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Mama’s joy was now complete, and the rest of the family scarcely less so. Angie was in alt at the prospect of an entire evening given over to dancing, and Rosie too glowed with happy anticipation. Even the men looked forward to the occasion, Pa for an evening of cards, Will for a room full of young ladies to flirt with, and Johnny to meet some of the local gentlemen and discuss the political topics of the day.
Julia herself could not view the forthcoming ball with any pleasure. She was not a natural dancer, so for her the main purpose of the evening was something akin to torture. She had not minded the Sagborough assemblies, for there she was among friends, but here she was surrounded by strangers who would see her for the country bumpkin she was and judge her for the least misstep. If she could have sat out every dance and watched those more competent execute the steps, she would have been quite at ease, but Mama would never allow it.
She was grateful that James secured her hand for the first two dances several days before the event. He at least would not despise her if she turned the wrong way, or trod on her own gown. He would probably only laugh about it.
Once again, the supply of new gowns was raided to clothe the ladies, and Julia had an even more frighteningly delicate dress to wear.
“I shall be sure to tear it,” she said gloomily. “Look how flimsy the silk is. I said so when Madame Farage proposed it, as I recall. I shall be terrified to move in it, let alone dance.”
“You will have no difficulty if you remember to hold your head high, put your shoulders back and move with graceful steps,” Mama said, with all the complacency of someone who had never torn a gown in her life.
They had not invited anyone to dinner before the ball, on the grounds that anyone left out would be mortally offended, but it made the evening a shade less nerve-racking to Julia. In the short window between the end of dinner and the expected first arrivals, the Fletcher family walked in some awe through their new home, now transformed into a place of magical wonders. Candles blazed from every sconce and chandelier. Small lamps filled with sweet oils filled the air with perfume. The saloon doors were flung wide, furniture and rugs removed and the floor chalked with delicate patterns ready for the dancers. To one side, the musicians were setting up their instruments on a small dais. Flowers and potted plants filled odd corners and created semi-private alcoves for those not dancing. “Our very own ballroom,” Angie sighed.
Every other room was pressed into service for cards or supper or retiring rooms. Footmen swarmed everywhere, their own supplemented with grooms, hired extras from Ware and a few offered by neighbours. The drive was lined from gate house to front door with torches. Even the terrace was lit for the occasion, with tables piled with shawls for the ladies brave enough to venture into the frosty night to view the stars.
But all too soon Julia found herself dragooned into the receiving line outside the saloon, as the first carriages were seen proceeding up the drive. The Miss Williamsons and Mr Osgood were among the earliest arrivals. The two ladies looked like blackbirds today, with their matching black gowns and not a bit of colour to liven them up, twittering about being rushed. “He is so keen not to miss a single dance,” one of them said, and indeed their nephew seemed to be in an enthusiastic mood, striding ahead of them into the ballroom.
After that, there was a steady stream of guests in their finest attire, jewels sparkling at the ladies’ throats and arms, and brightening the gentlemen’s neckcloths. The musicians were warming up, and Mama was herding the three girls towards their duty to open the dancing, when Mr Richard Osgood descended upon them, his face transformed. Gone was the happy smile, replaced by great anxiety.
“Is it true? Surely it cannot be true?” he cried, grasping Mama by one arm so that she started back in surprise, her mouth round with astonishment. “Miss Weston… she is not here?”
Ah, so that was it. Mama carefully removed his hand from her arm and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Ah, yes, how we all miss her, so lively as she was… is! We had hoped she could stay a full month with us, but she had to return home. Such a pity.”
He deflated like a balloon. “Return home? Somewhere in Yorkshire, is it not?”
Angie and Rosie were already in the ballroom, and Mama’s hand was steering Julia firmly in that direction too, but she could not but feel sorry for Mr Osgood, who had journeyed here from whichever cathedral city he called home for the express purpose, it seemed, of offering himself as a partner to Camilla Weston. Poor besotted fool!
“Sagborough,” Julia called over her shoulder as she was towed away. “Her father is Tom Weston, a mill owner.”
As she left Mr Osgood behind, he was pulling a notebook and pencil from an inner pocket.
The Fletcher sisters took their places at the head of the first set. The Plummer brothers were their partners, and a nephew of Sir Hector Bellingham was escorting Angie. Will and Johnny led out the Miss Kelshaws. Other couples quickly joined them and the dancing began.
Julia had to concentrate hard during the dance, for being so near the top of the set meant that she was dancing a great deal and there was little opportunity to relax. James kept up a patter of inconsequential talk at first, but after a while, he said, “Would you prefer me to keep silent?”
“If you would not mind,” she said, although feeling rather foolish. “I can only think about one thing at a time, and I feel it ought to be my steps rather than the fish you hope to catch tomorrow.”
“It shall be just as you wish,” he said, with his charming smile, and after that said not a word, apart from occasionally murmuring, “To the right,” or, “Take my hand now.”
When she had muddled through both dances and he was leading her back to Mama’s station at the head of the room, he said, “May I claim you for a later dance? We can sit out if you wish.”
“I should be honoured, sir,” she said demurely, torn between exasperation at his persistence and relief that she would be able to avoid one set of dances, at least.
“The supper dance, if you are not already engaged?”
“I am not already engaged.”
“Excellent!”
And there was that smile again. It was strange how it warmed her inside whenever it appeared. It was not that she was waiting breathlessly for him to smile upon her, but when he did so, she felt soothed, somehow, as if the fractious little spikes of irritation she always felt at a ball were less spiky.
She found herself much in demand as a partner, despite her lack of skill. It was a compliment to the hostess of the ball, she presumed, that the single gentlemen should seek to dance with the daughters of the house, even so unrewarding a partner as herself. As a consequence, she was delighted to see James weaving his way towards her to claim the supper dance.
“You said we might sit out,” she said, as soon as he had tucked her arm in his.
“And so we may, if you would like.” The smile flashed across his face. “Where shall we sit? Would you like some lemonade?”
“No more lemonade, I beg you! Mr Leadbetter has been most assiduous in fetching refreshments for the ladies, so I am completely free of thirst just now. Shall we sit by the window? A little air would cool me better than my fan, I believe.”
