Page 8 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
“Here we are,” her father said as the coach rolled on further, drawing up near a house with an elaborate set of stairs. “This is Haredale House.”
“It seems very well-kept,” Mama commented as she stepped back for Father to alight, then took his hand to climb from the coach. She stepped out elegantly, seeming barely to move, just to drift out of the carriage. Ophelia followed, feeling awkward as her ankle twisted when she touched the ground. She said nothing of the sudden, sharp pain and walked with her parents up towards the elegant house.
As they walked up to the building, she tipped her head back, staring up at the dusk-blue sky. Stars were there, bright and silver, making the brilliants of her dress seem dull and silly.
I wish I could write about them.
She didn’t have a pencil and paper with her, and nobody would understand why she was so sad about that as well.
They were nearing the top of the steps, her thin-soled dancing shoes soundless on the white stone. Torches burned in brackets by the entrance, gold and bright, and a footman stood there, dressed in burgundy-red and white livery, taking cloaks and coats for the guests.
“Thank you,” Ophelia murmured as she handed him her cloak. Servants were human—it was obvious to her, even if her parents didn’t want her to treat them like they were. She insisted on doing it anyway.
She walked on into the entrance-way.
The heat hit her as she walked in. Compared to the early springtime chill in the outside air, the air inside the manor was stiflingly warm. She drew a deep breath, smelling the scents of champagne and pomade. Around her, the rise and fall of talk was loud, the delicate sound of laughter weaving through it only making her feel agitated.
Please,she prayed silently,let this not be too awful.
She looked ahead, focusing on her father and mother, who were already walking through the hall. They had stopped and were chatting with a tall woman whose auburn hair was pulled up into an elaborate bun, hidden with a widow’s veil.
“Good evening, Lady Haredale,” Father greeted the woman, who wore a dark blue dress that was elegant and restrained, like Mama’s.
“Good evening, Lord Walden,” she greeted him politely. “Good evening, Lady Walden. And this must be Miss Ophelia Worthington!” she added warmly, addressing Ophelia. “Grand to meet you.” She smiled at Ophelia, who looked back, feeling awkward. She had been miles away in her thoughts, wishing she was outside, and for a second, she didn’t know what to say. She’d never met Lady Haredale before, she was quite sure of it, and shewas surprised at the lady’s apparent pleasure in seeing her here.
“Um...charmed, my lady,” she managed, and bobbed a swift curtsey. She straightened up, cheeks hot, and glanced sideways to see if her mother was angry, but she was talking with Lady Haredale, sounding as though she had known her for years. She also had never met her.
“A fine evening. Very fine! So grand, to host a ball in early spring.”
“It is very grand,” Lady Haredale murmured, and Ophelia blinked, thinking that in those shrewd dark eyes she saw something a little like amusement. It was only an instant, though, and she looked again, seeing nothing besides a polite and courteous smile. It must have been her imagination.
Mama said something else—Ophelia wasn’t really listening, she was gazing around the vast ballroom, trying to spot anyone she knew. Then they moved past Lady Haredale and on down the stairs into the ballroom.
“It’s so hot,” Mama murmured.
“Very hot,” Father agreed.
Ophelia looked around, craning her neck to see over the people. She was not particularly tall, just average height, and it was hard to see over so many people who stood around talking and drinking. Her father was tall, and he looked across the room and she heard him clear his throat.
“There’s a table over there for refreshments, Evelyn,” he said to Mama, indicating somewhere towards the frontmost corner with a nod of his head. “I shall go and fetch you ladies some champagne.”
“Thank you, Father,” Ophelia murmured. She wanted to say that she’d much prefer lemonade, that champagne went to her head and made her feel unsteady, and she didn’t like it, but she knew Father wouldn’t listen. She watched him walk briskly off. She stood with Mama, trying to think of something to say.
The hall was brightly lit, and she blinked as she looked around. Hundreds of candles in dozens of crystal chandeliers lit the place from their position high above. She craned her neck, staring up at them. She could see perhaps eight chandeliers in all, decked with uncountable candles each—and they were four-hour candles, she noted gloomily. That meant the ball would last four hours, ending when the candles started to burn out. Four hours here with nobody she knew, dancing with people she didn’t know either, trying to act as though it was a pleasant diversion.
“Ah! Lady Epdale,” her mother greeted an older woman with curly hair under a small lace veil. “How grand to see you. And you, Lord Epdale. How is the hunting this year?”
“Thin pickings, my lady. Very thin pickings.”
Ophelia looked away, straining her neck as she looked around to see if Alice was there. She hadn’t said she was coming, but there was always a chance that any high-society event would include her. The only thing that would make this ball pleasant was if her friend were to attend it. She felt her heart thump and she paused to ask Mama if she might slip off and look for someone to talk to, but then Father wandered over with the drinks.
“Here you are, my dear,” he murmured, passing a tall glass to Mama.
“Thank you, dear,” Mama murmured back.
“And here you are, sweet,” he said to Ophelia, passing her a glass just like it. He barely looked at her, though his voice sounded affectionate.
“Thank you, Papa.”
