’ is doing just fine, if you ask me. And what a night it promises to be.” She tittered and fled to the next guest.
Fanny took Annabel’s gloved hands in hers and surveyed her head to toe.
“Mother’s right. You are dazzling. Why, I could not imagine for him a more perfect wife—Mrs. Henry Leighton D’Evercy, Mistress of Ellesmere. All any woman should ever wish to be, and the envy of every other.”
“Thank you, Fanny. But don’t forget that envy is beneath you.”
“Just in this moment, I find myself making a rare exception.”
Annabel looked at her, humbled. “I wouldn’t be here if not for you.”
“You give me too much credit and take not enough for yourself. But in time, you will grow into your role.”
“I’m trying. But it’s moment to moment.”
Fanny’s eyes softened. She seemed to skirt the edge of real emotion. “Isn’t that what life is? An accumulation of moments. Some good, some bad. All we can do is try to choose well, where we’re able.”
Annabel followed Fanny’s gaze to where Warnaby stood with another gentleman, being his polite, lovely, blushing self.
“Does he make you happy?”
“Happiness,” Fanny scoffed. “Is that allowed?” She turned back to Annabel. “But he’s trying, I must say. Which dares give me hope.”
“For him or for you?”
“Perhaps for us both.” She squeezed Annabel’s hands and let go. “But tonight is about your happiness, Miss Annabel Blake.” She held an arm toward the ballroom. “Go on, then. A new world awaits you.”
Fanny’s words rang in Annabel’s head as she picked up her skirts and stepped toward the grand room, framed by its entrance.
Something made her stop, transfixed. It was like seeing the last chapter of her novel come to life, the ball scene she’d just written, but a hundred times more vivid.
Under the golden glow of three hundred beeswax candles, the room teemed with guests in their resplendent best, the women like a fair midsummer bouquet in every iteration of white and pastel, the men in formal black with frothy white shirts peeking from cuffs and collars.
The glint of mirrors, sparkling crystal, and the murmur of English voices added to the formal elegance, the noble air.
Annabel felt like a voyeur peering into her future, as if she’d become her own heroine crossing the threshold, knowing this time there would be no going back.
A new world awaits you.
The assembled party mingled and fizzed with excitement.
The musicians played a light, unassuming tune, warming up the crowd.
Althea and her gaggle, with their tight bouncing curls, scanned the room for prey, batting their eyes at this man or that, in hopes of filling their dance cards first. The older set greeted each other with news of the latest French fashion and London gossip.
Champagne flowed, lubricating the social graces.
Reverend Tudor, the evening’s master of ceremonies, buzzed like a bee from flower to flower explaining the expected order of events, which would begin, of course, with the opening dance, the Menuet de la Cour, as soon as the man and woman of the hour were arrived.
Annabel stepped into the ballroom with a deep breath, a long neck, and an open heart.
Heads craned to watch her; faint whispers found her ears: “There she is now,” “how elegant,” “so graceful.” She surveyed the crowd hoping to spot Henry, nodding to friendly faces and familiars, or people she’d never seen before, sizing her up.
Annabel was playing the part prescribed for her—the one she herself had written—and hoped she was pulling it off.
When she finally saw him across the room, he was looking back at her, enchanted.
Henry traversed the ballroom toward her, stopping briefly here and there to shake a congratulating hand.
How at ease he was in his body, his fine clothes, wealth, and position.
Maybe he was playing a part, as well, but it came so naturally to him, he didn’t question it.
She wondered if one day it would be natural to her too.
Suddenly, Harriet stepped in front of her, blocking her view. “Miss Blake.”
“Miss Lackington.”
“I only wished to say I do hope now that matters are quite settled, we shall become friends.”
Annabel tilted her head and considered Harriet, remembering Fanny’s gleeful anticipation of the “busybody Lackingtons” getting their due. But, having no wish to humiliate anyone, Annabel could afford to be gracious.
“Thank you, Miss Lackington. I look forward to being pleasantly surprised.”
“Indeed, as a demonstration of my sincerity, I have mentioned to Reverend Tudor that the musicians should play something special in your honor, apart from the evening’s programme. A surprise for everyone. When the moment is right, of course.”
“The Sir Roger de Coverley, no doubt—our own Virginia reel?”
“Mm.” Harriet smiled her ecru smile. “How delighted I am to have chosen well.”
***
When Henry at last reached Annabel, they basked in the nearness of each other—their sleeves lightly touching, her lips somewhat whispering in his ear, his hand lingering at the small of her back.
Now that they were engaged, it was tolerated, if not allowed.
He told her how beautifully she wore the dress, and the necklace, and confirmed that her arrival had been eagerly anticipated by all, but none more so than he, and how worth the wait she was.
Annabel relaxed in his presence. Henry made the world—this world—make sense.
Knowing the party was restless for the dancing to begin, he gave a gentle nod to the musicians in the gallery, who readied their instruments and bows.
The crowd hushed and gathered around when the two of them assumed their places at the center of the grand room as the first few notes of the minuet were struck.
It was that rare moment when a dance was allowed to be an exhibition, the display of a couple’s refinement and style, as much for the watchers as the watched.
Henry Leighton D’Evercy had long been an object of intrigue and fascination, if not collective swooning, but Annabel was the ingénue—the interloper who had captured his heart.
Whether they hoped to find a flaw in her footing or reason to revel in his choice of a wife, they were the voyeurs now, barely breathing, still and quiet.
Annabel curtsied; Henry bowed. He offered his hand in invitation, and she accepted with delicate certainty, her gloved hand alighting on his like a butterfly.
From that moment, the intensity of their mutual gaze made the other guests blur and fade away.
They were twin planets in orbit, their keen attention on the subtle movements of each other’s bodies in space, shoulder passing shoulder, a pivot, a pas de c?té, a plié.
Sometimes they passed so close they could feel warm breath on bare skin.
Her lips were slightly parted, his eyes soft but resolute.
Annabel felt her body in a way she never had—the pull, the gravity—desire all the way to her toes.
When she whirled, every cell in her being seemed to spin on its own axis.
Never had she felt this confident, so seen.
But she was watching herself, too, recording every sensation, each glimpse, all feeling.
When the final notes played, the air thrummed with an unmistakable charge. Henry bowed to Annabel, she curtsied, and applause erupted around them. They shared a private smile, knowing they’d done better than their part. The general dancing could now begin.
***
A quadrille, a cotillion, a country dance.
The mood in the room was glittery and jubilant, but it was the top man and top woman who caused the contagion to rage.
When the players paused long enough to change their sheet music, Henry suggested a glass of champagne to quench their thirst. It was an excuse to begin what he called “the rounds”—their obligatory peregrination about the room that would comprise Annabel’s formal introduction to relatives close and distant, friends, and acquaintances.
She found them occasionally stuffy, proper, and painfully upper-class, but managed to put each person at ease with the right mix of curiosity and charm.
He let her steal the show and beamed with pride when she spoke—saying just the right thing to just the right person—his hands clasped behind his back, listening to her every word.