It didn’t surprise me at all to see my cousin, within three days of our arrival, attach himself suddenly and completely to a lady of questionable merit. Mr. Lovell’s younger sister was still away, but even if she weren’t, she was happily engaged and was therefore ineligible for Vincent’s brand of passion. For that Miss Camilla was surely blessed.
It was on the evening of our second day when Mr. Lovell took us to a ball in Winsford—“A glamorous night of waltzes, drink, and beautiful rich people,” my cousin slyly whispered to me before emptying his glass of brandy as we waited for the carriage.
The festivities were held in Huntley House, tucked away in the southern borders of Dulverton. The house was the Lovell family’s nearest neighbor of considerable wealth, and even then, the current resident was a tenant, not the owner, and he held no title but that of a gentleman of great income. A vast, sprawling lawn ringed with ancient oaks cradled its lonely occupant—an old house whose chalk-colored stone walls were choked with ivy as it stood proud in its indeterminate pedigree.
I’d never been to a ball. I didn’t know what to expect other than to ensure that I didn’t get crushed to death by a swirl of giddy dancers. Avoiding injury was no mean feat, to be sure. Either the ballroom was too small for such a great company, or there were simply far too many guests present even for such a large house. It took me some time, but I presently found a section of the ballroom’s periphery that held the least number of observers.
There were also a few ornamental potted plants there, which offered me a safe haven.
I wove my blandly clothed self among more fashionable figures without trouble. Not only was my suit too plain to vie for attention amid the endless sea of lace and colored silk, feathers and brilliant baubles, but my figure was thin enough to be safely enveloped by the immense yardage of ladies’ skirts and the elegant darkness of gentlemen’s tailcoats—even as I walked among them.
I presently stopped behind one of the ornamental plants and half-hid myself behind its leaves. A part of myself wished miserably that I were back in the vicarage, lost in the calm of my bedroom or Papa’s library, my favorite book lying open before me. Another part, however, marveled at the scene, so vastly removed from the rural simplicity of Gatcombe.
A small orchestra stood against the wall directly opposite mine, separated from the rest of the ballroom by pretty shrubbery set in two pots that flanked them. I stood at a point where I could catch a satisfactory glimpse of two ends of the ballroom, both with great doors that opened to the library in one and a sitting room in another. I found the door leading to the library to be a favorite vanishing point for older guests. I later learned it was in the library where they passed the time in sober and more dignified card-games while the younger guests swept through the other door in order to rest and refresh themselves in the sitting room between dances.
It was a good scheme all in all because the waltz was an infinite dance from what I could see. I could scarcely guess how the ladies and gentlemen present could move around and around the ballroom without a single pause for breath—or, indeed, their conscience. I caught myself more than once frowning at the intimacy of each couple as they swirled past me. All I knew about dances were limited to Mama’s descriptions of quadrilles and Stephen’s nostalgic accounts of country-dancing in his youth. I’d heard of waltzes, but nothing in my limited knowledge prepared me for the remarkable audacity of what I witnessed that evening. Ladies and their partners held each other in a manner that inspired a confusing mix of embarrassment and wonder in me. It was every bit a miracle that I was practically invisible to the company present because I now shudder at the thought of the drop-jawed and wide-eyed look that surely had fixed itself on my face.
Looking around, I found some of the spectators standing along the ballroom’s periphery looking mortified as they watched the dancers. They were mostly older, many of them flanking young ladies who looked utterly miserable as they were kept from dancing by their chaperones. A friendly greeting from an acquaintance did nothing to assuage the older guests’ shock and outrage, and they held their ground, watching the impropriety of the scene before them and yet appearing enthralled. With the passage of time, however, I found myself growing more and more comfortable with the scandalous nature of the ball and enjoying the music’s curious beauty.
I was also quite glad—at first, that is—for the occasional distraction offered by Vincent and his drunken attempts at teaching me the essentials of courtship.
The Hon. Elizabeth Riddell, known within Somerset’s fashionable circles to be an insufferable flirt, had aimed and shot her arrows with stunning accuracy. Vincent, struck in the heart, obligingly collapsed at her feet, quite dazed and speaking in tongues. Surely, I thought, there wasn’t a love more fascinating to watch than what I was being subjected to between Vincent and Miss Riddell.
“Watch, cousin,” Vincent gurgled as he staggered over to me, clapping a damp hand against my shoulder and grasping me tightly as he struggled to keep himself upright. It was a wonder he found me hiding behind foliage despite his drunkenness. “Let this be your first lesson in gallantry, romance, and the pursuit of all that’s beautiful and perfect. I daresay you’ve not much experience in this sort of thing, if at all.”
“Well—Mama owns a few novels, but I never read them,” I began, fighting off a grimace as Vincent leaned close, belching clouds of champagne, Madeira, sherry, port, or what on earth it was he’d been imbibing. “And I’ve never courted a lady before.” I tried to shake off his hand with a few shrugs, but he kept his hold despite his intoxication.
“I feel sorry for you, then, but never fear. You’ll enjoy the benefit of practical instruction—instruction by example, I mean.” He turned and gestured with his other hand, which held his glass, spilling some of his drink when he did. “See there, across the room—that charmer in red with the shapeliest, whitest neck that could ever be had by a woman?”
Across the ballroom and past the waltzing couples, the lady stood with a few friends—laughing, conversing, blushing, and ensuring that her shapeliest, whitest neck was never in want of admirers. She threw her head back so many times, which made me wonder if she’d ever awoken on any given morning with a bad ache in the much-celebrated part of her body.
“Yes, I see her.”
“I’m in love, you see, and I hope to secure her hand before we return home.” He raised his glass in the lady’s direction, perhaps toasting her health.
I looked askance at him. “And I’m to learn from you?”
“Naturally. We’re family. You’re younger and require guidance in delicate matters. God forbid that you go about courting women like an insipid puppy and forming embarrassing connections.”
“Very well then.”
Vincent smiled foggily, clapped my back one more time, and then stumbled off for more drink—reinforcements, I suppose, for all the violent lovemaking he was set to do. I sighed and watched my cousin vanish in the crowd, immediately turning my attention to the dancers.
At that point, I’d already grown quite intoxicated in my own way, the music and the endless dancing sweeping me up with their strange, luxurious charm. Scandalous intimacy aside, I suppose it was the heady mix of music, light, movement, and color that kept me entranced—mesmerized, almost, watching people move around a golden, misty ballroom as though they were colorful fairies flying in perpetual circles and near-embraces with each other.
One dream-like scene followed another. Inevitably, my attention was wholly fixed on Mr. Lovell, who was (unsurprisingly) never in want of a partner. I sought to study him—his manners, his conversation—because he certainly rose well above my cousin in my estimation without exerting much effort.
Though as confident and vivacious as Vincent, Mr. Lovell still embodied what I believed to be a real gentleman’s qualities, his friendliness being more refined and dignified than my cousin’s. Vincent’s manners—though he might be born to and shaped within the bounds of privilege like Mr. Lovell—were marred by coarseness so unbecoming to him, one that even someone in my position could easily see and not avoid censuring. That evening, I tried to compare both of them, shifting my attention from the drunken flirtation that took place across the ballroom and the easy, charming enticement that went on in time with the orchestra.
Mr. Lovell must have changed partners half a dozen times, though I’d seen him vanish into the sitting room around four times in the course of his dancing, before he finally withdrew in exhaustion. I couldn’t blame him at all. With every lady he honored with his attention, he behaved without the mortifying exaggerations that a gentleman could easily resort to when caught up in a wild spiral of excitement. I might have caught sight of him in brief flashes, but I was convinced of his behavior, his embodiment of all that was admirable in a gentleman. His attention was wholly fixed on the lady, and he smiled without faltering, that quiet display of pleasure broken on occasion whenever he spoke or laughed at something his partner said. I was amazed that they could even converse, with all their exertions. The way he carried himself, the way he held his partners—I studied everything, even felt a mild stab of jealousy and yearning.
“If I could only be like him,” I muttered, convinced I understood the true nature of my jealousy. Now I laugh at myself. Lord Lovell was correct. I was a mere child then.
I’d completely given up on Vincent and his questionable courtship. Having caught Miss Riddell encouraging another gentleman’s attentions while my cousin momentarily vanished from her side, very likely to find more drink, I merely shook my head and shrugged it all away.
It was perhaps a bold turning up of my nose at romance, but I felt I’d seen quite enough for one night and sought the quiet of the garden.
I slipped out of the ballroom and eventually found my way outside, where several guests strolled or simply spent the time in conversation. The evening was quite warm and comfortable, and I luxuriated in the openness and the fresh air as I walked down a path, discreetly avoiding stray couples here and there. My thoughts threatened to take a darker turn as I whiled away my time in the garden. There were too many figures—cloaked by the night, ensured their privacy by the trees and the perfectly groomed shrubbery—that stirred a certain uncomfortable yearning in me. There was certainly something mocking about the scene. The perfection of a moonlit garden, the muffled sounds of a romantic waltz from within doors, nipped away at the edges of my mind and roused a few doubts about my own chances at happiness.
It was a strange turn. I’d always been fond of solitude because it offered me a certain familiar comfort—that of my own thoughts and the calm of Nature around me. That evening, however, no comfort awaited me in the moonlit gardens. Only loneliness.
“Let me love prudently,” I whispered again and again, my steps seemingly guided by my words. I realized afterward I’d been walking in wide, thoughtless circles around the garden. A repetitious movement, not unlike that prayer—I’d call it a prayer—in four anxious words.
When we returned to Shepley Abbey, I made good my promise to my host. Mr. Lovell, utterly spent, fell asleep on my shoulder, while Vincent once again lay across his seat, quite unconscious.
* * * *
My cousin remained in bed the following day, suffering from all the ill effects of his debauchery, and I was grateful Lord Lovell had plenty of servants who could look after Vincent. I certainly wasn’t willing to put up with his complaints.
“Give him time,” Mr. Lovell said over breakfast. “Your cousin’s quite resilient. He’s been through this sort of thing before.”
“Several times, I’d imagine,” I replied dryly as I bit into my toast.
“Yes, several—but you can’t expect much else from university.”
“You’ve turned out quite well.”
He laughed and thanked me, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he truly appreciated what I said because I meant every word and hoped he would see that. As it happened, he rewarded me with an invitation to an exploration of the countryside by way of his favorite footpaths.
“I think a bit of an adventure would suit you,” he said. “There are a few churches along the way that offer travelers pretty enough views that break up the monotony of trees and hills.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“Good! We can go after breakfast.”
I stared at him in a mixture of surprise, relief, and jubilation. He wished to show me his world, and Vincent wasn’t expected to join us. I welcomed my host’s invitation with a silent cheer but took care to express my appreciation and gratitude in a more dignified manner. Energy and interest flared, I finished my meal and excused myself. I needed to change into a more proper walking costume—which, really, didn’t mean much. I merely threw on the same jacket I wore in my journey to Liscombe and combed my hair.
I was ready in minutes and hurried downstairs to the sitting room, where Mr. Lovell instructed me to go. When I opened the door, however, I found my host in the company of two ladies and a gentleman—unexpected guests, I assumed, judging from the startled yet pleased expression on Mr. Lovell’s face as he conversed with them in his usual warm, cheerful way. I hesitated at the door, deciding what to do next, when I caught Mr. Lovell’s attention.
He stopped the conversation and beckoned to me with a nod and a wave.
“A moment, if you please,” he said to his companions.
The three guests turned to look in my direction just as I stepped in, and Mr. Lovell quitted their company to meet me halfway. I recognized none of them. The gentleman looked older than Mr. Lovell, but he carried himself no differently, perhaps with even greater dignity, which made me assume that he was a man of some stature. Even the two ladies with him—one who appeared to be in her forties and was perhaps a relation of some kind, the other quite a bit younger, very likely a year or two older than I—regarded me with the same air of haughty curiosity. They acknowledged me with the slightest nod, the older lady raising a brow.
A man of no consequence could easily be dismissed, and they turned away once I was properly, thoroughly appraised. Mr. Lovell took me gently by my elbow and led me back to the door.
“I’m afraid I can’t join you this morning,” he said in low tones. “Do forgive me for abandoning you like this, but Lord Thornber and his family—”
“It’s quite all right,” I interrupted with a faint smile. “I’m keen on exploring the countryside hereabouts. I don’t mind doing it alone for now.”
Mr. Lovell looked relieved, and he released my arm.
“Thank you, Master Wakeman—Nathaniel. I promise to spend some time in your company another day as I’ve yet to enjoy your conversation without the world intruding.”
I stammered my thanks, barely able to absorb the directions to the footpaths he proceeded to give me. His brief mention of my Christian name lingered, and I was entranced not so much by his unusual usage but by the gentle manner with which he said it.