Rebel Angels (28 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

EVERY LIGHT IS ABLAZE AT THE WORTHINGTONS’ grand home on Park Lane. The house glows in the softly falling snow. Carriages arrive in a long black line. The footmen help the ladies step gracefully to the curb, where they take the arms of their gentlemen and promenade to the front door, heads held high, jewels and top hats on display.

Our new coachman, Mr. Jackson, watches as the foot-man helps Grandmama from the carriage. “Mind the puddle, mum,” Jackson says, noting the dubious wet pond on the street.

“There’s a good man, Jackson,” Tom says. "It’s very lucky that we have you, as Mr. Kartik seems to have vanished without a trace. I certainly won’t speak to his character, should his future employer contact me.”

I wince at this. Will I ever see Kartik again?

Mr. Jackson tips his hat to me. He’s a tall brute of a man with a long, thin face and a handlebar mustache that reminds me of a walrus. Or perhaps I’m being unkind because I miss Kartik.

“Where did you find Mr. Jackson?” I ask as we join the well-dressed couples parading to the ball.

“Oh, he found us. Came by inquiring whether we might have need of a driver.”

“On Christmas Day? That is curious,” I say.

“And lucky,” Tom says. “Now remember, Father has taken ill and cannot attend this evening, but he sends his deep regrets.”

When I say nothing, Grandmama takes hold of my arm, all the while smiling and nodding to others who are arriving.
"Gemma?”

“Yes,” I say with a sigh. "I shall remember.”

Felicity and her mother greet us as we arrive. Felicity’s dress, tailored by Franny, shows a daring amount of décolletage that does not go unnoticed by the guests, the shock registering in their lingering glances. Mrs. Worthington’s strained smile says all that she is feeling, but there’s nothing for her to do but put on a brave face, as if her daughter weren’t shaming her at her very own ball. I don’t understand why Felicity goads her mother so, or why her mother endures it without much more than a martyred sigh.

“How do you do?” I murmur to Felicity as we exchange curtsies.

“Good of you to come,” she says. We’re both so formal that I have to fight a giggle. Felicity gestures to the man on her left. “I don’t believe you’ve met my father, Sir George Worthington.”

“How do you do, Sir George?” I say, curtsying.

Felicity’s father is a handsome man with clear gray eyes and fair hair gone a muddy blond. He has the sort of strong profile one can imagine outlined by the gray of the sea. I can see him, arms behind his back as they are now, shouting orders to his men. And like his daughter, he has a charismatic smile, which is on display as little Polly enters the room in her blue velvet gown, her hair in ringlets.

“May I stay for the dancing, Uncle?” she asks quietly.

“She should go to the nursery,” Felicity’s mother says.

“Now, now, it is Christmas. Our Polly wants dancing and she shall have it,” the admiral says.
"I’m afraid I’m rather an old fool when it comes to indulging young ladies.”

The guests chuckle at this, delighted with his merry spirits. As we move on, I hear him greeting people with great bonhomie and charm.

“. . . yes, I’m off tomorrow to Greenwich to visit the old sailors at the royal hospital. Do you suppose they’ll give me a bed? . . . Stevens, how’s the leg holding up? Ah, good, good . . .”

On a side table, beautiful dance cards have been laid out. They are clever, ornamented with gold braid and a tiny attached pencil so that we may write the name of our partner beside the dance—waltz, quadrille, gallop, polka—that he requests to have with us. Though I should like to write Simon’s name beside all of them, I know I am to dance no more than three dances with any gentleman. And I shall have to dance once with my brother.

The card will make a beautiful souvenir of my first ball, though truthfully, I am not yet “out of the schoolroom,” since I’ve not made my debut and had my season. But this is a family party, and as such, I shall have all the privileges of a young lady of seventeen or eighteen.

Grandmama spends a tiresome amount of time visiting with various ladies while I am forced to trail behind, smiling and curtsying and generally saying nothing unless spoken to. I meet the chaperones—bored spinster aunts all—and a Mrs. Bowles promises Grandmama she will watch over me like a mother hen whilst Grandmama busies herself at cards elsewhere. Across the room, I spy Simon entering with his family, and my stomach flutters. I’m so absorbed in his arrival that I miss a question directed to me from a Lady Something-or-Other. She, Grandmama, and Mrs. Bowles stand looking at me, expecting an answer. Grandmama closes her eyes briefly in shame.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, thinking it safest.

Lady Something-or-Other smiles and cools herself with an ivory fan. “Wonderful! The next dance is about to begin. And here is my Percival now.”

A young man appears at her side. The top of his head reaches the bottom of my chin, and he has the misfortune of looking like a large fish, all bulging eyes and exceptionally wide mouth. And I’ve just agreed to dance with him.

I come to two conclusions during the polka. One, it is rather like being shaken for an eternity. Two, the reason Percival Something-or-Other has such an exceptionally wide mouth is from overuse. He talks for the whole of the dance, stopping only to ask me questions that he then answers for me. I am reminded of survival stories in which brave men were forced to amputate their own limbs in order to escape animal traps, and I fear that I shall have to resort to such a drastic measure if the orchestra does not stop. Mercifully, they do, and I manage to escape, while “regretfully” informing Percival that my dance card has been filled for the remainder of the ball.

As I hobble from the dance floor to return to the company of Mrs. Bowles and the chaperones, I see Ann coming out to dance with Tom. She could not look happier. And Tom seems charmed to be in her company. I feel quite warmed to see them together.

“May I have this dance, Miss Doyle?” It’s Simon, giving me a small bow.

“I’d be delighted.”

“I see Lady Faber trapped you into dancing with her son, Percival,” Simon says while twirling me gently in the waltz. His gloved hand rests softly at my back, guiding me easily round the floor.

“He is a most careful dancer,” I say, trying to be polite.

Simon grins. “Is that what you call it? I suppose it is a skill to be able to dance the polka and talk incessantly at the same time.”

I can’t help smiling at this.

“Look there,” Simon says, “Miss Weston and Mr. Sharpe.” He indicates a dour-looking young woman sitting alone in her chair, dance card in hand. She throws quick glances toward a tall man with dark hair. He’s chatting with another young woman and her governess, his back to Miss Weston.
"It is common knowledge that Miss Weston fancies Mr. Sharpe. It is also common knowledge that Mr. Sharpe doesn’t know Miss Weston is alive. See how she longs for him to ask her for a dance. I’ll wager she’s kept her dance card free on the chance he’ll ask.”

Mr. Sharpe walks in Miss Weston’s direction.

“Look,” I say. "Perhaps he’s going to ask her.”

Miss Weston sits tall, a hopeful smile on her needle-slim face. Mr. Sharpe passes her by, and she makes a show of looking off into the distance, as if she is not bothered in the slightest by his rejection. It is all so cruel.

“Ah, perhaps not,” Simon says. He offers quiet commentary on the couples around us. “Mr. Kingsley is after the widow Marsh’s sizable trust. Miss Byrne is much larger than she was during the season in May. She eats like a bird in public, but I hear that in private, she can eat up the larder in the blink of an eye. Sir Braxton is said to be carrying on an affair with his governess. And there is the case of our host and hostess, the Worthingtons.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are barely civil with each other. See how she avoids him?” Felicity’s mother moves from guest to guest, giving them her attention, but she doesn’t so much as look at her husband.

“She is the hostess,” I say, feeling the need to defend her.

“Everyone knows that she lived in Paris with her lover, a French artist. And the young Miss Worthington is baring too much skin this evening. It’s already being gossiped about. She’ll probably have to marry some brash American. Pity. Her father was knighted by the Queen, given the Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath for his distinguished naval career. And now he has even taken on a young ward, the orphaned daughter of a distant cousin. He’s a good man, but his daughter is becoming a stain on his fine reputation.”

What Simon says about Felicity is true, yet I don’t like hearing him talk about my friend this way. It is a side of Simon I’ve not seen.

“She is simply high-spirited,” I protest.

“I’ve made you angry,” Simon says.

“No, you haven’t,” I lie, though I don’t know why I pretend I’m not angry.

“Yes, I have. It was most ungentlemanly of me. If you were a man, I’d allow you a pistol to defend her honor,” he says, with that devilish half smile of his.

“If I were a man, I should take it,” I say. "But I would be sure to miss.”

Simon laughs at this. “Miss Doyle, London is a far more interesting place with you in it.”

The dance ends, and Simon escorts me from the floor, promising to ask for another when my card allows it. Ann and Felicity rush to my side, insisting I accompany them to the other room for lemonade. With Mrs. Bowles in tow, we pass through the rooms, arms linked, gossiping quickly and quietly.

“. . . and then she said I was far too young to wear my dress so low and she might very well not have had me come at all if she knew I was to shame her in such a public fashion and the blue silk dress is ruined . . . ,” Felicity babbles.

“She isn’t angry with me, is she?” Ann asks, her face a picture of worry.
"You did tell her I tried to stop you?”

“You needn’t worry so. Your reputation is intact. Besides, Father came to my defense and Mother backed down at once. She’d never stand up to him. . . .”

The ballroom opens onto the room that has been set aside for refreshments. We sip our lemonade, which feels cool. Despite the winter chill, we are warm with dancing and excitement. Ann’s looking anxiously toward the ballroom. When the music starts again, she jumps for her dance card.

“Is that the quadrille?”

“No,” I say. "Sounds like another waltz.”

“Oh, thank heaven. Tom has asked me to dance the quadrille. I wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Felicity is momentarily stunned. “Tom?”

Ann’s beaming. "Yes. He said he wanted to hear all about my uncle and how I came to be a lady. Oh, Gemma, do you think he likes me?”

What have we done? What will happen when the ruse is discovered? I’ve an uneasy feeling about it.
"Do you truly like him?”

“Very much. He is so . . . respectable.”

I choke on the pulp in my lemonade.

“How are you faring with Mr. Middleton?” Felicity asks.

“He is a most accomplished dancer,” I say. I’m torturing them, of course.

Felicity swats me playfully with her dance card. “That is all you have to say? He is a very accomplished dancer?”

“Do tell,” Ann presses. Mrs. Bowles has caught up to us. Now she hovers near, hoping for a bit of conversation, a bite of scandal.

“Oh, dear, I’ve a rip in my gown,” I say.

Ann angles her body to look at my skirt. “Where? I don’t see one.”

Felicity catches on. “Oh, yes. We must get you to the cloakroom at once. One of the maids can mend it. Don’t mind us, Mrs. Bowles!”

Before our chaperone can say a word, Felicity spirits us away, down a flight of stairs till we’re in a small conservatory.

“Well?”

“He is very lovely. It’s as if I’ve known him all my life,” I say.

“He doesn’t care much for me,” Felicity says.

Does she know what he’s said to me about her? I blush thinking of how I could have come more to her defense.
"Why do you say that?”

“He meant to court me. I refused him last year, and he’s never forgiven me.”

I feel as if I’ve been kicked hard. “I thought you had no interest in Simon?”

“Yes, exactly. I’ve no feelings for
him
. You didn’t ask if
he
cared for
me
.”

My good feelings have fallen to the bottom of my stomach, like confetti littering a dance floor. Has Simon been paying attention to me all this time as a way to goad Felicity? Or does he really care for me?

“I think we should return to the ball,” I say, heading for the first floor, walking faster than is necessary, just enough to leave a gulf between Felicity and me. I don’t feel like joining the happy crowd just yet. I need a moment to gather myself. At the far side of the room lies a pair of French doors that lead to a small balcony. I slip outside, gazing out at the wide expanse of Hyde Park. In the bare trees, I see Felicity, tempting in her low-cut gown, and me, the tall, gangly creature playing dress-up; the girl who is haunted by visions. Felicity and Simon. They could live an uncomplicated life together. They would be pretty and fashionable and well traveled. Would she understand his witty jokes? Would he even make them with her? Perhaps she would make his life a horror. Perhaps.

The cold air is a help to me. With each bracing breath, my head clears a bit more. Soon, I find I am recovered enough to be chilled. Below, the coach- and footmen have gathered about a coffee stall. They cuddle cups of the hot drink in their hands while pacing back and forth in the snow, trying to keep warm. These balls must be a misery to them. For a moment I think I see Kartik. But then I remember that he is gone.

The evening plays on in dances and whispers, smiles and promises. The champagne has flowed freely, and people laugh merrily, forgetting their cares. Soon, the chaperones lose interest in guarding their charges, preferring to dance themselves or play whist and other card games in a room downstairs. When at last Simon returns to the ballroom from his card game, I am all nerves.

“There you are,” he says, smiling. “Have you saved me another dance?”

I can’t help myself. "I thought perhaps you might be dancing with Miss Worthington.”