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When I say nothing, Grandmama takes hold of my arm, all the while smiling and nodding to others who are arriving."Gemma?"
"Yes," I say with a sigh."I shall remember."
Felicity and her mother greet us as we arrive. Felicity's dress, tailored by Franny, shows a daring amount of decolletage that does not go unnoticed by the guests, the shock registering in their lingering glances. Mrs. Worthington's strained smile says all that she is feeling, but there's nothing for her to do but put on a brave face, as if her daughter weren't shaming her at her very own ball. I don't understand why Felicity goads her mother so, or why her mother endures it without much more than a martyred sigh.
"How do you do?" I murmur to Felicity as we exchange curtsies.
"Good of you to come," she says. We're both so formal that I have to fight a giggle. Felicity gestures to the man on her left. "I don't believe you've met my father, Sir George Worthington."
"How do you do, Sir George?" I say, curtsying.
Felicity's father is a handsome man with clear gray eyes and fair hair gone a muddy blond. He has the sort of strong profile one can imagine outlined by the gray of the sea. I can see him, arms behind his back as they are now, shouting orders to his men. And like his daughter, he has a charismatic smile, which is on display as little Polly enters the room in her blue velvet gown, her hair in ringlets.
"May I stay for the dancing, Uncle?" she asks quietly.
"She should go to the nursery," Felicity's mother says.
"Now, now, it is Christmas. Our Polly wants dancing and she shall have it," the admiral says."I'm afraid I'm rather an old fool when it comes to indulging young ladies."
The guests chuckle at this, delighted with his merry spirits. As we move on, I hear him greeting people with great bonhomie and charm.
". . . yes, I'm off tomorrow to Greenwich to visit the old sailors at the royal hospital. Do you suppose they'll give me a bed? . . . Stevens, how's the leg holding up? Ah, good, good . . ."
On a side table, beautiful dance cards have been laid out. They are clever, ornamented with gold braid and a tiny attached pencil so that we may write the name of our partner beside the dance--waltz, quadrille, gallop, polka--that he requests to have with us. Though I should like to write Simon's name beside all of them, I know I am to dance no more than three dances with any gentleman. And I shall have to dance once with my brother. The card will make a beautiful souvenir of my first ball, though truthfully, I am not yet "out of the schoolroom," since I've not made my debut and had my season. But this is a family party, and as such, I shall have all the privileges of a young lady of seventeen or eighteen.
Grandmama spends a tiresome amount of time visiting with various ladies while I am forced to trail behind, smiling and curtsying and generally saying nothing unless spoken to. I meet the chaperones--bored spinster aunts all--and a Mrs. Bowles promises Grandmama she will watch over me like a mother hen whilst Grandmama busies herself at cards elsewhere. Across the room, I spy Simon entering with his family, and my stomach flutters. I'm so absorbed in his arrival that I miss a question directed to me from a Lady Something-or-Other. She, Grandmama, and Mrs. Bowles stand looking at me, expecting an answer. Grandmama closes her eyes briefly in shame.
"Yes, thank you," I say, thinking it safest.
Lady Something-or-Other smiles and cools herself with an ivory fan. "Wonderful! The next dance is about to begin. And here is my Percival now."
A young man appears at her side. The top of his head reaches the bottom of my chin, and he has the misfortune of looking like a large fish, all bulging eyes and exceptionally wide mouth. And I've just agreed to dance with him.
I come to two conclusions during the polka. One, it is rather like being shaken for an eternity. Two, the reason Percival Something-or-Other has such an exceptionally wide mouth is from overuse. He talks for the whole of the dance, stopping only to ask me questions that he then answers for me. I am reminded of survival stories in which brave men were forced to amputate their own limbs in order to escape animal traps, and I fear that I shall have to resort to such a drastic measure if the orchestra does not stop. Mercifully, they do, and I manage to escape, while "regretfully" informing Percival that my dance card has been filled for the remainder of the ball.
As I hobble from the dance floor to return to the company of Mrs. Bowles and the chaperones, I see Ann coming out to dance with Tom. She could not look happier. And Tom seems charmed to be in her company. I feel quite warmed to see them together.
"May I have this dance, Miss Doyle?" It's Simon, giving me a small bow.
"I'd be delighted."
"I see Lady Faber trapped you into dancing with her son, Percival," Simon says while twirling me gently in the waltz. His gloved hand rests softly at my back, guiding me easily round the floor.
"He is a most careful dancer," I say, trying to be polite.
Simon grins. "Is that what you call it? I suppose it is a skill to be able to dance the polka and talk incessantly at the same time."
I can't help smiling at this.
"Look there," Simon says, "Miss Weston and Mr. Sharpe." He indicates a dour- looking young woman sitting alone in her chair, dance card in hand. She throws quick glances toward a tall man with dark hair. He's chatting with another young woman and her governess, his back to Miss Weston."It is common knowledge that Miss Weston fancies Mr. Sharpe. It is also common knowledge that Mr. Sharpe doesn't know Miss Weston is alive. See how she longs for him to ask her for a dance. I'll wager she's kept her dance card free on the chance he'll ask."
Mr. Sharpe walks in Miss Weston's direction.
"Look," I say."Perhaps he's going to ask her."
Miss Weston sits tall, a hopeful smile on her needle-slim face. Mr. Sharpe passes her by, and she makes a show of looking off into the distance, as if she is not bothered in the slightest by his rejection. It is all so cruel.
"Ah, perhaps not," Simon says. He offers quiet commentary on the couples around us. "Mr. Kingsley is after the widow Marsh's sizable trust. Miss Byrne is much larger than she was during the season in May. She eats like a bird in public, but I hear that in private, she can eat up the larder in the blink of an eye. Sir Braxton is said to be carrying on an affair with his governess. And there is the case of our host and hostess, the Worthingtons." "What do you mean?"
