Page 67 of A Spring Dance

“Do you wish to dance? There is still time to join the bottom of a set.”

Her face softened a fraction. “Thank you, but I am enjoying watching. There are some very accomplished dancers here tonight.”

“Then I shall watch you watching them,” he said easily. “May I sit beside you?”

She shifted slightly along the sofa, and he sat, taking her gloved hand in his. “Eloise, can you forgive me for being such a bear earlier? I was taken by surprise, that must be my only excuse, but naturally I cannot object to the composing of music, and if your work is published and may be enjoyed by a wider audience than your immediate family, that is only to the good.”

Her attention was fully engaged now, although she looked cautious. “You will not stop me?”

“I will not. In fact, I can make it easier for you by taking care of the business side of things for you. Your publisher may be more amenable to dealing with a man instead.”

“You will not interfere!” she hissed, her eyes narrowed in anger. “This ismine, my work, my income, my enjoyment, and you will have nothing at all to do with it, do you hear?”

He was taken aback, but he had no desire at all to quarrel over it. “It shall be as you wish, my dear. I would not deprive you of anything that gives you pleasure. My only concern is your happiness, always.”

She deflated at once, but he thought she looked dismayed. Had she wanted him to object? Did she want a quarrel? And if so, why? It was puzzling, but he would not rise to the bait. His words were utterly true, for however oddly their betrothal had begun, now that he had come to look forward to it, he wanted no rocks along their road to perfect bliss.

When the dancing finished, he led her into supper and fetched whatever she wanted, but she was subdued, he thought.

“Are you quite well?” he said, as she refused all his offers of sweetmeats, even orange creams, normally a favourite.

“Oh… I am a little tired, that is all. I think… if you would not mind it too much, I might just retire for the night.”

“Of course, if you wish it. I believe the jellies might manage without you now.”

She smiled wanly at this feeble sally, and soon after, when there was a general drift back to the ballroom, took the opportunity to slip away. Will fretted over this defection rather. Pouring himself a glass of claret and chewing absently on a partridge leg, he wondered if he had offended her too deeply for a rapid recovery. Still, he had his whole future to coax her into a more cheerful state of mind. He would make her happy, on that point he was determined. But perhaps he refined too much upon it. It may be just as she said, that she had been too involved in the preparations for the ball, and was worn to the bone. She should not so over-exert herself when they were married, he would make sure of that. There would be enough servants so that she need not lift a finger, but could play and sing all day long.

As he was contemplating this pleasant vision, there was a rustle of silk and a hint of expensive perfume as someone took the seat beside him. A familiar someone.

“Ah. The Lady Jemima Corsfield, I presume.”

“Oh, what a shame! I rather liked myself in the guise of Good Queen Bess, too. I suppose I must call you Mr Fletcher, now, and talk about the weather and behave myself.”

“How abominably dull that would be,” he said genially. “I dare say we had better behave ourselves, but we may still talk about whatever we wish, so I hope you will tell me something about yourself, now that our little masquerade is over. Who is Mr Corsfield?”

“Hewasa younger son of the Earl of Burniston, who is a good friend of my father, the Marquess of Barrowford. Stanley died two years ago.”

“Good heavens! If your father is the Marquess of Barrowford, then my neighbour Lord Charles Heaman is your brother.”

She rolled her eyes with a sigh. “For my sins. He disapproves violently of me — they all do, to be honest, and always have done. They never quite knew what to do with me. I was rather a late arrival in the family, you see. Something of a surprise. I have been surprising them ever since. So they congratulated themselves that they had neatly solved the Jemima problem by marrying me off to Stanley, and oh, how pleased they were when I did my duty and produced two sons, one after the other, something the heir’s wife had never managed. But then Stanley dropped down dead one day, poor fellow, and now I am a problem again, seemingly.”

“Do they want you to marry again?” Will said, wondering if she was always so indiscreet.

“I expect they do, but I did not escape one marriage only to hurry into another. Can you imagine what it is like to marry at seventeen, and be a widow at only twenty-two years of age, Mr Fletcher? What am I to do with the rest of my life? My sons belong to the Corsfields, and so I fill my days with frivolity and flirtations with amiable young men who make me feel desirable again. Your sister, the Incomparable, is the same age as me, but she is fêted and admired wherever she goes, while I feel more like an old maid, even though I have been married and she has not. The world is very strange, is it not?”

“You could devote yourself to your sons,” he said gently. “They need their mother, surely.”

“Oh, if only I could!” she cried, so loud that a few stragglers still lingering in the supper room turned to stare. More quietly, she went on, “I beg your pardon. I have already taken advantage of your good nature in trying to get up a flirtation with you, and now I am unburdening myself of all my problems. You have too amiable a face, Mr Fletcher. You should cultivate a serious frown so that strange females will not prey upon you. I hope you will forgive me for my attempt to lead you astray at Lady Pinner’s ball. I only hoped for a little fun to lighten an otherwise dull evening.”

“You certainly lightened my evening with your fun,” Will said gallantly.

“You see? Too amiable by half. But I have kept you from more interesting conversation for too long. Good evening, Mr Fletcher.”

~~~~~

Eloise went to her room, but not to bed. She was too wound up to sleep, and the music drifting up from two floors below would keep her awake anyway. Instead she sat and brooded, or rather, she paced about the room and brooded. Then she sat at the little rosewood desk — such a pretty little desk! If only she had something like it at home. Aunt Beth’s furniture was solidly built, it was true, built to last, and last it had, for at least a hundred years, most of it. It served the purpose, immovable and indestructible, polished to a high shine by Kitty, the maid, but not elegant, and certainly not pretty. She sighed.

On the desk was a drawing by Angie of Orchard House, drawn from memory. It was a new house, seemingly, built only ten years ago in a corner of the Manor’s old orchard, with a modern façade and no doubt every convenience inside. Four or five bedrooms. Space for a nursery. A garden big enough for the children to play in, but the whole Chadwell Park estate at their disposal, too.

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