Fairchild (21 page)

“This is a dinner invitation,” he said.
 

His mother cleared her throat. “I’d like to go, but we won’t if you can’t—”

He forestalled her with a raised hand. “I can be civil for Jeremiah and Lottie. It will be good to see them again.”

“They have their daughter Anna with them. She’s been a widow these two years. There will be some other young people. Lottie suggested that after supper the young folk might go to a masquerade.”

“In Covent Garden?” Covent Garden masquerades were not for people of character, but Tom knew some people liked to drop in for a lark. Watching for an hour or two was harmless.
 

“Do you remember Anna?” she asked.

He did. She had employed her two year advantage well when they were small, giving him more than a few bruising pinches. “Mother, if you’ve raised expectations—”
 

“All I’ve done is accept their invitation. I know how you feel about meddling, but you can’t go on as you are.” She stopped folding pleats into her skirts and smoothed out the burgundy silk with her fingers, remembering her maid’s admonitions too late.
 

Tom sighed. He knew what was coming. But perhaps his mother’s solution was best. It was time he acted like a man and not a sulky boy.
 

“You’ve always insisted you want to marry your own kind. I understand that. But when will it be? I was old when you were born, Tom. I should like to see you married.”
 

He softened, smiling gently. “All right. I agree to dinner, but I must at least see Anna before you make any more plans.”

They always called it Henrietta’s ball, which it technically was, since Henrietta and Percy were hosting it at their townhouse on Curzon Street. But since the event was orchestrated for one purpose only—Sophy’s come out—calling it Henrietta’s ball was a trifle disingenuous. It wasn’t as if Henrietta had made any of the decisions. Lady Fairchild had written the guest list, chosen the floral decorations and selected the music. When Henrietta irritably demanded why her mother didn’t just host Sophy’s debut herself, Lady Fairchild had silenced her with a pointed look.
 

It was exhausting, Sophy thought, treading this high wire—in the family, but not. Even after she married, there would always be awkwardness and uncertainty.
 

This ball was grander than anything she had attended before. Nearly every moment of the evening was planned, from the precise moment she was to appear on her father’s arm to her first two dance partners. Sophy felt like a clockwork figure, waiting for the hour to strike. She was to enter with Lord Fairchild after the first hour, but before Henrietta and Percy stopped receiving. It was too much, of course, for Sophy to stand in the receiving line beside Henrietta. “Looks like we’re trying too hard, dear, and we don’t need to,” Lady Fairchild said. “You’ve made such a marvelous start.”
 

Sophy didn’t feel marvelous, waiting alone in the library and listening to the party beyond the door. Her courage waned with each passing minute and she still had a quarter of an hour to wait. Sitting would crease her dress, so she walked to the window, parting the curtain with one finger. Because of the branch of candles on the desk behind her, she could see nothing but her own reflection in the windowpane. Letting the curtain fall, she turned back to face the room.
 

She had no reason to be nervous. This wasn’t so different from the other balls.
 

Her eyes fell on the whisky decanter resting on Percy’s desk. Liquid courage, her father called it. She could use some of that. Glancing at the door, she plucked out the stopper and righted one of the tumblers sitting upside down on the tray. The crystal decanter was heavier than she expected. Instead of pouring out a thimbleful, a glug of the golden liquid splashed into the tumbler, swirling around the sides of the glass. She took a long gulp. Halfway through her second swallow, she realized her mistake. It had to be poison. Eyes watering, Sophy rocked back against the desk, forcing empty swallows to rid herself of the stinging vapors curling in the back of her throat and burning through her nose.
 
There was still a finger width of whisky at the bottom of the glass. Impossible to drink it. Could she open the window?
 

“Whisky isn’t a lady’s drink,” said her father. Sophy jumped, spinning to face the connecting door. “How much have you had?” he asked.

She showed him with her narrowed fingers, unable to speak.
 

“You ate earlier, right?”

She nodded.
 

“Not irreparable, then,” he said. “Have a biscuit.” He pulled a tin out from the desk drawer.
 

Sophy took a bite, sprinkling crumbs across the blotter.
 

“Nervous?” he asked.
 

“Like I’m awaiting the Final Judgement,” she said.
 

He laughed. “Good thing it’s you then, and not me.” He took the glass from her hand and swallowed the rest, savoring it with a distant smile. “Too good to waste.”

He flicked a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth. “You should put on your gloves. It’s time.”
 

She tugged them on, grateful they would conceal her damp palms. “Anything amiss?” She turned in a slow circle.
 

“Nothing,” he said, and offered his arm.
 

Sophy told her shoulders to relax and her neck to lengthen as they traversed the dim corridor and stepped into the brilliantly lit ballroom. It was hard not to stare. She had seen the masses of flowers and the glowing chandeliers before retreating to her hideaway. The magnificence of the room now, filled with guests dressed in the first style of elegance, stunned her. It couldn’t be real. It seemed much more likely that the whole scene had been spun out of sugar, ready to crumble at a touch or melt with a splash of water.
 

They entered the room as the music fell silent, stepping into the open space of the clearing dance floor. Through the parting crowd, Sophy saw Lady Fairchild presiding on the far side of the room, waiting for her to be delivered to her side. Everything was precisely calibrated; she stood beside Lady Fairchild for only a moment before Jasper stepped forward.
 

“My dance, I think, Sophy?”
 

Obediently, she transferred her hand from Lord Fairchild’s arm to Jasper’s so they could promenade around the room before the next set.
 

“What did your mother do to you?” she asked. “Are you a changeling? You don’t even look bored.”

Jasper laughed. “She swore she’d leave me alone for a sennight if I did as I was told.”
 

Sophy acknowledged a benign smile from one of Lady Fairchild’s friends with a nod, turning again to watch Jasper. “You’ve stopped riding with us in the mornings. Are your nights so busy?” she asked.
 

“I haven’t wanted to intrude,” he said, with his best slippery charm. “Your rapprochement with the pater is so touching.”

Sophy looked at him, trying to decide how much he was teasing her.
 
“It’s certainly surprising.” Lowering her voice, she added, “I asked him about my mother.”

Jasper halted, pausing to remove an invisible fleck from the sleeve of his jacket. “Oh? What did he say?” His voice was as diffident as ever, but Sophy felt uneasy.
 

“It wasn’t so much what he said, just that he understood how I still miss her.”

“Excellent,” Jasper smiled. “Come, it’s time to take our places.”

He led her into the set, ending the conversation and leaving Sophy trying to unravel the subtext. It was a country dance, a real concession for Jasper, who danced about as regularly as a lunar eclipse. He was surprisingly adept, skipping through the figures without a single misstep, with no signs of shortened breath. Sophy felt her own flush, but she colored at everything. The music stopped; they exchanged courtesies and he steered her to one of the windows to stand in the cooler air.
 

“Impeccable!” he said.
 

“Why, thank you,” Sophy said, falsely coy.
 

“I was talking about me. I think I’ve acquitted myself well enough for this year.”

Sophy hid her laugh behind her fan, relieved they were being their usual selves once more. “You would leave me standing by the dowagers with the Misses Matcham?”
 

“I shall be happy to oblige you if you have any free dances, but I have every expectation of not being needed. Come, she’s expecting us. You know that look.”
 

“Better than you. I see it more often.”

It was easy to feel confident, floating on Jasper’s breeze. If she could keep him with her all evening, she would have no qualms. But Mr. Beaumaris was in position at Lady Fairchild’s elbow, waiting for her. Steeling herself for the coming encounter, Sophy reminded herself there was no reason not to treat him exactly the same as Jasper.
 

“Are you off, now that your duty is done?” Sophy asked.
 

Jasper gave her a wounded look. “No. I’ll stay at least another half-hour, though I risk acquiring a permanent twitch from so much time under my good mother’s eye.”

“No girl could ask for a better brother,” Sophy mocked.
 

“So long as you know it.”
 

When they reached Lady Fairchild, Jasper bestowed a kiss onto Sophy’s hand and greeted his mother with a smile that was more a baring of teeth. “Lovely to see you, Madam,” he said, and turned away.
 

“Good evening, Alistair,” Sophy said, taking his arm and returning to the dance floor. At this rate, she would pass the entire evening without speaking to Lady Fairchild, her chaperone. “What did Lady Fairchild promise you in exchange for your kind attention to me?”

“Two bottles of her husband’s best smuggled brandy and a promise to wear a crimson turban to Mrs. Goring’s Venetian breakfast.”

Sophy made a face. “She’d never in her life attend any party of Mrs. Goring’s, much less in a turban. Stop bamming me.”

“Never. By the by, does Lady Fairchild know you use that term?”

“Of course not.” Sophy rolled her eyes. “So are you going to tell me, or not?” She would be more easy with him once they had laid their cards on the table. If only he wasn’t capable of that sly look that made her feel so wobbly.
 

“I think not. Surely the pleasure of your company is motivation enough.”
 

“Don’t make fun of me,” she said, refusing to return his smile. “When’s the last time you danced with a girl fresh out of the school room?”

“Quite possibly never,” he said. “Shall we?” And he took her hand, leading her into the forming set.
 

She didn’t know where to look. If she met his eyes, she blushed, and if she looked away, Lady Fairchild would think she was being rude. Maybe she would gradually become accustomed to him, like one did to a hot bath, inch by inch. Just then Alistair smiled and quirked his eyebrow at her, as if he knew the direction of her thoughts. Sophy dropped her eyelids immediately, but her cheeks betrayed her with a scorching flush. If she could just observe him from a distance instead of having to look at him and take his hands all the time, it would be so much easier. Pinning on a bright smile, she swept out every thought except for the steps. They were dancing the cotillion and a misstep would be a disaster.
 

Mr. Beaumaris was not as tall as he looked, she realized, passing by him as she wove through the dancers. Oh, he was not short, but his posture and bearing made him seem larger than he really was. Not like Tom Bagshot, who slouched in his chair and surprised one with his towering height once he unfolded himself.
 

The dance ended. With exactly the correct amount of polite nothings, Alistair returned Sophy to Lady Fairchild’s side, just in time for her to accept an invitation to dance from Mr. Beadle, one of the widowers on Lady Fairchild’s approved list.
 

Unfortunately, Mr. Beadle’s decision to wear side whiskers only exaggerated the egg-like aspects of his round head. As he bounced down the line of dancers, Sophy could think of nothing but Humpty Dumpty. She danced the next set of country dances with Jasper’s friend Mr. DeClerc and remembered not to accidentally call him Boz. She stood out the next dance, sipping a glass of lemonade in the crowd of ladies gathered around Lady Fairchild, who occupied the best vantage point in the room.
 

The Matcham girls, who lived not far from Cordell, exchanged polite greetings with Sophy. Never exactly friends, they were decidedly cooler in town. Eager to escape a silence that was growing uncomfortable, Sophy turned away, expecting to see Lady Fairchild but finding Miss Lowell instead.
 

“Good evening, Miss Prescott,” she smiled.
 

She must be hunting Jasper. There was no other reason for Miss Lowell to seek her out again to ply her with impertinent questions.
 

“Do you still enjoy London, Miss Prescott, or has it begun to pall?” She spoke with the faint contempt that young ladies in their second season reserved for yearlings like herself.

“Of course I do, very much,” Sophy said. She would not pretend to be fashionable this time. It had only given Miss Lowell more amusement before. “I have been to the Opera since we spoke last and never seen a grander spectacle.”

“One’s first visit is quite astonishing.” Miss Lowell closed her fan and rested it on her lips. “What a shame you were never brought to London before. You told me that you spent your youth at Cordell, but I’ve forgotten where you spent your childhood.”
 

Sophy’s eyes narrowed. “In Herefordshire, with my mother.”

“And is your mother from that county?”

“No. She went to Herefordshire solely on my account. Before that, she lived at Cordell. She was governess there. Is there anything else you wish to know?”