Chapter 20

When you do dance, I wish you

A wave o" the sea, that you might ever do

Nothing but that; move still, still so,

And own no other function.

—Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale, IV.iv.2013 (c.1611)

After some debate, the Hufton party traveled to the Finlay ball on foot, Mount Street being but a ten-minute walk from their home in Green Street. Though chilly out, the rain had passed and the pavements were dry, allowing the young ladies to don warm list shoes over their slippers for the journey. Lady Hufton had wanted the carriage, but Sir John observed that, with the crush of traffic it would add a half-hour of alternately creeping along or waiting motionless while competing coachmen argued. But it was not her husband's powers of persuasion which carried the day; it was Beatrice's suggestion that, if they walked, they might choose their moment of arrival and do so without fanfare. Picturing her charge alighting from the carriage between the Scylla and Charybdis of Mr. Rotherwood and Mr. Clayton, Lady Hufton yielded at once.

Beatrice had spent the week not in disgrace, precisely, but encouraged to "lie by for some Time in Silence and Obscurity." It had not been entirely without benefits. Sir John might avoid her eyes, and Lady Hufton might sigh and shake her head whenever her gaze fell upon her, but when the Dodsons invited them to supper, Beatrice was allowed to plead headache. Apart from her stepcousin Marjorie (whom she could hardly avoid), Mr. Dodson was the last person on earth she wished to see again. Even Marjorie's boasts of the elegance of the Dodson home and the excessive amiability of Mrs. Dodson and Miss Kempshott toward her left Beatrice unmoved, though she had sense enough to feign chagrin.

"And Mr. Dodson, who is such a gentleman, sang beautifully while I played," Marjorie rejoiced the following day, hugging herself. "How he excels at anything musical! Don't tell my mama, but he asked if he might have two dances at the Finlays' ball. Two! He says there are four Finlay daughters, and he must do his duty by each of them, but if I would partner him before and after he did so, he would consider himself ‘well rewarded.' What do you say to that?"

Beatrice mustered the careful reply, "I think it must be pleasant to have two dances safely accounted for," but she must not have sounded downcast enough because Marjorie sniffed, "I suppose you expect to dance with Mr. Rotherwood, but if he hasn't yet answered your note, I wouldn't count on it."

Swelling with annoyance, Beatrice said shortly, "I didn't ask for an answer to my note. And it's all the same to me whether he asks me or not."

But her stepcousin had the last word, giving a shake of her head and an if-you-insist shrug. "Well, I'm sure Mama would rather you stood up with Mr. Rotherwood than with the Other One."

The Finlay home spread along a goodly portion of Mount Street, light streaming from every window on the ground and first floors. Hastily Beatrice and Marjorie removed their list shoes and gave them to Crook before looking about them.

Beatrice picked out "the Other One" almost at once, and she thought ruefully it was an astonishing skill of hers. To light upon him so easily, with only the glimpse just inside the open front doors of a sliver of his fine form. But the sliver was enough to set her pulse flying and the blood rushing to her face. He was here!

Fortunately the Huftons lacked her supernatural power and remained oblivious to his presence, allowing Beatrice time to school her features. He does not belong to you. He hardly even likes you, to judge by his conduct at Almack's!

It was not as if she were going to hurl herself up the steps to accost him. Even if that were in her nature, Beatrice had made Lady Hufton a solemn promise that never, by word or deed, would she compromise the family through her behavior toward—him—or indeed anyone. There would be no more unauthorized correspondence, no unseemly displays, nothing. She had written the same to her stepmother Mrs. Wolfe as both an act of penance and an attempt to share her side of the story before Lady Hufton did. But all those assurances did not prevent her from wishing with all her heart that she might dance with him or speak with him, or at the very least catch his eye in the course of the evening. She would be watched closely and would have to make every effort to hide her feelings, but she would rather make the attempt than otherwise. There was always the chance Mr. Clayton would seek her out, if Mr. Rotherwood had followed her recommendation and invested money. Mr. Clayton would tell her, wouldn't he?

Her thoughts were recalled by a sharp gasp from Lady Hufton and a jab from Marjorie. "It's the Rotherwoods!"

So it was, the Marble Millionaire and his dark-blue-clad mother, alighting and proceeding up the steps, Mrs. Rotherwood nodding graciously to those saluting her while she clung proudly to her son. Both her gaze and her son's skimmed past the Huftons and Beatrice without pause, leaving Beatrice's companions to turn anxious (Sir John and Lady Hufton) or spiteful (Marjorie) looks on her to see how she bore it.

In comparison to disguising her response to Mr. Clayton's presence, this was child's play, and Beatrice merely gave a rueful shrug. "I suppose it means he won't be investing in the canal, then." That would be disappointing indeed, if it was the case, but not a complete surprise, given her hasty and unconventional appeal. If providence offered an opportunity this evening, she would ask him if he received her note, but did not otherwise think there was anything more she would be allowed to do.

Choosing to err on the side of caution, however, Lady Hufton dallied outside some minutes, exchanging greetings and introducing the girls to anyone they had not yet met, until she deemed the danger of meeting the Rotherwoods in the entry had passed. Beatrice bore this with decent equanimity, but Marjorie whimpered and groaned under her breath, hopping from foot to foot and craning her neck so that she might not miss the Dodsons or Miss Kempshott. "Mama, please!"

By the time they entered and were received by Sir August, Lady Finlay, and two of the indistinguishable Misses Finlay, the dancing was well under way, leaving Lady Finlay to indicate with her closed fan her oldest daughter Miss Finlay dancing with a paunchy peer at the top of the room and—with overflowing pride and a flourish—"You see our second there, Miss Flora Finlay, standing up with Mr. Rotherwood."

"They do you credit," said Lady Hufton graciously.

Lady Finley appeared gratified, but being a mother of four unmarried daughters was not a burden easily carried, and her smile was thinner than pleasure alone could make it. "Thank you. I do hope Flora makes the best of it and does not talk too much of her cats."

Then the Finlays must greet their next guests and the Hufton party passed on to the ballroom.

"Oh, oh!" cried Marjorie. "It's grander than Almack's! And look there! There's Mr. Dodson dancing with his cousin Miss Kempshott."

Sotto voce, her mother bid her temper her enthusiasm. "And don't point, dearest."

"But Lady Finlay pointed at Miss Finlay and Miss Flora," Marjorie frowned.

"Yes, and they were her daughters," replied Lady Hufton. "Perhaps I should have said don't point at the gentlemen."

At this her daughter gave a resentful huff. "Very well, I won't point, Mama. But really, I don't know why you must reprimand me more than Beatrice, simply because I am your daughter."

"Beatrice wasn't pointing," her mother returned, noting with vexation that Sir John chose this moment to flee for the card room.

"Perhaps not, but we both know she has been doing far worse things."

In spite of herself, Beatrice could not help regarding her indignantly. Honestly, how long was the girl going to go on and on about Beatrice's sins?

Lady Hufton hushed Marjorie again, even as she nodded and smiled to a nearby matron, but Marjorie hissed, "If either of the you-know-whos ask her to dance, will you permit her to accept?"

"Unless she has sprained her ankle or otherwise incapacitated herself, I would not only permit it, Marjorie—I would prefer it. Your cousin has assured me she will give me no further cause for concern. I wish I might say the same of you!"

While Beatrice appreciated Lady Hufton's sentiment, she nevertheless wished it unsaid when she saw the fire in Marjorie's eye. Fortunately the end of the dance provided a welcome distraction, both young ladies unconsciously shrinking back, lest they look excessively keen to find a partner.

Despite her lowered gaze, Beatrice knew Mr. Clayton and Miss Brand had ended at the bottom of the room, far, far from her, but she was still disappointed when the paunchy peer loomed at Lady Hufton's side and begged to be introduced. The moment it was accomplished, Lord Downes asked for the honor of Beatrice's company, etc. etc., and off she went, her gloved hand in his, left to wonder if this would be a repeat of Almack's, with Mr. Clayton cool and distant.

As Lord Downes was followed by a Mr. Pickford and Mr. Pickford by a Sir Keane, it seemed all too likely. Determined to keep her word to her aunt (and not to behave like Marjorie), Beatrice refused to twist and turn and look around for Mr. Clayton, but that did not prevent her mysterious sixth sense from tracking him around the ballroom, whether he was dancing or standing to the side in conversation. Once she felt a prickle on the back of her neck and wondered if he was watching her, but when she circled to face outward and ventured a peep in his direction, she met only with his profile. His jaw was set, even hard.

It was almost an accident that Beatrice danced with Mr. Rotherwood. She was standing near the Misses Finlay when Mr. Rotherwood returned the eldest Miss Finlay to the flock. The Finlay daughter nearest Beatrice—was it Miss Felicity? Miss Fiona?—then held her breath and almost strained forward in anticipation, and Mr. Rotherwood must have felt it, for when he involuntarily straightened in response he spied Beatrice just beyond her.

"Ah. Miss Ellsworth. There you are. Would you do me the honor…?"

Beatrice's blushes were due entirely to fears of what the Huftons or the tiresome Mr. Dodson might be thinking or saying about this development, but she lay her fingers on his arm and let him lead her out. The dance was an active one, with much looping in and out and interacting with the person on one's diagonal as well as one's partner, leaving little time for private conversation. Moreover she was resolved this time not to stumble or blunder or do anything which might draw the attention (and raise the suspicions) of others. Therefore it was not until the fourth time through the figures that she blurted, "Mr. Rotherwood, pray, did you receive my note?"

He had been absently watching a young lady with bright hair further up the room but returned his attention with a start to his partner. "Note?" Then, "Er—note. Right. Yes, I did. You said through the servant that no reply was necessary, and I thought it might be awkward in any event. The proprieties and such."

Separated again by the figures, Beatrice had to tamp down her impatience until he was leading her up and back a double. But then she was amply rewarded because Mr. Rotherwood said, "I found your enthusiasm persuasive and made a purchase of a hundred shares."

She gasped audibly, turning to stare at him and thus missing her next step with the lady on her right. This earned her a frown and left her out of position for the diagonal cross, and she was obliged to scurry belatedly around the second diagonal to reach her designated spot. Here was bumbling indeed, but she couldn't bring herself to care. He had bought a hundred shares! A hundred shares! Why, that was a thousand pounds! Oh, where was Mr. Clayton?

"Thank you!" she whispered at the next opportunity. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, sir!"

Rotherwood eyed her with some amusement, taking in her beaming features and how her whole person nearly vibrated with joy. Most peculiar interests for a young lady—canals and commerce—but there was no accounting for taste. Nearly every person in London, male and female, might be buzzing around the Rotherwoods' fortune like flies at the honeypot, but at least this one was content and would not press for more. In fact, she seemed robbed of further speech, and he almost thought tears stood in her eyes. Surely that was a trick of the candlelight, however, for crying over canals and commerce would have shaded past "peculiar" territory into "downright bizarre."

Rotherwood was not the only witness to Miss Ellsworth's curious behavior, by any means. In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to say that, as so often where the Marble Millionaire was concerned, most of those nearby watched covertly or openly, but Beatrice was too elated to notice. She could hardly wait for the dance to end, for she had decided she would no longer wait for Mr. Clayton to approach her. She would find him! It would not be wrong. It could not be. She merely wanted to impart the good news to him, if he had not yet heard.

When the closing strains sounded, she did not have far to look, for Mr. Clayton was in conversation with Sir August, not five steps from Lady Hufton.

"Ah, my dear," her aunt greeted her, with a blush and a curtsey to Rotherwood. The man nodded and stalked off, but the matron beside Lady Hufton regarded Beatrice measuringly.

"Well! That's twice he's partnered you, is it not, Miss Ellsworth?"

"Mm. Yes. I suppose. Once at Almack's and once here."

"Well, Jenny, I commend you on your luck. I doubt there are more than a handful of girls here who could boast two dances with him. Your Miss Ellsworth, Lady Sylvia Stanley…"

But Beatrice didn't care a straw who Mr. Rotherwood had partnered or for how many times. Daringly she swept open her fan with raised arm and began to wave it, as if to cool her heated face. Then, behind its screen, she turned just far enough to peek at Mr. Clayton.

He was watching her.

Beatrice's breath caught, and she felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but she managed to give a nod and an attempt at a smile. Come here, sir! Please, please, please come over here.

Either her silent summons worked or he had wanted to speak with her in the first place, for he excused himself from Sir August to approach.

"Good evening, Miss Ellsworth, Lady Hufton," he said gravely.

Beside her, Beatrice felt Lady Hufton stiffen in apprehension, and she mustered as innocent an expression as she could to counter her aunt's fears. See? I am not going to throw myself at his feet, making declarations!

It must have sufficed, for Lady Hufton returned his bow before introducing the matron beside her. Beatrice later could not recall the woman's name, because her blood was roaring in her ears and she had no attention to spare, but Mr. Clayton murmured appropriate responses. Whoever the lady was, Beatrice heartily wished she would take herself off, so she might share her good news with Mr. Clayton. Though her aunt believed the less said to Mr. Clayton the better, surely she would come around when she learned how Beatrice's unconventional efforts had succeeded! Mrs. Whoever stuck to them like a species of barnacle, however, so whatever Beatrice said to Mr. Clayton, it must be before an audience of two. Never mind. Beatrice would not let it thwart her.

"Here you are at another ball, Mr. Clayton," she addressed him brightly, "yet instead of dancing, I find you talking again." (Lady Hufton gave a troubled cough, and Beatrice supposed belatedly that didrather sound like a hint, as if she expected him to ask her next for the honor. She winced.)

He smiled, however. "So I was. Talking. But I have already partnered Priscilla and Miss Croy and one of the Miss Finlays. I have not been altogether remiss in my duties."

"Not altogether, then," she agreed, smiling in return. "Though three dances is far from a respectable number, sir. You will give your dancing master a bad name."

Beatrice felt a touch at the back of her arm and understood it as another caution from her aunt. Oh, heavens—she must have sounded too glad. Or flirtatious, even. She couldn't seem to help it. How could she, when she loved nothing more than to talk to a friendly Mr. Clayton. And he was indeed friendly at present. If Lady Hufton had only witnessed his coolness at Almack's, she would have understood Beatrice's current delight.

Unaware of the attempts made to rein in his companion, Mr. Clayton continued in the same vein. "You would have me give up talking, then?"

"I would have you practice both talking and dancing in equal measures. And some people do even talk while they dance, I daresay."

"Ah. That would be the best solution, to be sure. I would be guided by you, Miss Ellsworth—there are few people who would hold greater sway over me—if I were certain I could manage both to talk and to dance at the same time without mishap. Not everyone can, you know."

"You're right about that," she agreed. "I have blundered more than once when trying to do both, but a young lady does not always have the luxury of sitting out a dance. If someone asks her, she must stand up with him."

"Is there someone you danced with whom you would have preferred to refuse?"

"If there were, it would hardly be proper of me to name him!" she laughed. "No, no. I only meant, when I am thinking too hard about something, my dancing does suffer. In which case it would probably be better if I simply stood and thought. Better not only for my partner, but also for those around me. During this last dance, for instance, I'm afraid my distraction exasperated the young lady next to me in our foursome."

A pause, and then he rejoined in an altered tone, "Rotherwood must have given you a good deal to think about, it seems."

Then he had seen her dancing with Mr. Rotherwood? That would make introducing the subject easier, though Lady Hufton and Mrs. Thingum continued to listen attentively, and she could almost see them now leaning closer. Could she perhaps speak in a sort of code?

"He does give me a good deal to think about," she replied, trying to pick her way, even as her eagerness grew. "A man of such…means and—and prompt decisions."

Here Beatrice waited for either glee or puzzlement to cross Mr. Clayton's features. Glee, if he knew of the large investment, or puzzlement, if she must further enlighten him. Truth be told, she hoped for the latter because what fun it would be to be the bearer of happy tidings! But instead of either expression, a shadow crossed his features.

"Has Rotherwood made a prompt decision, then?" Clayton asked slowly.

Tilting her head, she tried to read him. "He has!" A little bounce escaped her, and she felt again Lady Hufton's touch to her arm. "Oh, Mr. Clayton, if you have not heard—if your man of business has not yet told you—or if Mr. Rotherwood has not yet…done all that it involves or requires, or whatever—and yet I believe he has—or thinks he has—"

"Yes?" he interrupted. "What then?"

Abashed at his sudden curtness, her elation faded a little. "Then I believe he intends to buy shares of your canal."

His response could not have been further from what she expected. Nay, his mouth compressed in a hard line, a muscle in his jaw standing out, and she saw his chest rise and fall. Good heavens! What could the matter be?

"Is this common knowledge, Miss Ellsworth, or why would he inform you of it?"

With Mrs. Whatshername over her shoulder, Beatrice knew better than to mention having put the request to Mr. Rotherwood—in writing, no less—so she prevaricated a little. "Oh, well, as I said—talking and dancing…In the course of conversation he—er—mentioned it to me."

"Is Rotherwood in the habit of discussing his investments with you?"

Her mouth worked a moment. "No, indeed. It just—came up! I can't—er—recall why. Maybe we spoke of—of—of traveling on the Thames or something." She gave an uneasy laugh, being rather a wretched liar. "Yes. The Thames. Waterways and such. In any case," she hurried on, "he mentioned buying quite a few shares in—your project. Quite a few. You might…ask him about it. I'm certain you'll be pleased. Aren't you? Pleased, that is?"

But Lady Hufton could bear no more—no more of her charge's embarrassed fumbling and no more of Mrs. Dormer's raised eyebrows and palpable curiosity. "The supper dance!" she cried. "Beatrice, did you not promise it to Mr. Dodson? I see him coming this way with your cousin Marjorie." And then, in her desperation, she shot at a venture, "Good evening, Mr. Dodson. Do remind me—was it my Marjorie or her cousin Miss Ellsworth you asked for the supper dance?"

Having just danced for the second time with Miss Hufton, courtesy did not permit Mr. Dodson to do other than beg now for Beatrice to stand up with him. And, as Beatrice had observed to Mr. Clayton, courtesy did not do other than to force her to accept, though she had never done so with a less willing heart.