Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

E va could remember a time (barely) when the arrival of the post was a moment of great celebration in the Stanton home. Letters from friends and distant family, invitations, sometimes even gifts accompanied by little cards, all of it arrived with some regularity. Lady Stanton had been a celebrated beauty and hostess in her prime, and she and Lord Stanton had worked to make their home a shining example of the ascendent ton.

If Eva closed her eyes, she could see light and music pouring from every window of the house, the front door thrown open and welcoming everyone within. Even as a young girl, she had been allowed to dart amongst the crowd, her father happy to show her off, forgiving any of her trespasses for a smile and a kiss on the cheek. They were easy, carefree days, and Eva sometimes found herself irritated that she had not taken more care to appreciate them as they were happening.

Now, the windows of the Stanton house were dark, save for the lone candle here or there. Those that could remember more joyful days would sometimes pass by, shaking their heads ruefully. Eva had sometimes felt terribly responsible, not having been born a boy and thus able to secure their fortunes on her own wits. The fact was that as a young lady, she had only one real way to ensure their survival, and it was a prospect that was growing more and more distasteful with every passing day.

Their lone footman, who Eva suspected was being paid in the family silver, would stand in the foyer and await the postman at the appointed hours throughout the day. On one cold day, as February was dawning, the footman delivered the usual stack of bills and demands for payment to Lady Stanton, but kept one letter back, placing it into Lady Eva's hands directly.

They were seated together in the parlour, the only room with a fire in it. Lady Stanton was poring over the letters, and Eva was allegedly working on needlepoint (which she was terrible at, and detested, but her mother insisted it was a necessary skill for a young lady). Lady Stanton was too preoccupied to notice that Eva received a letter, and Eva gave a querying look to the footman, who only shrugged. By rights, Lady Stanton could demand to know who was writing to her unmarried daughter.

Surreptitiously but quickly, Eva slid her finger past the unfamiliar seal. Her heart nearly leapt clean up to her throat when she began reading the familiar, sprawling script.

Lady Eva,

I should like to thank you first and foremost for your trust in me; it is a dear, precious thing, and I promise that you shan't ever find it misplaced.

I can appreciate your situation, as I have found myself in a similar predicament on more than one occasion. It is a terribly terrifying thing to find one's self at the mercy of the world, particularly if one is ill-prepared for it. I have seen a number of young ladies who had to fend for themselves, and I cannot say if they would trade their situation for one of easy luxury.

You are a clever and capable young lady, and I have no doubts that you will find a way forward, no matter what path you choose.

I wish you the best of luck,

Josiah

P.S. There is a new fad for polonaise dancing said to be coming from the frontier of the Continent—shall we try to master it before anyone else in London?

Eva knew that it was of vital importance that she kept her face as impassive as possible. If her mother thought that she was receiving clandestine notes, there would be no stopping her. There was no denying, however, the way that her heart had begun to thump about in her chest at an excited tempo. It was a fight to keep a grin from spreading on her face as well.

Her eyes floated down to the bottom of the letter again. The signature, written with a confident flourish, was undeniably personal. There was no "Mr. Galpin," he was simply Josiah. It was a big step, to call someone by their Christian name. Eva was not even sure it was wholly proper, but she frankly didn't care. She liked the idea of friendship with him.

The invitation to learn a new dance, too, made her smile: He wanted to master it with her , no one else. She almost giggled at the thought, but checked herself just in time.

"What's that?" Lady Stanton asked, nearly causing Eva to leap out of her skin.

"A letter," Eva said, perhaps unnecessarily. "From an acquaintance I met in Bath some years ago. She might be in London for the Season."

"Mm," Lady Stanton hummed, clearly beginning to lose interest. "Anything to entertain? You seemed to find it amusing."

"Not really, no; more just the memory of Bath. Such a diverting town."

Lady Stanton sighed, and Eva instantly regretted her words. "Perhaps you might go again, if things go well for you this Season."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it? I ought to write her back, since she took such trouble." Eva set her needlepoint back into the basket next to the settee, and rose.

She was just at the doorway when Lady Stanton spoke again. "Has this friend any brothers?"

Eva bit her lip for an instant, then without turning back, said, "I don't believe so, no."

"Pity."

It was about the fourth or fifth time that Josiah stumbled that he was finally willing to admit that he might, in fact, be distracted. Beatrice had been sighing at him all day, and this was the last straw for her.

"Honestly Josiah, why even bother? If you did not wish to do the exhibition for the Duchess of Brandon, you should simply have said so, instead of whatever sabotage this is," Beatrice huffed.

Josiah, too, sighed. He knew that he was not at his best. He was distracted, plain and simple. He stepped back from Beatrice, rubbing the back of his neck and rolling his head about. He was down to his weskit and shirtsleeves, and was beginning to feel a little strangled by his cravat and neatly starched stock and collar. Irritated, he pulled at the cravat knot, attempting to loosen it.

Beatrice watched this with her trademark dispassionate coolness. She tilted her head, her cat-like green eyes running over Josiah. He could feel it, and it only unnerved him more.

"What?" he snapped, uncharacteristically.

Beatrice straightened, folding her arms over her chest. "I'm trying to decide what sort of intervention you might need." Josiah gave her a withering look. "I'm being completely serious! We've a chance to secure yet another wealthy patron, possibly one of the most powerful men in all of England, and you are stumbling about like a newborn colt!" Beatrice stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "I am trying to decide if you are simply mad, or under some sort of spell."

"Beatrice," Josiah said wearily, rotating one arm in an attempt to loosen his shoulder. "I'm simply a little…distracted."

"Distracted?" Beatrice repeated, deadpan. " Distracted ? You've been moving about in a daze for weeks now. It is quickly wearing thin." She began pacing, her steps quick and precise. "Oh…oh, good Lord," she said, drawing to an abrupt halt. "You're infatuated !" It sounded every bit an accusation, particularly with the way that she curled her lip up.

"Do be serious," Josiah said, fighting with his cravat again. If I could only get the blasted thing off, I might be able to think straight ? —

"I am being serious," Beatrice said, putting her face right up in Josiah's. "I'm always serious about my work, which is more than I can say for you right now. We are all depending on you, all of your students, all of your other dancers, everyone in your employ, and you are too busy being addlepated by some girl !" Beatrice turned her back on Josiah, paused, her back becoming so rigid that Josiah could easily see it. "Please do not tell me it is that—that amateur that you brought to the theatre."

Josiah sighed, rolling his eyes upward as his fingers yanked at the knot at this throat until it at last loosened. He whipped it off, the linen catching at his stock and pulling it a little off-centre.

"She has a name, you know," Josiah said, at last meeting Beatrice's outraged gaze.

"Josiah, you can't be serious. All of the years I've known you, all of the society women who have flung themselves at you, and you've always kept your distance. Now you let yourself get distracted by a pretty face, not even one with a fortune dragging behind her, and?—"

"That's enough, Beatrice," Josiah warned. Now it was his turn to give his back to Beatrice, which he did, shifting from foot to foot as he attempted to collect his thoughts. "It isn't what you think."

"Then what is it?"

"When I look at her, I can see…" He paused, his eyes falling down to Beatrice. "She can be more than just an ornament for some man, more than some society lady."

Beatrice let out a derisive snort. "And what makes you think she could? What makes you think she even wants that?"

"I'm not sure," Josiah admitted. "I just feel like she deserves a chance." His eyes stared pointedly into Beatrice's. "Much as you did," he added.

In spite of her irritation, the tone of Beatrice's gaze changed, her shoulders falling a little. Both of them were aware that Beatrice owed the ease of her success to Josiah; there was little doubt that she would have clawed her way to where she was, but it was unlikely her path would have been so easy.

"Oh, Josiah," Beatrice sighed, exhaling between her lips. "You are chasing dreams again. Why not be satisfied with what you have? She's no more substance than a puff of smoke," she said, softer, coming to stand before him again. "Why not focus on what is real? I am the one standing before you— I am here with you."

There was truth to her words, particularly when she took Josiah's hand. He sighed; he knew what she meant, and he wondered, not for the first time, if he weren't foolhardy to not simply accept her as more than a dancing partner. She was, in fact, here, and would continue to be so; there was nothing holding her back, no expectations, no mother she had to provide for…

"Shall we continue?" Josiah said at last, and lifted her hand to shoulder-height, as was necessary for the first set they had been practising.

Beatrice did not object, but took her place next to him. Quietly, Josiah counted out the rhythm, and began guiding Beatrice in the dance. Josiah owed it to her, to his entire troupe, to focus, and he did make a concerted effort. It was for naught, however, as he quickly found himself drifting away, mentally replaying the last lesson he had with Eva.

He closed his eyes just a bit too long to be blinking, and then he gave in. He had strived to maintain the correct distance between himself and his students, but his mind was on a course of its own now. When next he looked to Beatrice, he found himself imagining that it was Eva's hand he was holding. This made it easier; the harmony that had been missing from their dance steps was quickly replaced.

When Josiah was required to place his hand at Beatrice's waist, he did so without hesitating, his eyes unfocused, relying purely on muscle memory. There was no more uncertainty, only the easy simplicity of two people moving in perfect synchronisation. It was a fine thing to imagine, his arms full of Eva, who smiled up at him, and?—

"Josiah?"

He did not even know that he had closed his eyes until Beatrice said his name. Startled back to reality, he blinked down at Beatrice, who was staring up at him in confusion. His throat was oddly dry, and he swallowed hard.

"I think that we should have no problem being ready for the Duke's ball," he said, his eyes on Beatrice's face, but not really focused.

"We will be if you can keep your head out of the clouds," she snapped, stepping away from Josiah. She looked down at the floor, then out the window. When she spoke again, it was in a far more even tone. "Perhaps it would be best if we take a few minutes to clear our heads. The other dancers will be here soon, and it would be nice to think that we will be a unified front by then."

Josiah nodded, blankly watching her go. He knew that he was making a fair mess of everything, and it wasn't fair to Beatrice or the other dancers. He shook his head hard, clearing the last wisps of fantasy. He hadn't been a good partner to Beatrice, and she simply wanted the best for all of them. Resolved to apologise at once, he turned to hurry after Beatrice to do just that.

She had taken up position in front of the large practice mirror, working on her turns. Faster and faster, her head whipping about, she pushed herself harder and harder. It was a marvel to witness, and Josiah could not help but admire her sharp, technical skill. There could be no doubt that Beatrice was a fine dancer, and deserved more respect than Josiah had been affording her.

He had just opened his mouth to speak, when the expression on Beatrice's face changed. A dancer that has practised the same step over and over will know instantly when it has gone wrong, and this is exactly what happened with Beatrice in that moment. Her ankle wobbled oddly, and then completely rolled beneath her. She cried out, instantly crumpling to the floor like a marionette whose strings had just been cut.