Page 45 of Gentleman Jim

There was no remorse in Fred’s face. No sign of regret over what he’d done to Nicholas so long ago. Quite the reverse. “He should have been hanged.”

“If he had been,” Maggie said, “you’d be no better than a murderer.”

Fred gave her an accusing look. “Is this why you continue to refuse my hand? Because of him? Because you’re still pining for him after all these years?”

“Did you think I’d forget? You stole my happiness away from me.”

“A stable boy.” He gave a derisive snort. “And for his memory you’d relinquish Beasley Park? I don’t believe it.”

Her spirits, already so low after the visit to the solicitor, sank even further. “No. I’m not stupid. I may yet marry you. You’ve given me little choice in the matter. But make no mistake. Whatever the future holds for us, I shall never, ever love you.”

The Parkhursts’ estate was located just outside of Chiswick. Maggie and Jane traveled there Saturday evening in the company of Jane’s brother and Aunt Harriet. It was a long drive from Green Street, but not a lonely one. The usually dark road was alight with elegant carriages bound for the ball, the glow of their lamps leading the way to the drive of a grand house emblazoned with torches.

At a quarter past ten, guests were still arriving steadily. Traffic was backed up in the drive, coachmen only able to move their horses a few feet at a time.

George rapped at the roof of the carriage, signaling the driver to stop. “We’ll get out here,” he said. “If you all don’t mind winding our way to the front steps? It will be quicker.”

He handed each of them down onto the cobbled drive. It was a balmy evening, scarcely worthy of the light wrap Maggie had brought. She was glad to leave it behind in the carriage. Her new gown wasn’t meant to be covered up. It was made to be shown off—every shimmering, clinging inch of it.

Indeed, Madame Clothilde had outdone herself for the occasion, creating a stunning confection of Clarence-blue silk, cut low at the bosom with short, fluttering sleeves and an overskirt embroidered with delicate beadwork that flashed and glittered in the candlelight.

When she’d first come to London, so many years before, Maggie had never worn anything half so daring. But as Fred had taken pains to point out, she wasn’t a young girl anymore. She was a woman of six-and-twenty. A veritable artifact. Surely no one could object if her ball gown clung to her curves, antiquated as those curves must be.

As she stepped into the entry hall, she felt numerous sets of eyes upon her. Her pulse quickened. Was Lord St. Clare here? It was difficult to tell in such a crush.

Jane caught hold of Maggie’s hand. “Stay close.”

Maggie was grateful for the security of her friend’s grasp. Jane and her aunt Harriet were each in possession of one of George’s arms, but Maggie had no such support.

She passed through the receiving line and into the ballroom. A sea of faces greeted her, both familiar and unfamiliar. It had been many years since she’d last appeared at such a grand event. Beasley Park was a long way from Chiswick, and even if Maggie had been in London for more than a flying visit, her health wouldn’t have permitted attendance. Crowded ballrooms were anathema to invalids, and dancing was all but out of the question.

“Heavens.” The plumes on Aunt Harriet’s fashionable turban quivered as she looked about the crowded room. “So many people.”

“We shall find you a comfortable chair, Aunt,” George said.

Jane craned her neck. Her own modest dress—a dove-gray creation, trimmed with a pattern of seed pearls—made her look every bit the mature, elegant lady. “There, George. I see Lady Featherstone and Mrs. Herron by the window. You’ll wish to sit with them, won’t you, Aunt?”

“Mrs. Herron?” Aunt Harriet brightened. “Oh yes. Do take me to her, my love.”

After leaving his elderly aunt with her friends, George offered his free arm to Maggie. The orchestra was tuning up for the first dance. A country dance, by the sound of it. “Miss Honeywell? May I have the honor?”

Jane opened her mouth to object only to shut it again. She’d promised not to be too much of a mother hen this evening. Not that she hadn’t clucked aplenty during the days since Dr. Hart’s visit, warning Maggie to take things slowly.

Maggie supposed she had been pushing herself. But her health wasn’t so easily recovered. It was going to take time. More time than she had at her disposal during this particular visit. “Best not,” she said. “I must save my strength.”

“How about you, m’dear?” he asked Jane.

Jane hesitated. “I don’t like to leave Margaret on her own.”

“Nonsense,” Maggie said, urging her friend off. “I’ll not permit you to play nursemaid.”

Jane departed with George to line up at the center of the ballroom. Maggie remained at the edge of the floor. The music commenced with a swell of violins, and the dance began. Maggie stood to watch awhile. As she did so, her excitement over the evening was briefly dampened by a weight of self-pity.

Before the influenza, she’d loved to dance. Indeed, in her memory, her come-out season was one long string of country dances, cotillions, and scotch reels. The music had sung in her veins, and as she’d had no particular attachment to anyone, dancing had been the chief pleasure of every ball she’d attended.

She only regretted that she’d never waltzed. During her youth, it hadn’t yet been deemed respectable. It was a close dance—scandalously close. Some claimed it was akin to embracing on the dance floor. Maggie had hoped she might experience it this evening. That is, if the right gentleman came along.

Had St. Clare had the courtesy to call on her in Green Street in the past three days, she’d have given him advance warning of her desire. But he’d been noticeably absent since that afternoon in the Trumbles’ garden. To hear Fred tell it, St. Clare was too busy paying court to Miss Steele to trouble himself with Maggie.