Chapter 9

Lead in your ladies, every one: sweet partner,

I must not yet forsake you: let"s be merry.

—Shakespeare and Fletcher, Henry VIII, I.iv.807 (1623)

"Banniker," said Beatrice to Aggie's maid, when the woman came to dress her, "what would you say to some curls?"

Banniker might have come to The Acres years earlier as a raw young servant barely older than her mistress, but she was polished enough now. Barely a hitch in her step betrayed her amazement at Miss Ellsworth's request, the latter having consistently disdained the services of the iron.

"Of course, miss," she replied evenly. But when she withdrew once more to fetch the iron from Mrs. Tyrone Ellsworth's chamber, she could not forbear announcing, "I've come to fetch the iron at Miss Ellsworth's request."

Aggie looked up from where she was disentangling little Joan's fingers from the lace at her hem to hand her off to Nurse. "Beatrice wants curls?" She had known Banniker long enough to suspect the maid's barely-disguised triumph, but the news filled Aggie herself with alarm. When the two servants were gone, Banniker with the iron and Nurse with their daughters, she turned on her husband, who had shut his book with a snap. "Oh, Tyrone! What shall we do? If Beatrice wants curls, she must be in love with him, and it is all our fault."

"I don't know that we can determine that. She did not pay him undue attention last night."

"Of course she didn't! But don't you see? They had become fast friends—we all had—before we learned of Miss Brand's existence, but last night the two of them hardly spoke."

"Well, whatever her feelings, she could hardly chat with the man under the nose of his betrothed without opening herself to criticism," he replied reasonably, "and I commend her for putting a brave face on the matter, of which curls are a good indication."

Heedless of her own hair and dress, Aggie came to perch on the arm of his chair. "I do hope you're right, Tyrone. I would feel far less guilty. Only think if we were to return to Winchester, not only having failed in introducing Beatrice to someone eligible, but having encouraged a doomed attachment!"

He lifted her hand to his lips before clasping it between his own. "I know she likes him. We all do. But how attached can she possibly be, on so short an acquaintance?"

"You, my good lad, are simply trying to persuade yourself. You know very well that the acquaintance might be short, but it began in intense and unusual circumstances, ones which would have made a deep impression on a far flightier girl than your dear sister, and Beatrice is not the least bit flighty. Suppose the curls are an attempt to make Mr. Clayton regret his engagement?"

"Do consider what you're saying, Mrs. Ellsworth," he answered with a teasing frown. "You say in one breath that my sister is not flighty, and in the next you accuse her of trying to excite gnawing envy in a man's heart?"

"No—you're right. It must be what you said—putting on a brave face. Therefore, I had better go see how she fares. We must all be brave, I suppose, having had our hopes dashed. But there are plenty of fish in the sea, as the saying goes. It's our communal misfortune that we all set our hearts on the first one to swim by."

What neither Aggie nor Tyrone voiced was that it remained to be seen whether so steadfast a girl as Beatrice Ellsworth could succeed in detaching her heart from that first shining fish to settle it on another.

In the slower seasons, the Bognor subscription room offered but one assembly per month, and it would be folly to expect anyone there but those already seen in town and at the shore. When the Ellsworths entered, it was precisely this collection of doddering old gentlemen and the occasional pale and wasted lady of certain years with her equally desiccated companion. Here and there, like flecks of gleaming quartz in otherwise uniform granite, shone more youthful parties, and the (doddering) master of ceremonies hastened forward to make introductions.

"There may be a sad shortage of partners for the young ladies, I'm afraid," Mr. Haddon apologized with a bow to Aggie and Beatrice. "Mr. Ellsworth, I am certain you will do your duty, as will Mr. Worsley and Mr. Phipps, but the older men are more for cards than dancing."

"It so happens, Mr. Haddon, that we expect another friend, a Mr. Clayton and his betrothed," Tyrone informed him, "thus bringing the number of male partners to four. Mr. Clayton knows but two dances, I believe, so perhaps under the unusual circumstances, when he arrives, the musicians might confine themselves to only those dances? It would allow Mr. Clayton to dance with my wife, my sister, his intended, and his intended's cousin and therefore make the most of his services."

"Splendid," agreed the relieved man. "But perhaps in the meantime we might begin with another…?"

Before Beatrice could wonder whether it was more appropriate for Tyrone to ask her or his wife, Mr. Worsley thrust himself in front of Mr. Phipps and begged for the honor, leaving Mr. Phipps to turn to Aggie. Being as full of human weaknesses as any other young lady, she could not help wishing it had been Mr. Phipps who won the day because Mr. Phipps, if not a handsome man, was at least handsomer than Mr. Worsley. The latter was nearly bald, save for a tuft of ginger hair sprouting above either ear, and he had one eye which did not look at the world straight on. That feature might have been a blessing in disguise, however, considering how his other was disconcerting in its fixedness on her.

For his part, Mr. Worsley found no fault in his partner, for Beatrice was looking her best. She had not aspired to exciting Mr. Clayton's envy or chagrin, but she had indeed hoped to disguise her own heartache with a good show. Banniker had dressed her golden-brown hair atop her dainty head, twisting the sides in lustrous ropes and curling what escaped the chignon. The faint pink of her simple dress found its complement in her cheeks and the apprehension of her parted lips.

"To think such fair English roses bloom even in autumnal Bognor," effused Mr. Worsley when the music began. As his divergent eye encompassed Aggie and his direct eye Beatrice, Beatrice hoped his compliment was meant to be applied generally, and she gave only a noncommittal hmm in response. But no, for he distinctly pressed her hand more firmly than the occasion required, adding, "Certainly your steps are light as falling petals, Miss Ellsworth."

Another hmm, this one more grunt-like. Must he?

With Beatrice being the only single lady in the room under the age of fifty, it seemed he must. Finding his partner as reticent as she was fair, Mr. Worsley took it upon himself to deliver what information he deemed vital in the time granted him, beginning with his origins (ancient), his family connections (respectable), his education (typical), hints at his income (more than adequate), his health (middling), his prospects (bright). Had she been attending, she might have learned more of Mr. Worsley in ten minutes than she had of Mr. Clayton in ten days. But it was Mr. Worsley's additional misfortune that, before he was halfway through his monologue, a new party appeared in the doorway which consumed what little attention Beatrice had allotted him. Not that she betrayed it by a glance or a remark, but her pink deepened. Abruptly she looked in her partner's most likely eye. "Yes. The bathing at Bognor is most invigorating."

Blinking at this non sequitur, Mr. Worsley scrambled to respond, but he might have saved his breath. Beatrice heard nothing but the pounding of her heart in her ears. And though she did not turn her head, she knew Mr. Clayton and Miss Brand and Miss Croy had joined Tyrone. How was it that she could simultaneously envy Tyrone their company and wish that they might turn right around and leave? How was it that she could picture Mr. Clayton—his firm, upright person and the noble carriage of his head—when her eyes took in only Mr. Worsley's right ear capped by its unfortunate ginger whisp? But so it was.

Only years of repetition and practice carried her through the figures, and four times more through the pattern passed in a twinkling. The next thing she knew, Mr. Worsley was executing his bow (and presenting her with his sparse-carpeted pate. Then he took up her hand to return her to Tyrone, Beatrice biting her lip and bracing herself inwardly.

Naturally, he will dance with Miss Brand first, but will he ask me after that, or will it be Aggie or Miss Croy? I ought not to look forward to it, but I can't help myself. But no—it will be better to dance with him and have done with it, for then I may show him how perfectly calm and indifferent I am, and he will never, never, never imagine how silly I have been. How foolish. For it is foolish, to think him the best of men. Just because he…saved me.

Lifting her gaze, she did indeed see Mr. Clayton leading Miss Brand to the floor, face impassive, while the young lady beamed. If only Tyrone or Mr. Phipps would hurry over and ask her—they might stand near Mr. Clayton and Miss Brand! As if she had breathed the thought aloud, Mr. Clayton looked her way, and Beatrice forgot all her resolve to pretend indifference. Her lips curled upward and her eyes lit—

"If I might have the honor?" croaked a voice, one issuing from a long and stooped and creaking body which swung before her and Mr. Worsley like the fall of the executioner's axe. Poor Beatrice nearly yelped in horror, being reminded of one of the illustrations in Tyrone's books: the ghost appearing to Athenodorus. "Worsley, you might introduce me."

Mr. Worsley was only too willing to comply, thinking such a contrast between his (relative) youth and this walking mummy would make him shine the brighter in Miss Ellsworth's estimation. "Miss Ellsworth, may I present Mr. Herman Boydell?"

Mr. Herman Boydell was a hundred, if he was a day, it seemed to Beatrice, and she wondered why being in the presence of Mr. Clayton always required her humiliation, whether by drowning, choking on fish soup, or dancing with revivified corpses.

Mercifully Mr. Boydell was no mind-reader, so he was spared the unkind aspersions of youth. With ancient gallantry, he bowed her into the line, three up from Mr. Clayton and Miss Brand, as the fiddler and pianoforte player began to run through the melody of Rufty Tufty at double time so the dancers might review the steps in their heads before being called upon to perform. When she recognized the tune, Beatrice could not repress a sigh. Ah—then she and Mr. Boydell would not interact with Mr. Clayton and Miss Brand, confined as they were to their own foursome.

It"s better this way!she reminded herself ruthlessly. Far better. Remember: you are to be calm and indifferent.

Perhaps in deference to Mr. Boydell's age or because Tyrone had requested it for Mr. Clayton's sake, the musicians played at a languorous pace. Which meant Beatrice had ample time to make and break her resolution throughout. Because it would be odd not to glance Mr. Clayton's way, would it not? It would be as if she were disturbed by him. Only see how Aggie not only looked but also praised and encouraged—Aggie and Tyrone being fortunate enough to make up Mr. Clayton's foursome.

The universe made one concession to her, however, in that Mr. Boydell refrained from making fulsome compliments or droning on about himself as Mr. Worsley had, and he moved well for his age. If Beatrice could not be proud of her partner—if she could not glow up at him and flush prettily, as Miss Brand did with Mr. Clayton—at least they need not attract undue attention.

She was mistaken there, though she did not know it, for Clayton had marked her presence the moment he entered and was himself wrestling with guilt and uncertainty. Guilt because his heart leapt within him and uncertainty over what must be done.

"Oh!" cried Miss Brand—Priscilla. His intended was still too in awe of him to address him frequently, as if guessing it sometimes tried his patience, so she addressed her remark to Miss Croy. "There are the Ellsworth ladies, already dancing. See them? What do you think, Cissy? Miss Ellsworth has curled her hair."

"Very nice," said Miss Croy. "Very pretty."

"Yes, she is pretty," Priscilla half-sighed, and Clayton felt her glance at him even without turning his head. He ought to say something about how she too was looking well. He knew he ought. But I have never in my life paid a woman a compliment and don't know how to go about it, he excused himself, only to have another, more honest thought streak through his head: you don't want to make the effort. Not when Priscilla is going to fish for it like that. And not when it was Miss Ellsworth you really were admiring.

Soon after they came to stand beside Tyrone Ellsworth the master of ceremonies scurried over again to do his duties, which included assuring Mr. Clayton sotto voce that the musicians would gladly accommodate him by playing Rufty Tufty next, followed by Hit or Miss, then Rufty Tufty, then Hit or Miss.

"I suppose I have you to thank for this arrangement," Clayton said wryly to Tyrone, when Mr. Haddon strode away again, summoned by a table of card players.

"Indeed you do," he replied. "But trust me—it is better than you sitting out the dances you haven't learned and earning the ire of any ladies hoping to partner you. Ah. This one is winding down, and I had better snatch up my wife before Beatrice's fellow forestalls me. If you would pardon me…"

"Shall we—Priscilla?" Her name lurched ungracefully off his tongue, but she did not complain, taking his hand eagerly and waving farewell as they abandoned Miss Croy.

It was only natural then to glance up the set as they joined it, which was how Clayton's gaze caught Miss Ellsworth's. A smile bloomed on her face, a smile which did funny things to him and which would likely have caused him to bumble into someone, had she not been hidden from view the next moment by someone else asking her to dance.

Having the entirety of Rufty Tufty, played at a most leisurely tempo, to consider and reconsider the fleeting encounter, Clayton arrived at the conclusion that he need not be anxious for Miss Ellsworth's sake. His unguarded friendliness toward her must not have wrought any havoc after all, if she could throw him such an ingenuous smile. No—her own friendliness to him had been simply that: friendliness. If he feared it had been more, it was only the mistake of his own inexperience.

Mere friendship.

And now the existence of Priscilla and the actual presence of Priscilla required that either all his friendships become Priscilla's friendships as well, or that those friendships be effectively given up. Not that any such sacrifice was demanded, for Priscilla showed herself more than willing to embrace anyone and anything her intended embraced.

Thus, a happy ending.

So why did he not feel happy?

It could not be that he wished in truth he had broken Miss Ellsworth's heart! No, no…he could acquit himself of such selfishness. But he was sorry to realize that she had not developed any particular fondness for him.

Again he corrected himself. No, that wasn't it—He was sorry that this realization made him sorry. Because that sorriness indicated to him, as plainly as if it were written in black and white, that he had developed a particular fondness for her. He, John Clayton,who had no business developing particular fondnesses for anyone save the young lady he was promised to.

That same young lady who even now looked at him with such determination, as if to will him into speaking (which, in fact, was exactly her hope). He suppressed a sigh.

This would never do.

He must try. Try, or relinquish any claim to honor.

"Did you learn this dance at school?" he asked, somewhat stiffly.

At once she swelled with delight. "Yes, this one and many others. You—are managing quite well, John. Where did you learn? I did not know if you danced or not, and I never dared to ask you."

"You mustn't be afraid of me," he replied vaguely. "I know I can be preoccupied, but we must…learn each other's ways."

"All right." She took a deep breath, but his bare statement of the fact did not make the process any easier, and they danced in silence, each grateful for the constant motion and frequent changes in direction which made their awkwardness less apparent.

"I wish you might dance with Cissy at least once," Priscilla said after a minute.

"I will ask her. I told Ellsworth I would partner each of you ladies one time. I'm afraid I know only two dances, but the master of ceremonies said that with so few of us we might repeat them."

She frowned in disappointment then. Only four dances in total? Then this would be their only one together. If only he were easier to talk to! If only he would smile, to show he enjoyed himself and her company. Why must she prod him? Why did he not say something pretty? Or anything at all?

And then even their one dance drew to a close.

Once again the dancers bowed and curtseyed, shuffled and rearranged. Hit or Miss followed Rufty Tufty; Clayton partnered Miss Croy. Rufty Tufty (reprise) then followed Hit or Miss; Clayton partnered Mrs. Ellsworth. And then, when the musicians played once more the opening notes of Hit or Miss, and it could no longer be avoided, he plucked up his courage and approached Miss Ellsworth.

Strive for unspecific friendliness,he exhorted himself. Bland courtesy.

And she, curtseying in response to his bow, thought, Be calm and indifferent.