Page 2 of Oddity of the Ton
But nothing could stop her from dreaming.
Thwack!
A sharp sting exploded on her arm. She glanced up to see her mother standing before her, resplendent in deep purple silk, brandishing her fan.
“How many times must I tell you to situp?”
Eleanor straightened her stance and rubbed her arm. “Sorry, Mother.”
“I don’t need you to besorry. I need you to do as I bid. Have you danced?”
“No.”
Her mother let out a sharp sigh. “Your sister’s secured a partner for every dance. Colonel Reid danced with her twice.”
“That must be a disappointment foryou, Mother,” Eleanor muttered.
“Whatdid you say?”
Eleanor braced herself for an onslaught. “I—I…”
“Oh, never mind!” her mother huffed. “Why not take a turn about the room rather than hide in a corner? If you make an effort, there’s bound to be some young man willing to overlook your flaws.”
Eleanor glanced at the dance floor, where the couples moved in perfect formation to the music. How were they able to recall the steps—the intricate patterns of footwork? And how did they execute those steps without bumping into each other? Did they possess an innate sense—similar to starlings who flew together as one, moving back and forth, not a single bird dropping out of the sky?
More to the point—why hadn’tshebeen born with such an instinct? As she cast her gaze over the elegantly attired people, perfectly at ease in their surroundings, all knowing exactly what to say and when to say it, Eleanor wondered, as she often did, whether she were a different species. Perhaps she was a changeling, left by faerie folk in place of the real child.
Her mother’s voice tugged her back to the present.
“Did you not hear me, child?”
“I can’t help it if I cannot dance,” Eleanor said. “Last time I tried, I trod on Mr. Moss’s toe. He called me a clumsy oaf.”
“He can call you what he likes—he’s heir to a baronetcy,” came the reply. “You must dance if you are to have any hope of securing a husband—a hope that diminishes as each year passes. You cannot expect your father to sponsor afifthSeason. Why can’t you make an effort formysake? Your dowry should—”
“I don’t expect Papa to pay for another Season,” Eleanor said, “or a dowry. Papa said—Ouch!”
She let out a cry as her mother’s fan came down on the back of her hand.
“Must youalwaysdefy me? Andlookat your hands! You’ve dirt under your fingernails again.”
“It’s paint, Mother.”
“Paint, dirt—it’s all the same. I don’t know why you’ve not worn your gloves.”
“Because you told me I’m always soiling them, and that soiled gloves are evidence of an undesirable lack of cleanliness,” Eleanor replied.
“I said no such thing!”
“You did—last week you said those exact words when we dined with Lady Tilbury, after I splashed soup on my gloves.”
“Oh,didI?”
Eleanor nodded. “And when Lavinia and her aunt came to visit, I spilled tea and you said it again. Don’t you recall?”
She glanced up and met her mother’s gaze. Green eyes laced with fury glared at her.
I’ve done it again.
