The Slightest Provocation

Chapter Twenty-two

It was one of Fannie’s great delights to dance at a country assembly. How fortunate, she thought, that a young lady not yet out to society could do so, and what a pleasure to share the Cauthorn festivity with Elizabeth, who’d missed the last two of these events while her family had been in mourning.

Fannie suspected she’d always prefer this sort of party, even when able at last to attend the fashionable ones in town. Dancing at Almack’s and in private London ball-rooms next year would be work. Challenging work, to be sure-work that tested her skills and mettle as war or politics might do for a gentleman-but work just the same. Whereas a country assembly, to benefit the district’s medical clinic and attended by anyone who could afford a ticket, served as a respite from all that, as well as a sort of ritual of fancy and condescension; the spectacle of a baronet’s daughter dancing with a farmer’s son allowed everyone to imagine their community an unspoiled Albion of toleration and fellow feeling, at least for an evening’s duration.

It had been at a series of parties like this one, down in Buckinghamshire last year, that Adam Evans had silently and fervently wooed Philamela. Fannie could remember how the young curate’s solemn gaze had remained fixed upon her sister’s face while Phil, Fannie, and Lady Grandin floated like the Graces through the figures of the set and down the rows of dancers. Nodding and smiling at everyone, Fannie and her mama and sister had shown themselves delighted to dance with anything in a waistcoat.

Of course, they’d been obliged to do so, to maintain Papa’s popularity in the district and Fannie’s brother Edward’s candidacy in the upcoming election. But Fannie’s delight had been quite unfeigned, both for the vigor of the dancing and the fascination of watching her sister fall in love. Not to speak of the sly pleasure of witnessing something quite invisible to her mama. In the midst of all that energetic capering, Phila and Mr. Evans had been so shy, so solemn, so decorous and dutiful that Lady Grandin missed the entire thing, even as it unfolded under her very nose.

And although at the time she’d found the yearning in the lovers’ eyes a bit sentimental for her taste, during these past few days Fannie had found herself reliving it, humming snatches of dance music to herself as though it had been she who’d been courted so ardently and not her less fortunate sister.

Which led her to see tonight’s festivity through a particularly rosy glow of anticipation, as she and the rest of the party from Beechwood Knolls passed through the large double doors of the Cauthorn assembly room. In its own way, Fannie thought, a country assembly was a very romantic thing, and anything might happen while one was in attendance.

“Come on, Fannie.” Elizabeth tugged at her arm. “You’ll get us trampled. My word, what a lot of people there are. I didn’t know there’d be so many. But you do think, don’t you, Fannie, that we’ll be asked to dance?”

Absurd, her cousin’s attack of nerves. But it would soon fade to nothing, Fannie thought, when Elizabeth began to feel the effect her looks were having-even now, among the crush of people at the door.

And what a lovely, variegated crush of people, so colorful and picturesque against the assembly room’s excellent proportions. Fannie smiled up at Fred.

“Come on,” she told him, “I want to dance this reel.”

They’d gotten here rather earlier than intended, accompanied by Lord Ayres and Miss Kimball. The Grandin carriage had arrived at eight, spilling them out into the midst of the crowd of merchants, small trades-people, and their families, who liked to get as much dancing as they could for the price of their tickets.

Fannie suspected that Elizabeth’s mama and aunt had coveted a peaceful evening and had thus conspired to pack them off so adroitly. Of course, Miss Kimball might have objected to the lack of ton implicit in an early arrival. Fannie was grateful she hadn’t-and even Fannie’s mama would have afforded that promptitude was a venal, rather than a mortal, sin against gentility (unlike gluttony, Miss K. having immediately and promptly disappeared among the refreshment tables). And so Fannie found herself unreservedly happy to dance for the pure pleasure of it-before another interesting party made its entrance and the important events of the evening unfolded (if, in fact, they were to unfold; she crossed her fingers for an uncharacteristically superstitious moment, before opening them to take hold of her partner’s arm).

The reel having drawn to a merry close, she set Fred free to prowl about in wait for the Halseys. Of course, neither she nor Elizabeth lacked for partners, and the more recherché, Fannie thought, the better. She entirely enjoyed being guided about the floor by a most agreeable young blacksmith, a Mr. Smith as it happened, and why shouldn’t he be so named?-well built, with coal-black eyes glowing over a rather alarming yellow cravat.

Mr. Smith yielded to a baker, Mr. Bunns (no, it must have been Barnes); Mr. Barnes to Mr. Wills, whose father owned the local drapery establishment. Laughing and curtsying, rosy and breathless, Fannie caught Elizabeth’s arm and bade farewell to the two young men squabbling over which of them was to bring her a glass of lemonade.

“It’s delightful, isn’t it?” she whispered to her cousin. “Much more fun than Almack’s, I should think. And-oh, good, I’m parched-here’s Lord Ayres with our refreshments.” Country dance or not, he wouldn’t miss a chance to fetch a drink and a biscuit for the two prettiest young ladies in the room.

“More fun than Almack’s?” Elizabeth, who’d also had a picturesque series of partners, giggled with pleasure, sighed with evident relief, and gaped in utter astonishment at what Fannie had just told her.

She looked like she’d been out riding-pale gold hair just a bit disordered, cheeks like dark damask roses. It was her cousin’s best face, Fannie thought, but the face had been prettier before her cousin had come to know it her best.

“Oh, but Almack’s must be so much lovelier,” Elizabeth was protesting, “though I do like the decorations here. See how they’ve looped up the streamers with red and white paper roses, Fannie. Or do you think they’re silk?”

“Almack’s isn’t lovely at all,” Fannie replied, “at least not from Philamela’s description of it. Whereas this is an unusually well-proportioned room. Though I’ll grant that a private ball in a great London house is something to see…” Fannie’s mama had spoken approvingly of a particularly lavish event in Grosvenor Square, the walls of the party-giver’s high-ceilinged ballroom entirely lined with fresh-picked rosebuds.

“A ballroom lined with rosebuds? It can’t be. You’re teasing-you’re… you’re funning.” Elizabeth’s beautifully curved lips had shaped themselves into something Fannie might be tempted to call a simper. “You’re making it up, Fannie, to taunt a poor country girl who hasn’t had your advantages.”

It took a bit of work on Fannie’s part to keep her eyes from widening into an unseemly stare. Wherever had Betts learned how to be so coy?

“Don’t you think so, Lord Ayres?” Elizabeth continued.

The simper had become a pout, the entire thing, it seemed, staged for Lord Ayres’s benefit. Elizabeth gazed up at him from beneath her lashes. “She must be teasing, mustn’t she, my lord, for surely no one, not even the Prince Regent, could afford that sort of expense.”

And when, Fannie wondered, had her cousin learned to tilt her head that way, the pretty moonstone earrings twinkling so brightly in the candlelight that when you looked at them you’d have to look into her eyes as well? I think I may have taught her that one, she decided. But upon my word, she’s a quick study, a perfect little automaton of my own creating.

The proof was in the pudding: Lord Ayres was gazing into Elizabeth’s blue eyes as Narcissus might at his own reflection, beaming and smiling away as he informed Miss Elizabeth Grandin that she’d simply have to wait and see for herself, when she came out next year and graced all the most splendid parties in Mayfair.

“But if I’m not invited, sir?”

“If you’re not invited, no one will be. Next season no one will give a ball worthy of the name without Miss Grandin in attendance.” He raised his eyes for a moment. “And Miss Fannie Grandin, of course.”

Which might have stung, Fannie thought, rather like the bite of a gnat, if I still cared to receive compliments from just anyone.

Absurd to lose her equanimity upon finding herself relegated to the category of an afterthought by a young gentleman with a hyacinthine haircut, a lavender waistcoat, and a handkerchief perfumed to match.

She didn’t care a jot. Or in any event, the woman she’d recently felt herself to have become didn’t care. That woman (a woman, she reminded herself, and not simply a young lady) would care for nothing but keeping watch over the entryway of the Cauthorn assembly hall, for the arrival of…

She’d spilled what was left of her lemonade. Fred, who’d had the misfortune to tear himself away from Miss Halsey just a few moments before, was being very dear about it, laughing and turning the whole thing into a joke as he blotted up his lap-thank goodness the lemonade had splashed him and not her, at exactly the moment she’d glimpsed the party from Rowen, just entered the foyer, on the other side of the tall double doors.

He and his sister-in-law seemed to have brought two younger gentlemen along with them. But she hadn’t enough attention for the others, so intently was her gaze trained upon him. He was helping the young marchioness off with an evening wrap of an odd salmon color. Not quite the thing with her ladyship’s rusty hair, but thrilling as a momentary splash of color against the severe black-and-white of his evening clothes.

Arm in arm, he and his sister-in-law moved to congratulate the members of the assembly committee, who were standing in a self-satisfied little knot, quite close to where Fannie, Elizabeth, Fred, and Lord Ayres had their chairs.

“But how extremely lovely you young ladies look.”

And how sweet of the young marchioness to say so, Elizabeth thought, as she and her party rose to greet their estimable neighbors. Her ladyship was looking very well this evening. Less pinched than usual; it was good for her to get a little recreation-Lord Christopher had been quite correct on that score. Odd, how upon first espying him tonight she’d thought him a bit overshadowed by the tall young man with the austere features and interesting aquiline nose. It must be Viscount Sherwynne, finally returned from the continent, while of course the last gentleman of the party could be no one but Lord George.

“And have you all been dancing?” Her ladyship asked, and then laughed, for of course they evidently all had-even after their lemonade (inside and out) they still rather glowed with the exertion.

“It’s been wonderful,” Elizabeth said. “I didn’t know it would be so agreeable-well, it’s my first dance party, you know, except among my family.”

Too bad Mama didn’t come this evening.

The guilty thought surprised her. I might have suggested it, she told herself, if I’d been more generous. If I’d been willing to share the pleasure of my first assembly with her. Well, if I hadn’t been so terrified of this evening that I couldn’t have borne having her here to see me if I’d been a wallflower.

But she hadn’t been a wallflower. Parties weren’t dreadful after all. Well, anyway, Mama would enjoy hearing about it later tonight. And even Aunt Mary, if she liked-she hoped they’d still be up, so she could tell them.

She smiled at her uncle Lord Christopher. Hmmm, now that she was paying better attention, he wasn’t so awfully much taller than she was. Which might be worrisome, if it weren’t that there were quite a lot of tall men in the world once you kept an eye out for them; most of the Stansells were quite tall, actually. She extended her smile to include Lord Christopher’s nephew and younger brother, who were just sauntering up to join their circle and who’d be at Rowen, no doubt, next time she visited there.

Interesting, she thought, how all those years she’d been growing up she’d never really paid much attention to the viscount. In fact, it seemed to her now that she’d been shamefully ignoring most of the male sex, which was awfully silly, since of late each new gentleman she met had something interesting about him. Viscount Sherwynne, poor thing, must have had another riding accident, for he had his arm slung up in a large kerchief of purple silk. She’d never considered it before now, how a wound-well, a modest and temporary one anyway-rather added to a gentleman’s allure. She widened her eyes to indicate compassion for the viscount’s suffering, and then, just to be cordial, extended her glance to his youngest uncle.

Of course, everyone in the neighborhood knew Lord George Stansell; the difficulty here was ignoring his pronounced resemblance to the Prince of Wales-or willing oneself to believe it didn’t signify anything. She would have warned Fannie if she’d known he’d be here tonight. But surely Fannie was a cool enough presence and had probably already heard the gossip.

And indeed (now that she’d sneaked a glimpse in her direction), her cousin appeared a regular ice maiden of rectitude and self-possession, dipping into a perfectly calibrated curtsy when Lord Christopher presented her to his brother and nephew, bestowing a calm and very adult smile on all the company (how does she do that? Elizabeth wondered. I shall have to try it at home in front of the mirror), and now murmuring her well-bred delight and astonishment at the welcome surprise of their presence.

“My grandmama insisted we both were to come home with her,” the viscount replied, “but when she discovered I wasn’t well enough to travel, she decided not to bother Mama with the details of all that, and then”-he seemed to be attempting not to smile, and Yes, Elizabeth thought, he’s glancing at me as he speaks; he wants me to share the joke-“Uncle Georgy had some, ah, business to finish up in Paris.”

She wanted very much to giggle, the joke being that Lord George resembled the Prince of Wales in more than just his looks. But giggling wouldn’t be the thing at all-and Fannie needn’t be sending her that warning look either. I know my manners perfectly well, she thought, even if it is my first dance party outside the family.

“In any case”-the marchioness seemed almost beside herself for happiness, and willing, at least this once, to let her son’s innuendo pass without censure-“with the marquess’s condition improving so rapidly, and having the viscount home with us again…”

Everyone murmured the appropriate felicitations. And Fannie even remembered to ask after the dowager marchioness.

“And so you’ve arrived only today?” Elizabeth asked the viscount. “You must be terribly exhausted. How extremely good of you and your uncle to come this evening, to our little country dance.”

It was an entertainment, Kit thought, to watch a beautiful young woman emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon. And, as in nature, Elizabeth was emerging from her girlhood with more than a little awkwardness, her postures and expressions far too obvious in their flirtatiousness. But one could forgive so lovely a creature a great many things, for the simple pleasure of watching her spread her wings, or even of watching her discover she had them.

A simple, disinterested, even an avuncular sort of pleasure-it was with a certain abashed relief that Kit afforded this to himself. He hadn’t wanted to mention it to Mary this morning when she’d suggested he dance with the girls. But, in fact, he’d been a bit troubled by the suspicion that Elizabeth might have conceived an attachment to himself-not to speak of chagrined, that he found himself rather enjoying it.

No need to concern himself any longer with that business. At this particular moment, the blazing candlepower from Miss Grandin’s blue eyes was turned directly in Gerry’s direction. As were some inky black scowls from the puppy in the lavender waistcoat, poor fellow.

No doubt he’d simply imagined her interest, out of petty vanity or fear of leaving his youth behind. Or perhaps in truth he had flirted, even postured a bit for her benefit, while all in a muddle and confusion about his reconciliation with Mary.

And then there’d been the fact that the girl had made herself so constantly visible the last week or so-she and the red-haired one as well. It had seemed to him they were always underfoot-rather like Snug, the little dog from Curzon Street, now grown fat and somnolent, living a contented old age at Rowen with Mr. Greenlee seeing to him when he needed it. Kit wondered if Mary ever gave a thought to what had become of Snug.

In any case, no harm had come of his flirting and posturing, and Mary needn’t know it had ever transpired. Though the muddle and confusion still remained, as to whether he and Mary were, in fact, reconciled.

How do we manage to get ourselves into these scrapes? And moreover, to intertwine their own future with that of the English nation? And if they really did make the journey to Wakefield tomorrow, they’d be dragging Morrice into it as well.

And whom, he wondered, did he suppose he was deceiving? If they made the journey… he and Mary would be setting off for Wakefield as surely as the night follows the day, if for no other reason than for the prospect of the day’s drive up there, just the two of them in the carriage. Make no mistake: he and she would be in one of the formidable Rowen traveling coaches tomorrow morning even if it meant he’d have to face ten Morrices at the end of their journey.

Good to get that settled anyway. He hoped he hadn’t been too rude to those around him, letting his thoughts drift off like that. No, they all seemed quite cordial: no impatient stares at him or scowls at his lapse of manners. He smiled apologetically at the person directly across from him-the red-haired young lady, and very pretty as well in her bright gown. Nice to see a young lady wearing something so simple, so little fuss and frill about her. Though one was supposed to say auburn-haired, wasn’t one? She’d returned his smile; so far as he could see she wasn’t at all put out by his woolgathering. Very sweet-looking, actually.

The musicians were striking up a quadrille. Damn, he’d forgotten. For there was Colonel Halsey, making his way over to this corner of the room, armored, if you liked, with that unmistakable look and bearing a certain sort of gentleman always wore at an occasion like this one-of wanting to be anywhere but in the midst of a knot of dancing ninnies, and couldn’t one speak of something sensible, like troops, weapons, or munitions?

Kit’s original plan in this eventuality was to dance with Susanna. But he’d been slow to move, abstracted by his thoughts; Georgy had already led her out to the dance floor. And although Gerry wouldn’t be able to dance, he’d evidently claimed blond Miss Grandin’s company for a promenade about the room’s perimeter, while the lavender fellow-Ayres, was it?-appeared about to turn to Miss Fannie Grandin.

Sorry, Ayres, Kit thought. It’s a military matter. I need to dance. For England’s sake.

And indeed, she rather reminded him of Mary at her age-that gleam of good sense in her eye anyway. If he had to dance-if he couldn’t just drift homeward to meditate upon his situation (or rather dream about the two of them being jolted about, with Mary in his lap, all the long day’s drive up to Wakefield)…

Colonel Halsey was advancing like a crack cavalry regiment.

“Should you like to dance, Miss Fannie?”

She’d been quite absolutely correct. There was nothing so romantic as a country assembly. He danced very well indeed; he was charming, circumspect, graceful, and polite.

And it did seem as though he liked her a little.

While she found herself entirely captivated by the dreamy, almost magical look in his eye. It seemed to promise something; she was fascinated by the secret knowledge she felt he must be carrying about with him. It was this… well, this aura one might say, that she liked about him, besides the fact that he clearly wouldn’t be hers for the taking. Fannie always liked a challenge, and here was one entirely worth the attempt.

And he was intelligent; he knew things. He’d been at the Congress of Vienna; he understood how Europe was being disposed of and what might happen in the next decade. She’d picked up a bit of understanding from Papa’s newspapers-not a great deal, of course, but she tried to follow the careers of Lord Castlereagh and the brilliant Prince Metternich.

He’d been happy to answer her questions at supper, before the Stansell party made their early farewells. The young marchioness wanted to get back to her husband. And then, of course, there was the dowager, Lady Rowen, who wouldn’t leave her oldest son’s bedside until they returned.

And being as intelligent as he was, and so adult-well, surely he must have noticed that she found him appealing. Not that she’d flirted in such an obvious way as Elizabeth had. But sometimes she’d gotten the sense that he knew something. And certainly wouldn’t object to speaking to her once again.

Fannie sank into a chair, as though any physical exertion at all might disturb the fervid motion of her imagination. For now that she understood Mr. Brown’s design of the confusing footpaths at Rowen…

Of course, she, Elizabeth, and the young men-and Miss Kimball as well-would be going to the Halseys’ tomorrow for a few days. But they wouldn’t be leaving so early as all that.

Some faceless gentleman seemed to have materialized in front of her. Bowing now, putting out a neatly gloved hand, asking for the pleasure of the next dance.

Pray excuse me, sir, she murmured. Ah yes. Bit overwrought. Lovely party. To attempt the next cotillion.

Nice simply to watch Elizabeth instead. Dear Elizabeth, how young, how charming she was. And so very much cleverer than of late-more like the old Betts, who wouldn’t have paid the slightest attention to a gentleman who everyone could see was very much too old for her, and her uncle besides.

Fannie smiled to watch her cousin curtsy to Lord Ayres and then turn to bestow a mirror-image curtsy upon Mr. Smith (who remained, to be quite honest, the handsomest man in the room despite his yellow cravat).

She stifled a yawn. Best to rest a while, and then to get a good night’s sleep. And to wake up early, for a bracing early morning walk upon the fascinating footpaths at Rowen.