‘You are lucky. And the vails for all the servants.’
‘And bringing the horses for hunting—although some people used the Shales’s horses.’
‘And for tonight they have hired an orchestra. They have invited the whole neighbourhood, to fill the ballroom up.’
‘I have a new ballgown. I can’t wait.’
Marguerite’s mind was elsewhere during the whole day, although she strove to appear to be taking part in everything—she must have succeeded, because even Alice did not seem to suspect anything. Even though going around Roman ruins was the last thing that interested her that afternoon.
* * *
Marguerite also had a new gown, which Flossie was in raptures over. It was a mint green silk with a tulle overdress, a low-cut bosom and a full skirt, embellished with embroidered pink rosebuds. The toes of her rose-coloured kid slippers peeped from beneath the hem. Flossie put a silver ribbon in her hair and fastened an emerald pendant round her neck. Marguerite pulled on long white gloves.
She came down the stairs alone to stand at the entrance to the ballroom, surveying the scene. A glittering collection of people in their finery, with women’s jewellery glinting in the light from innumerable candles placed in the four enormous crystal chandeliers. Everyone stood on the edges of the room, so as notto spoil—yet—the intricate design chalked on the floor, which included the Shale coat of arms. The air was thick with mingled perfumes. The butler announced the people before her.
Argyle must have been watching out for her, for she saw him approach, looking elegant and menacing in his black coat and pantaloons, white brocade waistcoat and silk cravat; his tall figure erect, his shoulders squared, his hair a little wild as usual, his aquiline nose throwing a shadow over his lower face in the candlelight. She could not fathom his expression.
He came close to her and said, ‘Your dress suits you.’ But he did not smile.
She looked beyond his shoulder, and said, ‘Are you asking me to dance? Because I can see Felix Crampton approaching.’ The orchestra had struck up and she had to raise her voice.
He took her hand and almost dragged her into the set; a quadrille, so conversation was made in snatches.
He spoke in a low voice. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Her throat was dry, but her voice firm. ‘I do not know what you mean.’
He said, between clenched teeth, ‘You gave yourself to me last night, for God’s sake.’
She raised her chin. ‘Yes, I did. Willingly.’
‘Did it mean nothing to you? Is that how girls are raised in France?’
‘Of course it meant something…sir. It meant much.’ Her voice was low and weighed with emotion.
They were parted. When they came together again, his next words to her were, ‘My intentions towards you have always been, and are, honourable.’
‘I know. I would not have done it if I believed otherwise.’
‘But why still deny me, then?’ Was it hurt she saw in his eyes? But then they darkened, and he seemed almost murderous.
‘I am nineteen, Your Grace. Why must I be forced to decide the course of my entire life within a few weeks?’ She eyed him with hostility. ‘You are harassing me.’
‘I am trying to bring you to your senses. And please stop calling me Your Grace.’
She played her last card. ‘I mean to marry for love, Your Grace. I mean, Argyle.’
She threw him a look as sharp as a dagger and turned to grasp another’s hand. When they got back together at the end of the dance, she curtsied and he bowed, but said nothing, his mouth set in a thin line.
Marguerite was sure people must have been watching them, some even trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. She knew she must not dance with him again, because she had not come to a decision yet—but there was no fear of that, since he had retired to the card room. As was fast becoming her habit, she did not know whether to be relieved or sorry.
She danced twice with Felix, which was not the right thing to do, because it gave him false hope—she liked him but had no interest in him beyond that. As time went on, she felt she was choking—the air had become thick with chalk dust and candle smoke, and now smelled of sweat as well as perfume. But she kept her head high and a smile on her face.
At one in the morning, supper was served. She looked around for Argyle, but he was nowhere to be seen; she let Felix take her in, thinking Argyle must have gone to bed.
When she finally went up to her room, Flossie, who had been waiting for her and was half asleep, sat up and came to help her. Marguerite was ashamed—as soon as the girl had helped with her gown and corset, she sent her off to bed and went to stand at the open window, wrenching the casement up with difficulty and taking in great gulps of the freezing air. Tears ran silently down her cheeks.
* * *
