Supervising Sally (21 page)

Zachary was uncharacteristically indecisive. Several times he had been about to call on Phoebe and try to explain his ineptitude when he had proposed to her. The trouble was, he was unable to explain it to himself. He wanted to marry her. She would be an ideal wife for him. But how could he make her understand that?

He didn't know whether he loved her or not. He didn't think he knew what love was. Perhaps it was a desire to be always in the company of someone. Perhaps it was a need to care for them, look after them, ensure no harm came to them. He had never felt this for anyone else. Girls who were more beautiful, better born, wealthier, had set their caps at him in the past, and he had felt nothing. How could he explain this to Phoebe and make her believe him?

He had not solved the problem when the day of Sally's ball arrived. He contemplated not going. There was quite sufficient work to be done, as the duke strove to collect an army capable of opposing Bonaparte. He needed more men, particularly experienced soldiers. The equipment he had was inadequate, few of the staff officers he knew and depended on were available. Others he did not know or
want had been appointed without his knowledge by the Duke of York.

In the end Zachary had to attend the ball. His need to see Phoebe again overrode every other consideration. He delayed until he could be certain most of the guests were there, for he did not wish to be put in the position of soliciting a dance from Phoebe and being refused. He would content himself with watching her, and trying to judge from her demeanour towards him whether he could talk to her soon, explain himself, or whether he had more work to do to regain her confidence.

As he entered the house he was startled to see Sir William waiting to receive guests, flanked by Madame Antoine and Lady Benton. He had not known of the latter's arrival in Brussels.

‘My dear Wrekin,' Sir William greeted him. ‘You know my wife, of course. She decided to come to Brussels after all for Sally's ball.'

Zachary bowed to both ladies. ‘I am happy to see you.'

‘Tell me, my lord, how dangerous is it to remain here? I want to take Sally home if there is any danger of Napoleon attacking Brussels, but I realize it would be a pity now she has made an official debut.'

‘Lady Benton, you can be sure the army will protect Brussels. The duke is confident, and he has always prevailed before.'

‘In the end, yes, but he had to retreat from Spain before he finally won. And he and Bonaparte have never met in battle, I think?'

‘This time the whole of Europe is with us, we are not fighting alone.'

‘But where are all these others? My husband tells me all you have are untried boys, and Dutch and Belgian boys at that. They cannot compare with good English troops.'

Zachary suppressed a smile. Her stout support for English troops might be admirable and patriotic, and he had no wish to disillusion her. They did not have the best regiments here in Flanders.

‘There are more of the veterans coming every day,' he said, ‘and the Prussians are joining us.'

She had to turn away then to greet another late arrival, and Zachary made his way into the ballroom. He stood for a while watching the dancers, and soon spotted Phoebe dancing with one of the young cavalry officers he had seen occasionally with Sally. She was smiling at him, and Zachary's heart turned over. He wanted to stride on to the floor and drag her away from the man. She appeared the same as ever, until he looked closer and saw a slight frown between her eyes. Then she glanced across and saw him. Although she turned away immediately a deep flush stained her cheeks.

The dance came to an end and Phoebe, with a quick glance towards him, urged her partner to walk in the opposite direction. Zachary gritted his teeth. Now he knew. She would not willingly speak to him. Should he corner her here in a very public place, where she could not escape him, and force her, out of politeness, to speak to him? No sooner had he thought of this he knew he could not do it to her. He had no wish to cause her any distress. His very presence was making her nervous, and he suspected she would be on tenterhooks all the time, waiting for him to approach her.

At that moment he saw Sally approaching, with Sir Henry ffoulkes, and he went to meet her.

‘Sally, I hope you are enjoying your ball. It seems to be going well. I was pleased to see your mother here.'

Sally beamed at him. ‘It was wonderful of her to come, but I think she wants to take me home if that horrid Napoleon starts to fight. Please will you tell her it's quite safe to remain here? I don't wish to go home.'

‘I have already tried to persuade her there is no need. Sally, I really only came to wish you well. I must go back to the embassy, there are letters I need to write. Please thank your parents, and Madame Antoine. And will you explain to Phoebe I have to leave? Give her my best wishes. I have not been able to speak to her.'

‘What a shame. Yes, I will tell her, and thank you for coming, even if it was for just a short time.'

Phoebe had spent many sleepless hours wondering how she would feel when she saw the earl again. She had no doubt they would meet. The English community in Brussels were eager to make the most of their time, and every day there were balls and receptions, and now the weather was getting warmer, picnics and garden parties. They were bound to meet at some of these.

She had wondered whether he would come to Sally's ball. Part of her dreaded the meeting, which would be in public, but another part of her longed to see him again. Even though she had rejected his proposal, and in a manner which would have disgusted him, the thought of never again seeing him was insupportable.

When she did see him, looking across the crowded dance floor at her, she had read contempt in his expression. Of course, her graceless refusal of his proposal would have angered him. From what Lady Drayton had said he had never offered for a girl, despite the urgings of his sisters that he marry. Then he had offered for her, a penniless companion, far below him socially, and with no beauty or other talents to commend her, and been rejected, which would have been like a blow in the face. He could marry anyone, and she had not only turned him down, but been astonishingly rude in the manner of it.

When the dance ended she hurried her partner off the floor and tried to lose herself in the crowd. Would he approach her? She did not think so, but just in case he did intend to try to speak to her, she meant to make it as difficult as possible. She did not know how she could face him. At the very least she would be stammering and speechless, and she feared she might even burst into tears.

She greeted her next partner with flattering enthusiasm, and only relaxed when they were safely established in the set. The earl could not interrupt this. As they danced she tried to see where he was, but he had moved and she could not find him. Was he lying in wait for her? In her nervousness she paid little attention to the dance, and had to be called back when she moved the wrong way.

Trying to laugh at her mistake, she gave up attempting to see where the earl was, and finished the dance in a state of fatalism. If he sought her out, and she created some kind of disturbance, it would be his fault.

Her partner, another of the young soldiers, led her off the floor at the end of the dance, making painstaking conversation. Phoebe heard nothing, and jumped as someone touched her arm.

‘Phoebe, it's only me.'

It was Sally, and Phoebe's heartbeat slowed back to normal.

‘Are you enjoying the ball?' she asked, but her voice was hoarse and the words were barely recognizable.

‘It's wonderful. Are you all right? Your voice sounds odd. You are not taking a cold?'

Phoebe cleared her throat. ‘No, of course not. It's just that I need a drink.'

‘Then come and let's find one. Oh, the earl said to give you his best wishes. He has to go back to write more tedious letters.'

Phoebe took a deep breath. ‘He has left?'

‘Yes, a little while ago, soon after the last dance started. He was only here for a few minutes.'

She was safe, she would not have to see him, perhaps speak to him, this evening. Phoebe knew she ought to feel thankful, but for just a few moments she felt deserted, lost. That was ridiculous, she scolded herself, and for the rest of the evening did her utmost to appear cheerful and enjoying herself.

She was heartily glad when the ball was over, and they were able to go home. When Sally wanted to come into her room to discuss the ball, she pleaded exhaustion and sent the girl away. She was tired, but sleep would not come. A tiny, insistent voice kept asking her if she had not been incredibly stupid to reject the earl. He might not love her, but she would have been his wife, and would have had the opportunity of making him love her.

Phoebe was sitting with Sally and her mother in the drawing-room the following morning, discussing the ball. Lady Benton was full of praise for the way she and Madam Antoine had organized it.

‘So sad that her husband died so soon after their marriage,' Lady Benton said. ‘They were so in love.'

Phoebe was puzzled. Brussels society had been convinced Sir William and Madame Antoine were lovers, yet here was his wife on apparently friendly terms with the lady. Was this the way civilized people behaved? If it was, she heartily disapproved.

Sally, who must have heard the rumours, was looking puzzled. ‘You knew her before, Mama?'

‘We were at the same school in Bath for several years. When your father came here I asked him to meet her.'

‘I see.' Sally, who was holding a piece of embroidery on her lap, suddenly put it down and looked at the clock. ‘Is that the time? Is the clock fast?'

She jumped up and went to the window, standing there looking down into the street. She had a handkerchief in her hand and was twisting it mercilessly. Phoebe wondered what was disturbing her.

Sally wandered back to her chair and picked up the embroidery, but did not make any attempt to sew. ‘I'm sure that clock has stopped,' she said.

At that moment they heard the knocker on the front door, and Sally stood up, the embroidery dropping unheeded to the floor.

‘Sally, what is it? You are so restless this morning,' Lady Benton said. ‘Pick up that sewing before you tread on it.'

Sally did so and subsided, but kept glancing at the door. It was ten minutes later when the footman appeared and asked Lady Benton if she would please join Sir William in his study.

Lady Benton, eyebrows raised, left the room and Sally once more discarded the embroidery. She leapt up and began pacing the room, twisting her hands together.

‘Sally, what on earth is it?' Phoebe asked.

Sally came and sank on to a footstool near Phoebe's chair. ‘It's Henry,' she said.

‘Sir Henry ffoulkes?'

‘Yes. He's come to ask Papa if we can be betrothed. Oh, Phoebe, I'm so nervous! What if Papa refuses him? I shall die, I know I will!'

‘Of course you won't. Why should your father refuse him? He's a suitable match, and your parents want you to be betrothed,' Phoebe said, taking Sally's hand in hers. They were longing to get her off their hands, she thought, but refrained from saying so.

It was another twenty minutes before Sally's parents entered the room, followed by a grinning Sir Henry and the footman carrying a tray with a bottle of champagne and glasses.

‘Papa?'

Sally could scarcely speak for excitement. She was beaming, and there were tears in her eyes.

‘My dear, Sir Henry has asked me for your hand, and I have accepted him, providing you are agreeable,' Sir William said, his voice solemn.

Phoebe almost laughed. As if there could be any doubt Sally would accept him. Since the pair had met they had been close. Sally knew several soldiers, but had from the start shown her preference for Sir Henry.

‘Yes. Of course. Oh, Henry! Mama!' Sally cast herself into her mother's arms. ‘When can we be married?'

‘Steady, my child,' Lady Benton said, and Phoebe detected a note of complacency in her voice. ‘You must be married at home, of course, and there will be much to arrange. We cannot make plans until this business with Bonaparte is settled. Perhaps next year? A spring wedding would be pretty, and by then my building work will be completed.'