A Chance Encounter (10 page)

“I am sorry that we cannot offer to take you up too, Miss Rossiter,” he said, smiling down into her eyes from his great height, “but the phaeton will be full by the time we collect Miss Claridge from the rectory.”

She smiled briefly. “Indeed, sir, I shall be glad to catch up on a hundred and one little tasks,” she assured him.

“We shall see you at the ball?” he asked.

“I—I am not sure yet, sir,” she stammered, very aware of Hetherington sitting silent in a chair close by, not participating in the general conversation of the room.

“Ah, but it would be unkind of you to refuse to come,” Mr. Mainwaring continued. “I particularly included you in the invitation, ma'am.”

“I am much obliged to you, sir,” she said, surprised. “I shall attend, then.”

He smiled, the expression making his handsome face unexpectedly boyish. “Thank you, ma'am,” he said. “Will you save the first waltz for me?”

Elizabeth curtsied and left the room. She had not dared to glance at Hetherington and yet despised herself for caring that he had overheard. She
would
go to the ball, she decided, and she
would
dance the first waltz with Mr. Mainwaring—if he remembered, that was. But she had the feeling that he would claim the dance.

E
lizabeth had never actually been inside the house at Ferndale. She had driven past the imposing wrought-iron gates supported by massive stone pillars, of course, and had often gazed at the impressive park that stretched within. During the winter, when the trees were bare, she had even been able to spot the house. But the closest she had ever come to it had been the day of the picnic when she had driven over with Cecily.

She gazed now with interest at the fairly new building. It had been erected a mere fifty years before by Mr. Mainwaring's predecessor when he had been a young man. Elizabeth admired its simple classical lines as she waited with the Rowes for a footman to put down the steps of their carriage and assist them onto the carpet that had been laid out down the marble steps for the occasion.

She felt a sense of anticipation and one of slight dread. On this occasion she was clearly a guest rather than a companion. She had already had her hand solicited for a dance by the host himself. She was wearing a new dress and felt very daring and self-conscious. It was of silk of the palest blue. It was her own creation, very simple as became her station. It was high-waisted with short, tight sleeves and a modest neckline that ended well above the level of her bosom. But it was the first dress she had owned in over five years that was not gray, the first one that did not have long sleeves. She had not quite dared to try a different hairstyle, but she had pulled a few tendrils of rich chestnut hair free of the knot at her neck and allowed them to trail down her neck and her temples.

Cecily was also excited. “Is it not great fun to be going to Ferndale, Beth?” she enthused in the carriage. “I have heard that the ballroom stretches the whole width of the house. Their housekeeper told ours that Mr. Mainwaring had to send all the way to Bath to purchase enough candles to fill all the candelabra. Imagine!”

“He has hired an orchestra from Bath, too,” Mrs. Rowe added, nodding until her feather plumes waved back and forth. “Mr. Prosser told Mrs. Claridge so. I do hope Mr. Mainwaring or the Marquess of Hetherington will lead you into the first dance, Cecily. I do declare, one of them ought when we have exceeded everyone else in our civility to them.”

“It does not signify, Mama,” Cecily said. “Ferdie has asked me for the first dance.”

“Fiddle!” said her mother. “You can dance with Ferdie anytime during the twelvemonth, my love.”

“And you, Cinderella,” said Mr. Rowe, looking across the carriage at Elizabeth, “is tonight the night for Prince Charming?”

“Indeed, I hope so, sir,” she replied seriously. “I very much fear that my glass slippers will shatter before I have the opportunity to leave one on the house steps.”

“You should not tease her, Mr. Rowe,” his wife scolded. “I am quite sure that Miss Rossiter could make a very eligible connection if she but set her mind to it.”

“Quite, my love,” Mr. Rowe replied indulgently. “I might have suggested Mr. Dowling. He is eligible enough, though a thoroughly dry old stick. But I very much fear his heart may have been conquered already by the Worthing chit. No, Miss Rossiter, I am afraid it will have to be Prince Charming or no one for you.”

“My sentiments exactly, sir,” she said cheerfully as she gathered together her skirts and took the outstretched hand of the liveried footman who assisted her from the carriage.

Mr. Mainwaring had asked Mrs. Prosser to be his hostess at the ball. The two of them stood at the doorway of the ballroom greeting their guests, who had been invited from miles around. They greeted Elizabeth after the Rowes, Mrs. Prosser with a kind smile and Mr. Mainwaring with a warm smile and a firm shake of the hand.

“I hope you have not forgotten to reserve the first waltz for me,” he said for her ears only.

Elizabeth smiled and passed into the ballroom. It was indeed a grand place, stretching the width of the house, its long wall consisting almost entirely of French windows that opened onto a stone balcony. The room was brilliant with candlelight, heavy with the perfume of masses of flowers. A sixth sense drew her eyes across the floor to Hetherington, who was looking particularly dazzling in a midnight-blue satin coat and lighter-blue knee breeches, with gold waistcoat and sparkling white linen. Amelia Norris, in white lace covering lavender satin, held possessively to his arm. But he also was looking across at her, Elizabeth realized with a jolt, his eyes wandering coolly over her from head to foot. She looked sharply away.

Elizabeth felt almost young again during the first half of the ball. She danced almost every dance, with the Reverend Claridge first of all, then with Mr. Rowe and Mr. Prosser. Mr. Mainwaring claimed her for the fourth dance, a waltz.

“Ah, at last,” he said, his eyes smiling down at her as he placed a strong hand against her back and moved her into the music. “Now I may relax, ma'am, in your company.”

“Oh, beware, sir,” she warned, “I am still very likely to tread on your toes during the dance.”

“I will not believe it,” he protested. “You are by far too charming and too graceful, ma'am.”

“Yes,” she replied lightly, “but I like to appear modest by pretending that I am not perfect.”

He laughed at the exact moment that Hetherington, staring tight-lipped into Elizabeth's eyes, danced by with Cecily.

Elizabeth tilted her chin upward.

“Miss Rossiter,” her partner was saying, “I said a short while ago that I never seemed to notice how you were attired. But I have noticed this evening that you look particularly lovely.”

Elizabeth blushed, startled by the sincerity of his tone. “Why, thank you, sir,” she said. “I feel very daring, you know, putting aside my gray and venturing into such a startling color as blue.”

He smiled. “I do not like to see you in employment,” he said. “You grace this ballroom more than any other lady present. It angers me that most of them consider themselves grander than you.” His tone had become suddenly serious. He was looking very intently into her face.

Elizabeth did not know how to reply. The conversation, which had begun as light banter, had taken a turn that she found disturbing. “I am honestly employed because I choose to be, sir,” she replied carefully. “And, indeed, these people have always treated me with great kindness. I have never felt condescension, not from the local families, anyway.”

He danced with her in silence for a while, still gazing down at her averted face. “I have made you uncomfortable, ma'am,” he said quietly at last. “I am sorry. I did not mean to do so. I only meant, in my clumsy way, that I wish I might call on you and invite you to drive and ride with me. But I can do so only if I invite others and have you come along as a companion or chaperone. I resent the situation.”

Elizabeth looked up at him, startled again. She could think of nothing to say.

“Have you promised the next dance?” he asked. “I should like to walk with you in the garden. It is lighted and there will be others out there. You need not fear that I mean anything improper.”

Elizabeth hesitated. “I should be delighted to dance with you again later in the evening,” she said, ‘‘but I cannot think it would be quite the thing to leave the ballroom with you, sir. I am but a paid companion, after all.”

He sighed as the music drew to an end. “Let it be the supper dance, then?” he said. It was a question.

“It would be my pleasure,” she murmured as he led her to a vacant chair close to an open set of French windows. As soon as he had moved away, Elizabeth slipped through the windows and leaned against the rail of the balcony, half-shielded by a large potted plant. The air felt refreshingly cool against her burning cheeks. She forced herself to relax, tried to force her whirling thoughts into some order.

Had Hetherington been right about Mr. Mainwaring? It certainly appeared as if he admired her. And Elizabeth was not quite sure how she felt about that. After several years of living on the fringes of life, so to speak, it was not unpleasant to know that one had attracted the notice of a distinguished gentleman. And Mr. Mainwaring was certainly that. He was undoubtedly handsome, with a very masculine physique. Although reserved to a marked degree, the man had a hidden warmth and intelligence that would surely make him a pleasant companion. Had she met him under any other circumstances, she felt that she might have been tempted to try with him to put the past behind her and make a future for herself that was less bleak than the existence she had been living.

But Hetherington had made that virtually impossible. It was not that Elizabeth was frightened off by his disapproval or his demands. It was simply that, having seen him again, she knew that she would never be free of him. Although she now found his presence oppressive, despised him for his past, was cynical of his false charm, and almost hated him for what he had done to her life, she still felt bound to him as strongly as she had ever been. She could never love him again, but she could never stop loving him, either. She would always know when he was in the same room, and she would always be as physically aware of him across the length of a room as if he were actually touching her. Although she could never be happy in that situation, she could not in all fairness encourage the attentions of another man. Could she? Elizabeth closed her eyes and pictured how pleasant it would be to allow Mr. Mainwaring to call on her, to escort her on various outings. Of course, it was all a wild dream, anyway. She could never enter into high society again. There would always be the few who might have known and would remember. And it would be unfair to drag an innocent man through that old scandal.

Elizabeth's thoughts were finally penetrated by the sound of voices coming from the far side of the potted plant that hid her from view. She recognized the voices immediately as those of Hetherington and Amelia Norris. Their voices were restrained, but they were arguing, she realized. Elizabeth would have withdrawn; she had no wish to eavesdrop. But she could not move away and back into the ballroom without being seen. And she realized that the conversation had been going on for some time, although she had only just become consciously aware of it. If they saw her now, they would naturally assume that she had been listening. She sank even farther into the shadows, against the stone balustrade.

“You know very well that our friends expect an announcement at any moment,” she was saying.

“I know no such thing, Amelia,” he replied amiably. “If our friends really do so, their expectations can come only from you, my dear.”

“How can you say so!” Her voice shook with suppressed fury. “You have been playing with my affections, Robert. You would make me the laughingstock.”

“Indeed not,” he denied, his tone more serious. “I have never led you to believe that I held you more dear than a friend, Amelia. I am sure that no one has been misled. Your reputation is in no way sullied.”

“You are despicable,” she spat out. “You must know that my sister is in daily expectation of hearing that you have offered for me. I am sure that every rustic in this godforsaken corner of England must be expecting an announcement. Have I been dragged here under false pretenses when I could have been enjoying the pleasures of Brighton?”

“Amelia, my dear, please keep your voice low,” Hetherington cautioned. “I accepted an invitation here because William is a particular friend of mine. I heard purely by chance that you were also coming as sister of Henry Prosser's wife. I was pleased. I have always found you lovely and pleasant company. But you must not read more significance into our being here together. Indeed, I am distressed to know that you have misunderstood the situation.”

“Misunderstood!” she replied. “It is the little Rowe chit, is it not, Robert? How foolish you make yourself, running after a little schoolroom miss that would not hold your interest for a month. Can you contemplate what marriage with her would be like? You would have that dreadfully vulgar Mama forever visiting you and sunning herself in the glory of having a marquess for a son-in-law. And you would probably be saddled with that solemn drab of a governess, or companion, or whatever she calls herself.”