Chapter 21

It was a commendable Ambition, rather to aim high than to look low.

—N. W., The History of George A Green (1706)

Lady Hufton's announcement of the supper dance jarred Clayton into awareness. Blast. He had told Priscilla he would find her for it, but he had been too occupied first in keeping an eye on Miss Ellsworth without being too obvious, and then with speaking with her, that he had no idea where his intended bride could now be found. Before he could bow and excuse himself, however, the beady-eyed Miss Hufton wriggled her way to his side, whipping open her fan and erecting it as a barrier between her mother and herself in much the way Beatrice had.

"Good evening, Mr. Clayton."

"Good evening, Miss Hufton. I would ask you for the honor of the supper dance, but—"

"Never mind that," she said quickly, sotto voce. "I have a partner who will be here soon enough, I warrant. I merely wanted to thank you for your continued kindness to my poor stepcousin Miss Ellsworth."

She could not have chosen more effective words to arrest him, and he gave her a sharp look. "‘Poor'? In what way is she unfortunate?"

"You saw how my mother Lady Hufton must keep a close eye on her. If you were not a friend of the family and of Miss Ellsworth in particular, I should never mention it, but it happens that Beatrice is in hot water." Miss Hufton screwed her features up in what was meant to be concern but resembled instead advanced myopia. "You see," she hissed, "she has by her own confession been writing to Mr. Rotherwood!"

She must have been gratified by the effect of her revelation, for Clayton went alternately white then red. "Been writing to"? Then she had indeed written to Rotherwood, and possibly multiple times? The man made the little gesture at Almack's after the two had been in discussion, and Miss Ellsworth had complied, then. Could it mean anything other than that they were secretly engaged?

A secret engagement would explain everything—her clumsiness in mentioning the man, the warmth with which she regarded Rotherwood when they danced—But why, for mercy's sake, should it be kept a secret, and who would have wanted it so? A young lady would hardly insist on it, when the secrecy left her open to gossip. It must have been he who demanded it.

Instinctively Clayton had turned from Miss Hufton, or she would have seen the fire in his eyes. Did that scoundrel have intentions of playing Miss Ellsworth false? If he did, Clayton would throw his money in his teeth and expose him to the world, canal or no canal.

Though this bitter blow was no more than he had feared, the reality of it nearly felled him. Had he been alone in his rooms in Warren Street, he would have given way to his feelings. He would have cursed. Wept. He might even have kicked at some of Mrs. Oakes' flimsy furnishings. But here in the Finlay ballroom he could do none of these things.

He must, must master himself.

Miss Hufton unwittingly assisted him because, when he finally looked her way again, the pleasant effect of her bombshell had brought a gleam to her eye and curve to her lips, and Clayton immediately, contrarily leapt to Miss Ellsworth's defense.

"Yes," he replied, mild as milk. "It does not surprise me at all that such an innocent and well-meaning young lady would not realize the seriousness with which society would view her actions. I'm afraid she had ideas of wanting to assist me. You see, she learned I sought additional investors for the Cumberland Arm project and took it upon herself to broach the matter with Rotherwood. Though I would not recommend such means in general, I cannot help but be glad Miss Ellsworth took pen in hand, for he has indeed—been in conversation with my man of business." Mid-speech Clayton remembered Rotherwood's request that the matter be kept private, leaving him to end his speech in this vague manner, but Miss Hufton did not press him for details. She was too busy biting her lip, like a child whose toy had been snatched away.

Then she gave a shrug. "If that is how you see it, Mr. Clayton. But I do hope you will join us in warning her against such improprieties. I'm sure you would not like your Miss Brand writing to strange gentlemen or conducting business negotiations on your behalf. But here is my partner…if you will pardon me…"

Snapping shut her fan, she marched away, Clayton in his mind's eye helping her along with a mighty shove. Mischievous creature! But perhaps he ought to have blessed her, for his swift anger against her had afforded him a moment's reprieve from wretchedness—wretchedness which now returned full force.

Miss Ellsworth engaged! What, in all that life and the world had to offer, was left for him?

"John. John!"

Starting, he looked down to see Priscilla beside him. His betrothed had her arms crossed indignantly. "It's the supper dance. Had you forgotten?"

"I had not forgotten. I do beg your pardon, but Miss Hufton was speaking with me. Where is Miss Croy?"

"Some old person asked to stand up with her." She gave a dismissive jerk of her chin in the direction of the top of the room. Eyeing him reproachfully, she added, "I have been enjoying myself so, meeting so many people and dancing every dance."

"I am glad of it. But perhaps you might welcome a respite, then?" he asked.

"Respite? But we will rest all through the supper, once the dance is ended."

"In truth, there is something I would ask you, Priscilla."

Her protests died on her lips, and she regarded him warily. "What is it? Was it something Miss Hufton said?"

He grimaced. "No."

Extending his arm to her, she smothered a sigh and took hold of it, allowing him to lead her to one of the benches. Then she folded her hands in her lap, her gaze trained wistfully on the more fortunate young ladies setting and circling and passing in hey. After a minute, when he still had not spoken, Priscilla turned to frown at him and was surprised by the bleak look on his face.

"Goodness," she cried. "Are you unwell, John?"

He gave himself a shake. "No. I am well. Perfectly so." Taking a deep breath, he reached to grasp both her hands in one of his own. "Priscilla, we have been engaged over two years, have we not?"

"Yes…since before Papa died." Color flooded her cheeks, but she did not pull away from him.

"And in that time, I have not…we have not spoken of when our marriage would finally take place."

"No." She looked back at the dancers. Miss Croy and her partner were working their way down the room.

"You were still in school, of course, when your father died," he went on, "and we did not know each other well. But now—"

"Now I am older and have finished my education," she whispered. However she did not say, And now we know each other well, and neither did he.

"Yes." He lowered his eyes to contemplate his gloved hand enclosing hers. "And therefore, what would you say to setting a date?"

There was a long, long silence. That is, Priscilla Brand was silent. All about them music played, dancers hopped and glided, partners and onlookers chatted.

At last she shifted restlessly, and Clayton released her hands, bemused, trying to quash the wild hope which raised its head. Could it be, after all this, that in the end Priscilla would not want to marry him? The words rose to his lips before he could stop them, though he managed a jesting tone: "Unless you have decided you want no more to do with me."

"Of course I want to be married," she cried, extinguishing his bright thoughts instantly. "Of course I do. You caught me off guard is all. To bring it up in this place and so suddenly."

He swallowed, muttering something apologetic and giving a nod. Not that Priscilla was looking at him. "We might be married by license," he suggested, "as we are new to town and practically unknown. No need for the banns to be read aloud to strangers for three weeks."

But Priscilla pouted. "We may, of course, if that is what you wish. Don't you think it's a little…furtive? Because we could be married at St. Anne's, couldn't we? Since Miss Croy and I attend there. Wouldn't you rather have the banns read?"

Then he must yield, naturally, though Clayton could not help but think he would rather she express her opinions straight out, if consulting his own was a mere pretense. "Let the banns be read, then," he answered blandly.

"Yes, that would be better all around," she said, satisfied. "And St. Anne's is a grand church, though the altar is only wood, painted to look like marble. Do you know what Cissy said about it?"

He pinned an expectant look on his face, but when she only waited for further prompting, he succeeded in forcing out one syllable: "What?"

Priscilla frowned at this perfunctory effort. "Cissy said that she could never get married in a church so vast as St. Anne's because it would make her feel insignificant. She would prefer a tiny little chapel or even being married over the blacksmith's anvil!"

Thinking it unlikely poor Miss Croy would be requiring either, he only smiled. "Well, it is fortunate you do not suffer from similar compunctions. So—if we must wait at least three weeks, it will be Christmastime. Do you have enough money to make your purchases and preparations, or shall I give instructions to Braham to give you more?"

"Perhaps a little more," she said coyly. "You would not want me to appear shabby on my wedding day, would you, John?"

"You could never appear shabby," he protested dutifully.

"And—and don't you think it would be best to invite a few people?" she pressed.

"Whom would you suggest? Besides the Prince Regent and Wellington, I mean."

"The Prince Regent and—! Oh, you're joking, aren't you?" She made a sound in her throat to approximate a laugh. Then, picking at the tassel of her fan for some moments, she ventured a peep at him. "Well—I don't suppose Lord Stanley would come, or-or some of your business associates?"

Clayton stared. "Priscilla, inviting the earl or such people—"

There was no need to finish his sentence, for she guessed the rest and turned her head away from him to watch the dancers again. "Very well. I don't see the harm in asking, but if you don't think of them as your friends, or don't think they would be pleased to share in your joy or to see a young bride…"

Briefly he shut his eyes, wishing he could rub his hands over them. Good heavens. Barring illness, catastrophic injury at the building site, or the Second Coming, this would be the rest of his life. The rest of his life spent managing Priscilla's expectations, whether they were reasonable or not. The rest of his life taking up promptly and appropriately the conversational cues she fed him. The rest of his life making the best of a bad bargain.

"…And Miss Ellsworth?"

Clayton stiffened. "Pardon me, Priscilla. What was that?"

She favored him with a long look, and it occurred to him that her manner toward him was changing. Gone was her earlier timidity and eagerness to please. In fact, there was something decidedly waspish in her current regard.

"I said, I suppose you would have no objection to inviting our humbler acquaintances, such as the Dodsons and Miss Kempshott, the Huftons, and Miss Ellsworth?"

He repressed a shiver, his glance going involuntarily down the room to where Miss Ellsworth and Dodson performed a Hole in the Wall crossing, facing each other as they passed, and then retreating to their new positions. What objection could he give? She had made her choice and he his. The sooner their decisions were made permanent, the sooner they—he—would heal.

"By all means," he muttered. "When I have arranged matters with the parson, you may make what communications you will."

"But who will give us a wedding breakfast, John? Will it all fall upon Cissy?"

"I suppose we might host something at a hotel."

She gasped, seizing his sleeve. "Might we truly? At Blake's or Durant's or the Grillion?"

Trust Priscilla to suggest exclusive establishments in Mayfair. Well, it was her money, at any rate—at least until the moment she married him. And then, at one fell swoop, by law it would all become his. What injustice! It was a wonder every woman in the kingdom did not rise up in protest.

"Where you like," he replied.

She sighed with satisfaction and went so far as to lean her head an instant on his shoulder, much as a cat would nudge one's hand to encourage a caress. And, one of his foster parents having had a cat, a very long time ago, Clayton's hand lifted in what might have ended as a pat, only she straightened abruptly and said, "What about Mr. Saint-Cloud? May we invite him?"

"The dancing master?" He managed not to roll his eyes, even as his impatience flared anew. How could she in one breath want to invite Earl Stanley and in the next a man who earned his bread a stone's throw from the stalls of Oxford Market?

"He has such an air!" declared Priscilla. "And he is so kind and elegant. Cissy and I are quite enamored of him."

Clayton gave up. He might as well save his breath and leave her to invite the street sweeper and the king, while she was at it.

"As you please," he said. "Now, come. The dance is ending. Shall we to supper?"

As she stepped through the figures with Mr. Dodson, Beatrice decided she must be the most ungrateful girl in the world. Here she was in London, after all, at a lovely ball. Despite her recent actions, the Huftons had forgiven her and made no further reproaches. Even Marjorie, who might never become a friend, was at least no longer openly hostile. And then, added to these blessings, Beatrice had danced with the most popular man in the room and learned her efforts had not been wasted. With such investors as Lord Stanley and Mr. Rotherwood, Mr. Clayton's canal would surely go forward now, and Beatrice could comfort herself for having contributed materially to his success. She had not done it for his thanks, so there was absolutely no reason she should feel so bereft now. If she felt a pang, it should only be because she saw him sitting beside Miss Brand, her hands clasped in his. It should have nothing to do the visible displeasure on his face when their conversation was forced to end. Therefore she must be an ungrateful girl. One who did favors in order to receive thanks, and not for goodness' own sake. One who did favors in hopes of being praised and smiled upon and—perhaps—danced with. Why would he never ask her to dance anymore?

If she had not promised Lady Hufton to be all that was proper and unexceptionable in a young lady, Beatrice would have been tempted to seek Mr. Clayton out again, Miss Brand or no Miss Brand. Not to attempt to steal the affections of an engaged man, but rather to wring one more moment from him of their former easiness.

But she had given her word and must therefore bear Mr. Clayton's inexplicable moods as best she might, though perplexity threatened to eat her up.

Therefore Beatrice smiled and chatted with the languid Mr. Dodson while they danced. She could not understand his appeal, for his greatest interests in the world seemed to be betting of any kind, followed by Mr. Rotherwood. Indeed, he had as many questions about Mr. Rotherwood as Mr. Clayton had, but without the frown and air of disapproval. Beatrice only succeeded in turning the subject at last by saying with a laugh, "I declare, Mr. Dodson, if you are so very curious about Mr. Rotherwood, you might ask him to stand up with you next."

As the Finlays' guests made their way to the supper room, many of the crowd openly jockeyed for seats near Mr. Rotherwood and his partner, a pretty young lady with blonde hair whose name Mr. Dodson diligently asked several people until someone informed him she was a Miss Caroline Sidney, a perfect nobody. Mr. Dodson nevertheless repeated Miss Sidney's name several times under his breath and later, when they were seated, Beatrice saw him extract a tiny notebook and record it.

"Another name for the betting books?" she inquired wryly.

"Ah, Miss Ellsworth," replied he, tapping his forehead sapiently with his pencil before stowing it, "‘Nam et ipsa scientia potestas est.' Knowledge is power, you know."

Sadly for Beatrice, Mr. Clayton and Miss Brand found seats at the farther end of the table and on the same side, so she was deprived of the sight of him for the duration of the meal. And then, an hour later, when people began to rise again from their seats and the musicians to tune their instruments, and Beatrice's hopes to lift despite her best intentions, Mr. Clayton came nowhere near. Instead he gathered his intended and Miss Croy and escorted them to Lady Finlay, clearly in order to take their leave. Beatrice's spirits plummeted accordingly.

She found herself doing as she had earlier in the evening: sending him a silent message. Look at me, Mr. Clayton! Don't go without looking at me! Please!

And for the second time, it worked.

Far across the room, he raised his head, his dark eyes meeting hers.

He did not smile; he did not wave. But his lips moved.

And even at the distance, Beatrice thought she read the word there.

Good-bye.