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At the head of the table sat Henry Aubrey, the host for the evening’s party. Alice knew that politics didn’t interest her father. His engineering mind was happy to pour over numbers and diagrams, build machinery with his hands, but his considerable intellect had never extended to matters of social welfare or the rights of business owners.
“Times change,” said Henry. “The days of machine breaking luddites, fortunately, has long passed. Child labour is not, I believe, beneficial to society, especially young children. I do agree with this new law limiting their use in the factories.”
“Indeed, indeed,” proclaimed Mr Melrose, the aging parish rector.
Alice wanted to glare at the reverend. He had failed to contest anyone’s opinion while making no mention of his own. Her lips stayed tightly sealed, as were the other ladies about the table; her mother, Mrs Melrose and Mrs Huddlestone. Alice was secretly amazed the latter person could hold her tongue for such a long period.
“Whatever the law,” said Edmund from his end of the table, “It is not for the army to enforce. It is a sad day when Englishman fights Englishman and soldiers fire upon their own people. If we had a police constabulary, as they do in London, laws would be better enforced.”
Mr Melrose opened his mouth to repeat his customary agreement but shut it quickly when he saw Edmund’s grey eyes despatch a glare at him.
Alice’s mother tossed her napkin on to the table. “I think ladies it is time for us to retire and leave the gentlemen to their debating.”
Alice’s mother had arranged the evening’s gathering at Dodsworth House. She had been keen for some time to show off her married daughter and, in particular, to ensure the Huddlestones wouldn’t find any cause to mention ever again Alice’s mishap in Macclesfield.
Lucy and Philippa hadn’t helped. Alice had found out from her mother, upon their arrival earlier in the day that her frivolous friends continued to talk about the incident, knowing it could harm Alice’s reputation.
“They do mention it still?” had gasped Alice mortified. The whole episode filled her deep shame.
“Foolish girls.” Her mother shook her head. “But you must not worry. These things take time, but the matter will be concluded. Perhaps,” her mother had hesitated, “perhaps, if you were to host some grand social occasion at Westfell. I’m sure if our neighbours could see you in your splendid home it would assist in the demise of this lingering gossip.”
“Yes, it would,” murmured Alice. She daren’t mention her desire for a ball without Edmund’s sanction. The last time she mentioned it, not long after Ann’s departure, she’d been met by his refusal yet again. She had bit back a huff of disappointment, but it must have shown in her face.
Edmund had patted her hand. “We will go about this matter at a leisurely pace, my dear. There is no rush. I need not remind you it is my decision, not yours.”
Since their arrival at her parents’ house, Alice had played the role of dutiful wife to perfection. Her determination to prove to Edmund she was ready to play hostess remained at the forefront of her mind. She had bit her tongue on numerous occasions, holding back from blurting out inappropriate remarks or asides. She knew she had done well when her husband despatched her a smile of approval across the dining table. However, he still had made no mention of any impending ball to her parents.
Seated in the drawing room, the ladies played cards. Little attention was paid to the game as all present were subject to Mrs Huddlestone’s continuous stream of speech. Her rambling served to cover up the obvious fact she could not see her cards without her pince-nez and the proud woman refused to wear them.
Mrs Melrose had said nothing all evening. A mousy woman with greying hair and little eyes, who probably served her husband well by being invisible. Alice thanked her good fortune that her husband treated her as his intellectual equal and fostered her opinions when they mattered. Then there was Alice’s mother: pale and distracted, she seemed lost in a world of her own. She listened to Alice’s recounting of her first dance at Buxton Assembly Rooms—minus the salacious gossip about Caroline Fanshawe.
Alice had attended Caroline’s modest townhouse in Buxton, taken tea and met her feeble but charming brother. With no mention of her outburst at the dance, Caroline had warmly welcomed Alice. The black-haired spinster was very knowledgeable on many affairs, spoke three different languages, and played the pianoforte like a virtuoso. Alice considered it a shame that she had devoted her life to caring for Frederick when she would have made some gentleman a fine wife. Now she realised the source of the gossip, the eligible young ladies of Buxton were jealous of Caroline, even if she did not attempt to capture the hearts of their suitors.
Alice had invited Caroline to visit Westfell Hall and the date had been set. Unfortunately, in the meantime, she had to visit her parents and listen to Mrs Huddlestone bemoan the world in general.
Salvation came in the form of the gentlemen, who had finished the cigar and port, and re-joined the ladies. Edmund, choosing to stand by the fireplace, looked especially fetching in his tailored coat and tight-fitting breeches. Alice smiled to herself knowing that she had touched the flesh that lay beneath.
Edmund cleared his throat. “Ladies. Gentlemen. It gives me great pleasure to announce my wife and I shall be hosting a ball at the end of the summer. You are all most welcome to join us at Westfell Hall.”
Alice’s jaw dropped slightly and she wanted to applaud Edmund’s declaration with a kiss. Instead, she sat meekly and appreciatively, her heart filled with love for her husband. It seemed her life was to be her own again. Society would meet Mrs Seymour and see what a fine upstanding lady she was and there would be no more talk of soldiers in alleyways.
“It will be an opportunity to invite the esteemed of both Macclesfield and Buxton,” continued Edmund. “Two great towns brought together under one roof.”
The other guests congratulated Edmund on his idea and Alice’s mother looked visibly joyful, her father relieved.
Retiring to bed, after the departure of the townspeople, she gushed with enthusiasm. The only point lacking from his announcement had been a precise date and when the invitations could be issued.
“End of summer,” he reiterated.
“It is some time a way, a whole month and more!” she sulked.
“Alice,” said Edmund, propping himself up on his elbow and looking down at her. “Don’t ruin our evening here by returning to your impatient ways. Slowly and sedately, remember?”
“Yes, Edmund,” she spoke with a tiny voice and immediately hated herself for being ungrateful. She remembered how delighted she had been when he announced the news and thought better of her demeanour. She dismissed her complaints at the timescale and beamed at him enthusiastically. “I am grateful. I wish to show you that gratitude in some way that will please you. Something special.”
Edmund smiled. “I will think upon that wish. There is much to teach you in the art of pleasing a man.”
