The next day was overcast and grey, but Helene woke with a mood of optimism she had not felt in a long time. All because of a ball? She could not think herself so shallow, but life had been so bleak for so long that the prospect of music and dancing and wearing that beautiful gown was enough for her to look forward to.
As long as she kept Rhys out of her mind.
She rang for the maid and dressed quickly before heading straight to Wilson’s room. Her preparation for the ball was to be a team effort. Mrs Jacobs and Louise were to bring items she might need. A papillote iron to curl her hair. A pot of rouge to tint her cheeks and lips. Extra pins for her hair and her dress. She could not have asked for two more enthusiastic lady’s maids.
She spent most of the day in Wilson’s room with them, while Louise altered the dress so that it fit her to perfection. Luckily Wilson was a great deal better and a good sport about being encompassed by this purely feminine business. She left them only to arrange for food or to run to the shops for whatever they forgot.
When the time came for her to dress for dinner, Wilson felt well enough to be left alone. He persuaded the ladies to attend to Helene in her own room, perhaps to gain a little peace for himself. At times, thinking of Rhys, Helene’s spirits started to flag, but the ebullience of Mrs Jacobs and Louise always lifted her up again. Even if she did not enjoy the ball, she’d always fondly remember sharing this part of the day with Mrs Jacobs and Louise.
Helene sat at her dressing table as Louise pinned her hair up in a knot resembling a mass of curls high on her head and loose curls framing her face.
‘After dinner, we will add ribbons,’ Louise said.
Mrs Jacobs nodded. ‘Yes. You must look very fancy indeed. The hair must complement the dress.’
Helene was fairly certain Mrs Jacobs had never been to a society ball, nor worn a ball gown, but she was beginning to enjoy the nurse’s absolute certainty in her opinions. Would Helene have made it this far without Mrs Jacobs urging her on? If not for Mrs Jacobs, would she not have spent the past two days sitting in her hotel room, desolate about Rhys and worried about David?
For dinner before the ball Helene chose the other of her two day dresses, this one a dark green. It was a walking dress, not at all a dinner dress, but she added the finest of her new lace fichus to make it a fancy as she could. Her serviceable half-boots would not do at all, so she wore the gold slippers that matched her ball gown.
‘Wear the earrings to dinner and add the necklace for the ball,’ suggested Louise.
The earrings resembled two teardrops that dangled from her ears. ‘Are you certain these are paste?’ They were lovely enough to be real.
Louise laughed. ‘Oh, they are paste. On stage they catch the light well enough.’
Mrs Jacobs put her hands on her waist. ‘Well, I defy anyone to tell you they are not real.’
Helene smiled at her, an expert on jewels now. ‘With that endorsement, I shall feel quite special in them.’
Mrs Jacobs beamed.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck seven.
Mrs Jacobs waved her hands. ‘It is time. You must go now. Your Captain will be waiting for you!’
Helene wondered if that would be true.
Mrs Jacobs and Louise accompanied Helene down the stairway to the hall, where Captain Grantwell waited for her. Alone.
Helene turned to say goodbye to her friends before they reached the bottom of the stairs.
Mrs Jacobs looked as disappointed as Helene felt, seeing only Grantwell, but she put on a resolute expression. ‘Never you mind. Your Captain will show up. I will wager on it.’
‘It does not matter,’ Helene lied. She squeezed each of their hands. ‘I will see you later!’ When they would be helping her dress for the ball.
Grantwell stepped forward to meet Helene at the bottom of the stairs. He extended his arm to her. ‘Good evening, Lady Helene.’
She quickly scanned the hall again.
‘He did not come,’ Grant said.
She gave him a wan smile. ‘I did not expect him.’
She took his arm and he led her to the dining room. Grantwell had been good company before, she told herself. She could enjoy dinner.
The servant led them to a table set for three.
‘There will only be two of us,’ Grantwell told the man, who removed the extra setting, bowed and walked away. Grantwell turned to Helene. ‘I took the liberty of ordering our food ahead of time. We will have more leisure to dine that way.’
She smiled again. ‘How thoughtful of you.’
The servant returned and poured some wine.
Helene’s smile fled as she glanced around the room, wondering if Rhys were seated with someone else.
Grant lifted the glass of wine to his lips. ‘I am sorry about Rhys. I tried to convince him to come.’
She turned to him. ‘I did not expect him to come.’
‘I hoped he would.’ Grantwell took a sip and did what she’d become used to of him. Made conversation. ‘I am looking forward to the ball. Are you? I attended one society ball before Napoleon decided to escape Elba, but none for a couple of years before that.’
‘A society ball?’ She was puzzled for a moment. ‘Are...are you perhaps related to Viscount Grantwell?’
He swallowed more wine. ‘My brother.’
‘I did not put it together before.’ She was a bit embarrassed that she had not. ‘I believe I met Viscount Grantwell during one London Season.’
‘You met my brother?’ He did not make this sound like a pleasant thing.
‘It would have been three or four years ago,’ she responded. ‘I did not attend a Season last year or this.’ This year she’d been nursing her parents or mourning their deaths. The year before she’d simply refused.
He gave a dry laugh. ‘Did he court you?’
‘A little perhaps, but he soon gave it up.’
He peered at her. ‘You know, every time you call me Grantwell, I think of my brother. I do wish you would call me Grant.’
She smiled. ‘Very well—Grant.’
The servant brought their first course. Waterzooi, a fish soup.
Grant went on. ‘I assume you had a very good dowry. My brother would only consider a wife of elevated status and some wealth.’
What was she to say to that? ‘I suppose it was good enough.’
‘How was it my brother or someone like him did not win your hand?’ he asked.
She lifted her wine glass and gazed over it to meet his eye. ‘They were not Rhys.’
Rhys stood at the doorway scanning the dining room.
After Grant left for dinner, Rhys had paced a while, then impulsively changed into his finest regimentals. Why not attend the ball? See and be seen. He was a Captain in the East Essex Regiment and would outrank several of the junior officers who’d undoubtedly been invited. Rhys earned his right to stand next to them. He’d earned that right on the battlefield.
He could tolerate Helene for a few short hours. Besides, he wanted to tell both her and her brother to leave Brussels immediately. The battle was imminent. All the signs were there.
The dining room was crowded this Thursday evening. Most of the men seated in the room also wore their best uniforms. Sons of aristocrats, probably. Many had never seen a battle, as well. Rhys stood straighter. He had that advantage over them.
His gaze finally found Grant and Helene. Her back was to him, but, even from the back, he could see that her hair was arranged in curls and her dress had a nice piece of lace draped over the bodice. Not her ball gown, though. The ladies would change into ball gowns after they dined.
Helene and Grant appeared to be conversing happily. Rhys’s approach would end that, certainly. Did he wish to spoil their dinner?
No. He must let her go. No matter what her father—and she—had done five years ago, Rhys had done well for himself. They were both where they belonged. Helene dined with the son of an aristocrat and anticipated a ball. Rhys had the army.
He turned on his heel and left. Rhys walked out of the hotel and on to the street. He told himself he would rather dine at one of the taverns he and Grant frequented in Brussels. Although he still had the invitation to the ball in his pocket, the idea of walking in to the Duke’s house on Rue de la Blanchisserie lost its appeal.
After dinner Helene returned to her hotel room where her two makeshift lady’s maids were eagerly awaiting her. She stripped down to her shift and stays and let Louise dab some perfume on her before carefully pinning a lace ribbon and gold chain through her hair.
Mrs Jacobs stood by with, as usual, much to say. ‘I cannot believe your Captain did not show. What is the matter with him? He is a great disappointment to me at the moment, I tell you.’
Helene looked at Mrs Jacobs through her reflection in the mirror. ‘I am determined not to allow Rhys to spoil my night.’ Which was true. She’d spent most of the last five years accommodating herself to losing Rhys for ever. Encountering him here in Brussels changed nothing.
Mrs Jacobs folded her arms across her chest. ‘I suppose Captain Grantwell is charming enough, but he is not your Captain.’
Rhys was not her Captain either.
‘Be quiet and hold still,’ Louise ordered. ‘I am going to put a touch of rouge on your cheeks.’ She turned Helene’s face towards her.
‘Do not overdo it,’ cautioned Mrs Jacobs. ‘We do not want her looking like la putain.’
‘Certainly not!’ Louise said. ‘Just enough to put a bloom in her cheeks.’ She dipped her finger in the rouge pot and lightly tinted Helene’s lips. She turned Helene’s face to Mrs Jacobs. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well done, Louise!’ Mrs Jacobs replied. ‘She is as pretty as she can be!’
Helene turned to the mirror. The colour on her cheeks and lips looked so natural she would have sworn Louise added nothing. Her complexion seemed to glow. ‘You’ve made me look pretty,’ she said.
The woman beamed in pleasure. ‘I learned much at the theatre.’ She picked up the gold dress from where it was draped over to the bed. ‘Now the dress.’
Louise held the dress while Helene stepped into it.
‘Make certain your feet are free,’ Mrs Jacobs warned. ‘You mustn’t rip it now.’
Louise pulled up the dress and buttoned the buttons in the back.
‘Let me see,’ Mrs Jacobs cried. Both she and Louise surveyed Helene.
Louise smiled.
Mrs Jacobs clapped her hands. ‘It fits perfectly!’ She gestured to Helene. ‘Look in the mirror, mademoiselle!’
Helene stepped back so she could see as much of herself as possible in the dressing room mirror. ‘Oh, my!’ She glanced from Louise to Mrs Jacobs and back to the mirror. ‘It is perfection, Louise.’
‘Not yet it isn’t’ Mrs Jacobs handed her the gloves, which Louise helped her put on while Mrs Jacobs waited with the lace shawl over her arm. She placed the shawl around Helene’s shoulders.
‘No, let it slip to your elbows.’ Louise helped her adjust it. ‘There.’
Helene looked in the mirror again. She had never felt prettier. If only... No. She would not wish Rhys could see her. It was enough that she liked the way she looked.
‘You are a dream,’ Mrs Jacobs said, with a catch in her throat.
Helene gave the nurse a big hug and another one for Louise. ‘I cannot thank you enough, both of you. I only wish you could come with me and share in all this excitement.’
Mrs Jacobs gave a hearty laugh. ‘Oh, to see the faces of all les nobles if I were to walk in!’
Helene hugged her again. ‘I do not care. I would welcome you.’
Louise pointed to the clock. ‘You must go. It is time.’
She picked up her new lace reticule to carry with her. ‘Come. See me to the hall. I promise I will stop by Wilson’s room tomorrow to tell you all about it!’