Page 73 of Waiting for Love

All well and good until he watched a small cadre of artists chalking the floor. They were meticulous. It took hours. The result was mesmerizing: beauty with a touch of whimsy. Yet Benjamin knew that before the first dance was over, it would be nothing but colorful dust on the shoes and slippers of the guests. What must those artists be thinking?

Third, Benjamin could not be one of the guests. When Jasper handed him one of the engraved invitations, Benjamin had a hard time not throwing it back in his face. What did Jasper imagine he would do at a ball? He couldn’t dance. It would be an insult to any lady he might approach. He could slip into the cardroom, but he couldn’t afford the stakes the other players would casually win and lose. And, God help him, what did Jasper imagine he would wear? His very best clothes comprised a plain black jacket, grey pantaloons, and a pale blue waistcoat that might rival those of a mildly successful solicitor.

So when the hour approached, Benjamin took himself to the servants’ corridors, where he would hear the gossip but not be seen by any of the ton. He allowed himself only one chance to spy—when Olivia made her entrance, descending the main staircase. She shimmered like a goddess. An inaccessible goddess.

His ache of loss was so great he wished he had never met a Taverston. He’d have been better off following in his father’s footsteps. Drunkenness. Poverty. Petty thievery.

But no. He had Hannah. The pain abated, little by little, as he thought of his daughter. Every step he’d taken in his life, every misstep, had brought him to her.

Benjamin removed to the kitchens and partook of the general chaos and excitement. It was a testament to Iversley’s treatment of his servants that they were as thrilled by Olivia’s coming-out as the family was.

And so, the fourth act of the night. Supper had ended. Exhausted scullery maids scrubbed pots. Footmen carefully washed china, crystal, silver…and everyone paused frequently to gorge themselves on the leftover food. Benjamin was made welcome. Very welcome. Perhaps too welcome as two of the kitchen maids flirted with him openly, one so suggestively that Cook rapped her on the arm with a spoon and told her to mind herself. That one had the buxom figure he’d always thought he preferred, and he couldn’t deny a roll about in an empty room would relieve some of his frustration, but behavior like that would cause many more problems than it solved.

He contented himself with bites of lamb and pie, averting his eyes from two footmen who were sharing a pilfered bottle of wine. Chastising servants was Peters’s job, not his.

A hammering knock came upon the back door. An early morning delivery of some sort. Peters sent a girl to open it.

A young man, hardly older than a boy, dashed into the room. A laborer, by his worn coat and thin trousers, but despite his wild eyes, he didn’t appear disreputable. He touched his cap.

“I come from the printers. The editor says this can’t wait till morning. The nobs, begging your pardon, need to know. So he sends me out. Says to come here first coz this is where most of the nobs, begging your pardon, the gentlemen be.”

“What are you talking about, lad?” Peters demanded.

“A message for his lordship! Will you bring it?”

Peters looked thunderstruck. “Interrupt the earl during the ball? Are you mad?”

The youth’s face fell. “M’boss said to bring it.”

Benjamin intruded, asking gently, “Can you tell us what it is?”

“Why, yes, sir.” Now he focused on Benjamin, hopeful and indignant. “How else could you bring it?” Since he saw he had Benjamin’s attention, he said, “It’s Boney, sir. He quit.”

“Quit? You mean abdicated?” There had been hints of this in the newspapers. Hopeful rumors out in the streets. The Alliance had reached Paris. The war should be over. But with Bonaparte, the war would not be over until he said so. Perhaps not even then.

“That’s the word.” The youth gave a little hop. “We won, sir. We did!”

The room erupted. Peters led the messenger to the table and bid him help himself. He practically threw cake at the lad in his enthusiasm. Benjamin hied off to find Jasper.

And the next scene. Benjamin invaded the ballroom. Ill-dressed as he was. He tried pulling his naked hands into his sleeves. Heads turned, but no one stopped him. Music began and he had to dodge whirling dancers and retreat to the wall. His eyes sought Olivia. She was dancing with an older man, an obvious peer. She moved gracefully. She smiled. But there was a…a heaviness about her. Her glow was gone. He thought she must be exhausted. Or perhaps it was just his imagination.

And then, her partner said something, and she transformed. Whatever it was, it brought all the life flowing back into her. Oh, my love!

He should have been happy for her, but…

The music ended, recalling him to his task. He rushed to Jasper. Who kept saying, “Are you sure? Benjamin, are you sure?”

Iversley could not halt the proceedings for an announcement that might prove another false hope. How disastrous, how humiliating that would be. People would remember. They would sneer. His stature would slip. But if the exhausted cream of the ton stumbled home to their beds to be awakened in the afternoon by the sounds of riff-raff celebrating before them…and discovered Iversley knew but suppressed the news…

“Are you certain, Benjamin?”

“Yes. Yes, I am sure.”

The final act: The Earl of Iversley taking charge, the pandemonium following, the Taverstons gathering to experience the moment together in the midst of it all. And Benjamin was pulled tight into their circle. He held Olivia. Held her. For that moment, he belonged.

*

Benjamin got an hour of sleep. Perhaps two. Which was more, probably, than half the citizenry of London. Had he wished, he could have gotten less: Sally, the scullery maid, volunteered to accompany him to his chamber to “celebrate.” She was very put out when he refused.