The Manuscript
October 12, 1912
Ugbrooke House, Devon, England
I could not have written a more perfect man.
“Lose your dance card,” a voice whispered to me as I passed through the crowd and onto the dance floor. Who would dare say such a thing? Particularly since I was on the arm of Thomas Clifford, distant relation of my hosts, Lord and Lady Clifford of Chudleigh, and quite the focus of the unattached ladies at the Ugbrooke House ball.
Impertinent, I thought to myself, even rude. I imagined the scene if my dance partner had overheard him. Even worse, imagine if my dance partner was the one—our Fate, as my friends and I liked to describe prospective husbands—and had been distracted from his attentions. Still, a frisson passed through me, and I wondered who would hazard such impudence. I turned in the direction of the voice, but strains of Elgar’s Symphony No. 1 began to play, and my partner pulled me out to dance.
As we waltzed, I tried to identify the man from among the throngs lining the vast ballroom floor. Mummy would chastise me for not focusing my attentions upon the young Mr. Clifford, but from rumors, I knew that the eligible, well-connected gentleman needed to marry an heiress and could have no legitimate interest in me anyway. I was nearly penniless with only the inheritance of Ashfield villa to offer, an estate many would consider a curse rather than a blessing, particularly since I had no funds to support it and the villa was in constant need of repair. A lost opportunity Mr. Clifford was not. But I had no doubt that opportunity would indeed present itself. Wasn’t that the destiny of all us girls? To be swept away by a man and then swept into the tidal pull of our Fate?
Dozens of men in evening dress stood in the corner of the gilded ballroom, but none seemed a likely candidate for such a brash invitation. Until I saw him. A fair, wavy-haired man stood on the fringes of the dance floor, his eyes on me. Never once did I see him engage in conversation with any of the other gentlemen, nor did I see him attempt to escort any of the ladies onto the floor. His only movement occurred when he walked over to the orchestra and spoke to the conductor, after which he returned to his spot in the corner.
The last chords of the orchestra sounded, and Mr. Clifford returned me to my post next to my dear friend Nan Watts, who was breathless from a quick turn around the floor with a red-faced acquaintance of her parents. As the orchestra began the next song and a florid young gentleman swooped in to fetch Nan, I glanced at the dance booklet dangling from my wrist by a red silk cord to see with whom I was paired.
A hand appeared on my wrist. I looked up into the intense blue eyes of the man who had been staring at me. Instinctively, I pulled my hand away, but somehow, he slipped my dance card off my wrist and entwined his fingers in mine.
“Forget your dance card for just one song,” he said in a low, gravelly voice that I recognized as belonging to the brazen young man from a few minutes ago. I couldn’t believe what he was asking, and I was shocked he’d taken my card. Allowing another man to cut into your dance card lineup simply wasn’t done, even when that dance card had gone missing.
I thought I heard the distinctive chords of a famous tune by Irving Berlin. It sounded like “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” but I knew I must be wrong. Lord and Lady Clifford would never have requested this modern song from their orchestra. In fact, I guessed that they’d be irate at this deviation from standard protocol; classical, symphonic pieces—paired with sedate dances certain not to inflame the passions of the young—were the order of the day.
He watched the expression on my face as I listened to the music. “I hope you like Berlin,” he said with a small, self-satisfied smile.
“You arranged this?” I asked.
A sheepish smile spread across his face, displaying his dimples. “I overheard you saying to your friend that you longed for some more up-to-date music.”
“How did you manage it?” I was astonished not only at his audacity but at his determination. It was, well, flattering. No one had ever made such a grandiose gesture for me. Certainly none of the ragtag suitors with whom my mother tried to match me in Cairo for my coming out two years ago, a necessary endeavor because the cost of coming out in London—the numerous fashionable gowns, the parties attended and hosted, the price of renting a town house for the season—was too high for Mummy’s reduced circumstances. And not even dear Reggie, whom I’d known my whole life as the kindly older brother of my dear friends the Lucy sisters but who only recently became much more than a family friend, had undertaken a similar effort. Reggie and I had formed an understanding—between each other and our families—that our lives and our families would one day be linked by marriage. An amorphous future marriage, but matrimony nonetheless. Although now, viewing that union in the context of this splashy wooing, it seemed a placid affair, albeit a comfortable one.
“Does it matter?” he asked.
I suddenly felt quite overwhelmed. Looking down at the floor, a fierce blush overtaking my face, I shook my head.
“I hope you’ll dance with me.” His voice was low and firm.
Even though I could hear Mummy’s voice in my head cautioning me against dancing with a man to whom I had not been properly introduced, never mind that he had somehow wrangled an invitation to the Ugbrooke House ball and laid waste to my dance card, I said, “Yes.”
Because really, how dangerous could one dance be?