Learning to Waltz (24 page)

“I’d be pleased to teach you some embroidery,” offered Elizabeth.

Deborah shook her head. “It would be a waste of your time. I never manage to finish the sewing that
needs
to be done.”

“But it’s so relaxing. And it’s an inexpensive way to create something beautiful for someone. Or for yourself.” Elizabeth adjusted the hoop on her fabric. “And who knows, perhaps your situation will not always be as it is now.”

Deborah continued with her silent stitches.

“You might marry again, for instance.”

“That’s highly unlikely,” Deborah muttered.

“Why should you think so? You’re young yet and so pretty. The physician—what is his name?—certainly finds you interesting.”

“Unfortunately. But it’s not marriage he thinks of, I assure you. And the idea of facing him over the breakfast table every morning…” Deborah shuddered.

“No, perhaps not. But if he is attracted to you, surely other men are as well.” They stitched in blessed silence for a few minutes. “What sort of man do you dream of, Deborah?”

Evan’s face, already imagined across the breakfast table, suddenly lay beside hers on the pillow, earnestly asking her to marry him.

Deborah blushed furiously and quickly banished his image from the room.

“Oh, you think I’m dreadfully impertinent, don’t you?” Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. “It is my biggest flaw. At least, so says my husband, who knows all of them and loves me nonetheless. I suppose that’s the sort of man
I
dream of. As a girl, of course, all I thought about was a handsome face, and strong arms, and kisses that would make me dizzy.”

Good heavens. Do women really talk about such things?
Deborah did not know. She knew better how to relate to men than women, and less than nothing about either.

Elizabeth smoothed the satin stitch that formed one petal in her design. “But I am preposterously lucky because I found all of those things, and all in one man. I was afraid I might have to marry several!” She laughed as she began another petal. “At one time, I wanted a fine swordsman as well, to fight duels over me.”

“How dreadful!”

“I am a little wiser now, I hope. Now don’t tell me you never dreamed up a perfect man, for I’ll not believe you!”

“Well…  There was once a knight on a white steed—it was Pegasus, actually—who carried me away from Lydford.”

“He didn’t have to fight for you?”

“Heavens, no. No one would have stood in his way.”

“What did he look like? I’m sure he was handsome.”

Deborah frowned, ousting Evan from that other knight’s armor. “I suppose so. I don’t think I ever saw behind the visor. But he was
not
fat,” she said firmly, “and he did not wear stays that creaked whenever he moved!”

Elizabeth gave a peal of laughter. “Of course not! Heroes are not allowed to be fat. They would find it far too difficult to dazzle fair damsels or to rescue little lads from peril.”

Deborah gasped as the needle stabbed her hand, and Elizabeth looked up at her. It was an assessing look, as though she had hoped to kindle a reaction. Well, she’d succeeded.

But there was sympathy as well. “I’m sorry, Deborah. Did you think I didn’t know the story?”

“No.” If Evan himself had not told her, or Lady Witney, no doubt Miss Latimer would have done so. But it almost seemed Elizabeth was encouraging her to hope for him. If that was so, what could be her motivation? Either cruelty or something Deborah did not dare dream of.

Elizabeth smiled gently and then returned to her work. A moment later she chuckled. “Can you imagine the good doctor crawling about under the hedge?” Deborah was too mortified to be amused.

Elizabeth wove the end of her thread into the back of her stitchery. “So what will you wear to the ball next week, Deborah?”

Oh dear. Could they not just talk about the weather or the children? The informal dance proposed earlier had evolved into a formal affair celebrating the double nuptials of Whately’s most aristocratic family.

“I have a peach-colored silk that will do.” Deborah had no intention of attending, but it was far easier to play along than to say so.

Elizabeth clapped her hands—one of those happy habits of hers—and threw her embroidery aside. “Oh, do let me see it!” Before Deborah could come up with a reason not to, Elizabeth took her hand and drew her out of her chair. Chattering about fashions and fabrics, she led Deborah up her own narrow staircase.

“What a sweet room!” she exclaimed. It certainly made the best possible use of the morning sunshine with its dormer window facing east. It felt warm and stuffy.

Deborah watched her friend take the Grand Tour of her drab little bedchamber. There was no reason to take even one step—one could stand in the doorway and see everything from the threadbare rug to the water damage on the ceiling. But once she’d started, Elizabeth no doubt felt she had to finish.

She touched the locket that lay on the dressing table. Picked up Deborah’s scent bottle and sniffed its contents—“Mmm. Yes, that smells like you”—and dabbed a bit on her wrist. Inspected the view of the high street and a cheap engraving of the harbor at Plymouth. Lifted Hartley’s watch from its place on the bedside table. Remembering Evan’s similar meanderings, Deborah almost smiled. Or cried. She wasn’t sure which.

“Now, about that gown,” Elizabeth exclaimed brightly, throwing open the wardrobe. She needed no help finding the gown in question. Deborah had picked it up off the floor and hung it angrily at the very back of the wardrobe in the earliest hours of the new year, hoping never to see it again. But everything else she owned was dark and clearly unsuitable for a ball, and there simply wasn’t enough of it to hide the offending garment.

“Oh, it’s a lovely color. I’m sure it looks stunning on you.” She paused, holding the skirt out and pursing her lips. Compared to Elizabeth’s pretty yellow walking dress, it looked ready for the rag man.

“And you wear it with the blue underskirt? That’s very nice—or maybe a dark teal? Or ivory, of course, would be classic, but… no, too boring. We can touch it up just a bit here and there: sew on a wide sash to alter the waistline and—oh, I have ribbons just the right color to use in your hair. And by the way, I want you to spend the afternoon at the Manor before the ball. My Francine will fix you up and do your hair. I wager you’ll hardly recognize yourself. You’ll bring Julian, of course, and both spend the night…”

Elizabeth cut short her monologue and peered searchingly at Deborah. “You don’t want to go, do you?”

Deborah sighed. “No.”

Elizabeth sat down on the bed and drew Deborah down beside her, arms interlocked. “Why?”

“You’ve seen how I am in company. I never know what to say to anyone.”

Elizabeth gazed thoughtfully at the wall. “Instead of embroidery…” she turned impulsively to Deborah, “let me teach you conversation!”

Deborah shook her head. “You’d be setting yourself an impossible task. I’m not…”

“No, listen. You have no confidence in yourself. Do you think people are born knowing how to say the right things? And the wrong things as well, of course. The greatest peers in the land, the politicians, the most successful Society hostesses, had to learn these things in the schoolroom. And do you think none of them are shy? Of course they are! You needn’t speak loudly or often. A few well-placed words are all that’s necessary.” She squeezed Deborah’s hand. “The ball is Friday week. That gives us ten days. If you’re still set against going when the day arrives, I won’t even try to talk you into it. Agreed?”

“But you’re leaving before then,” Deborah said, dreading the separation even while she yearned for it.

“Well, I won’t. Philip will have to wait.”

Deborah wanted very much to say no. She was scared; scared of failing, but perhaps more scared of succeeding. The wall she had built was crumbling, and once it fell, she would have no more refuge in isolation.

Reluctantly she said yes.

“I am sure you’ll not regret this,” Elizabeth said earnestly, clasping Deborah’s hand. “And in case you
do
decide to attend the ball, let’s get busy with this gown!”

Deborah’s lessons began that very afternoon and hardly let up for the next ten days.

They went to buy fabric for her sash, and Elizabeth made her practice on Mr. Price at the dry goods shop. They stopped at the inn to find out if she had any letters—of course she did not—and practiced on the innkeep’s wife. She inflicted her stammering attempts at small talk on the unhelpful proprietor at the lending library and on Isabella Reston, who was borrowing
The Prisoner of Chillon
, Lord Byron’s latest volume of poetry. But she would do no more than nod to Doctor Overley, who lifted his hat as he passed them in the street.

“Weather is always safe and always boring,” Elizabeth said. “At the library, of course, books are an obvious topic, and they are useful at dinner parties as well. If you’re dealing with a merchant, find something complimentary to say about his product. ‘The bread smells wonderful today. You must have added a pinch of spring to the dough.’ In fact, compliments always breed goodwill. Do you see the woman over there in that dreadful gown? You needn’t say it’s a lovely gown, but it
is
a rather gorgeous color, isn’t it?

“But if you can, find something personal to say. Ask a question about where they live, their family, mutual friends. Now, what do you know about the baker’s wife?”

“Mrs. Harcourt? Um—her son was sent to Botany Bay for stealing the wheels off the doctor’s phaeton.”

“Heavens, you don’t want to mention that!” Elizabeth frowned in puzzlement. “How would one even accomplish such a thing?”

Then Deborah recalled that the Mrs. Harcourt’s daughter had recently married, so she was able to inquire after her and learn that already she was in the family way.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Harcourt asked in return about “that nice young man what was stayin’ up at the Manor over Christmastime,” as though she thought Deborah might actually be in communication with him. With
that nice young man’s
sister standing next to her admiring the hot cross buns, Deborah’s face grew hot, and she stammered something unintelligible.

Mrs. Harcourt nodded knowingly.

Deborah attended a nuncheon at Reston Park and an evening party at the Manor where she practiced on the highest society Whately had to offer. These attempts were less successful.

Afterward Elizabeth devised a game, which they played with Miss Halley and the boys. The participants took on the roles of anonymous personages high and low and played them to the hilt, while each took a turn as The Innocent, whose task it was to respond with courtesy and grace to the peculiar behaviors and impudent curiosities of the others.

All of them learned a bit and laughed a lot. But how humiliating that she had as much to learn as her six-year-old!

By the day of the ball, spring was full upon them. The green tips of peas and lettuces and carrots pushed up out of the brown earth while cows and ewes heavy with young consumed vast quantities of new grass in mindless contentment. Chaffinches and robins hopped busily about in the hedgerows collecting caterpillars to fill their stomachs and twigs to cradle their eggs. Snowdrops now abounded under the trees by the river with bluebells and primroses for company. The big chestnut behind Deborah’s cottage awoke one morning wrapped in a green mist that resolved, within days, into pale, infant leaves. Strawberries were in the market, shipped north from Cornwall and Kent. And oh, the mud…

Deborah knew days beforehand that she would have to go to the Latimers’ ball. By no means did she look forward to it, but regardless of her performance at her lessons, she owed it to Elizabeth. She
had
made progress and viewed the event with somewhat less trepidation than she had ten days earlier.

Shortly after Julian’s luncheon on the appointed day, she packed what they needed into the carriage Elizabeth sent for them and headed off for their overnight stay at Whately Manor. Julian had been wild all morning and bounced and chattered throughout the mercifully short drive.

Alexander and his mother would be leaving Whately the very next day. Deborah knew that contributed to Julian’s restlessness. Alexander had all the excitement of going to London, reuniting with his father and sisters and cousins. And when he went home to Yorkshire, his mother had promised him his own pony now that he rode so well.

Julian could anticipate only a return to what seemed a previous life, circumscribed by house and yard and lessons. Miss Latimer said he could come to Reston Park any time and ride “his” pony, but it could not be more than an occasional event. Small wonder his mood was uneven.

“I miss Philip and the children dreadfully,” said Elizabeth as they sat in her allotted bedchamber putting the finishing touches on their gowns. She fingered lovingly the letter she had received from her husband that morning.

“Well,
we
will miss
you
dreadfully,” Deborah chided. She hoped it came out playfully, but she was no happier than her son about the prospect of a return to normalcy.