Chapter 18

Eighteen

R uth could hardly sleep the night after Stephen invited her to the ball. She lay in bed, thinking of the conversation they’d shared in the garden and of the upcoming ball. He had been so humble and kind, apologizing for his behavior earlier and listening carefully to her story about her family. It was a rare person who could admit when they were wrong, and even rarer did such a thing occur when the offender was a titled and wealthy nobleman.

She got up and dressed for breakfast, spending longer than usual plaiting and arranging her hair. This is wholly unlike you, s he scolded herself, primping and preening before the mirror, just so you can catch Stephen’s eye. Then, a little horrified at her own thoughts: Why on earth have I started thinking of him as “Stephen” instead of “Lord Darnley?”

But she knew why. The way he had spoken to her in the garden — as though they were equals — and the way he had looked at her with those deep, dark eyes, had captured her heart. She could still feel the warmth of his hand on her arm, offering comfort. She should have pulled away, not just for propriety’s sake, but because now her mind was filled with the memory of his touch. She didn’t want such a thought in her mind or in her heart.

At breakfast, Stephen smiled brightly at her and asked if she had told the Duchess yet about the ball. She shook her head.

“Alas, she was sleeping when I went into my chambers last night,” she said. “When she comes down to breakfast, we may broach the topic.”

No sooner had she spoken, but the Duchess appeared in the doorway looking a little strained. She wore a proper day dress, but her hair was loose and uncombed like a child’s. She came and sat next to Ruth, leaning against her shoulder while Ruth poured her a cup of tea.

“How did you sleep, my Lady?” Ruth asked gently.

“Fiddles and bees will play all day,” the old woman mumbled, “but all the stars will fade to grey. ”

Stephen frowned at Ruth, and she shook her head silently at him to show that she would address Lady Cecelia herself.

“My Lady,” she said, not answering the nonsense poem, “I have some news for you. It seems Lord Darnley has been invited to the first ball of the Season…and he would like you and I to attend.”

The Duchess’ hand, extended to grasp a scone, froze in mid-air.

“What?” she said, a little shrilly.

Ruth smiled. “We are going to a ball together,” she said kindly. “Like the one we played at yesterday, except there will be real gentlemen to dance with — not just myself.”

Lady Cecelia’s face blanched. “I’m, I’m not ready,” she mumbled. “I haven’t anything to wear.”

Ruth felt that, after everything she had read in the Duchess’ diary and her own honest conversation with Stephen the night before, there was no need to stand on ceremony. She reached forward and took the old woman’s hands, leaning down so the woman could see her eyes.

“Lady Cecelia, we only want you to go if you feel absolutely safe and comfortable with the idea.” She forced a smile. “I will stay with you if you would rather be at home. Lord Darnley offered an invitation, I believe, because he felt you and I would benefit from people and society outside these four walls. Isn’t that right, my Lord?”

“Yes,” Stephen said, taking his cue. “I would not want you to feel pressured, my aunt. It is just that you are getting better, and I believe the next part in your recovery is going out again into society.”

“What if I make a fool of myself?” The old woman asked.

Ruth’s heart ached for her companion. “You will not,” she said, “but the fact that you even know to worry about such a thing shows me you are much mended from when we first came.” She touched the other woman’s sleeve. “Perhaps we can find you something new to wear — something that reminds you of the good times in your youth.”

After a pause, the Duchess nodded. A smile worked its way forward from her lips, rising at last into her eyes. “I suppose we could try,” she said. “At the very least, I could dance a dance and retire to one of the sitting rooms.”

“Yes,” Ruth said. “And you will not be alone. I will be with you. If you need to retire — even if you need to go home in the middle of the event — I will be happy to take you there.”

The tentative expression seemed to vanish like mist in the sunshine. The Duchess sat up a little straighter.

“I am glad you’ve thought of this,” she said. “I have missed the assembly rooms over the years.” She fiddled with her sleeve as Ruth had. “You are right, I could look for something new, in one of the modern styles.”

“I have that already sorted,” Stephen said, taking a bit of his breakfast and waving his fork gently in Ruth’s direction. “For both of you.”

Ruth felt a hot blush rise into her cheeks. “Pardon me, my Lord?” she asked. “What can you mean?”

Stephen paused, confused. “I don’t mean to offend,” he said, “but you told me you had never before been to a ball. I naturally assumed you did not have a ball gown.”

Ruth nodded, feeling embarrassed. “I do not,” she said, “but I do not think that will need remedying. After all, I am going as Lady Cecelia’s companion, not as a dancer myself. I shall just wear one of my finer evening dresses.” I will be in the background of this event anyway, she thought. Why decorate what is meant to recede into the ornament?

Stephen swallowed and took a quaff of his tea. “No, that’s entirely incorrect,” he said. “I did not invite you to this ball solely to stand at my aunt’s side—” he paused and smiled at his aunt, “—although you will of course be with her as you promised. I also wish you to have the freedom to dance and shine as any young lady would at an event of this magnitude. I have called for the modiste to come this morning and fit you both for new gowns.”

Ruth could not credit this burst of generosity. She did not know how to respond. She ought to refuse — truly, her parents would have recommended she do at once — but then she could see the certainty and delight in Stephen’s eyes and she did not want to disappoint him.

“I cannot ask you to do that,” she said, rather weakly.

“It is fortunate, then, that you did not ask,” he answered with a teasing smile. “You both are walking into that ballroom with me — one on each arm, I should hope — and I wish you to shine like the diamonds you are.”

They talked on through the remainder of breakfast, mostly about the couple hosting the ball and the details therein, and then the Duchess excused herself to freshen up before the arrival of the modiste. When they were alone, Ruth turned to Stephen.

“I think that went well,” she said. “Thank you so much for putting her at ease. I think that this may be the answer to unlocking her bad memories and helping her move on from her past.”

“That is the hope,” he said. He paused, as though he meant to say more, his eyes lingering on Ruth’s face. She blushed and looked away.

“And thank you for the dress,” she said. “It is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“You are a special person,” he said after a moment. “I wish I could do more kind things on your behalf.”

Ruth sucked in her breath softly. Can this man be real? His tenderness and genteel manner seemed fashioned by poets rather than real life.

“While the modiste is meeting with you, I am going to take a trip into town,” he said, clearing his throat. “I believe we should update the doctor on all that has transpired with my aunt. I told him I would alert him if the situation changed — either for better or for worse. My suspicion is that after the ball Aunt Cecelia will be improved enough to consent to a doctor’s visit.”

“And perhaps then she will not even need a doctor,” Ruth said hopefully.

“Yes, but it would put my heart at rest to know that she is out of danger,” he admitted.

“You are a good nephew,” Ruth said softly. And a good man, she added to herself.

The two parted ways, and Ruth went to wait with the Duchess. The modiste arrived under a tower of boxes and a bag full of supplies to measure the two ladies in Lady Cecelia’s chambers.

Ruth had only ever purchased her garments in village shops, and on the rare occasion when she had something made from scratch it had been Ruth herself who sewed the seams. Having someone else measuring and fitting her seemed an uncommon luxury. The Duchess went first, balancing on a stool with Ruth’s help and behaving for all the world like a queen being fit for a crown.

“My Lady,” the modiste — a plump little woman in a striped green coat and skirt — began, “what style are you wishing to emulate?"

"I fancy a gown after the fashion of Josephine,” Lady Cecelia said, her nose in the air. “I know it is quite untoward to speak of that woman after the nonsense her husband has caused on the Continent, but I do love the royal cut and color of her garments.”

The modiste shared a smile with the two ladies. “You are not the only one,” she said. “Whilst we may all protest in the streets about the battles being waged by that little emperor Napoleon, within our private chambers we may swoon over tintypes of Empress Josephine and her glamourous court.”

She pulled out a tape measure and went to work, moving about like a hen clucking over her chicks. When she had all she needed, she allowed Ruth to help the Duchess down onto a nearby settee before producing an enormous book of fabric samples. She flipped to three different versions of a dark purple and pointed them out.

“Which texture do you prefer, my Lady?” she asked.

Ruth could see that the Duchess was not entirely happy with the choice, and cleared her throat nervously. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I believe we would like to look at some of your scarlet cloth. There is a lovely gown she has that is quite out of date now, but was made in a fine deep red she adores.”

“Show me,” the modiste said.

Ruth hurried over to the wardrobe and produced the dress. The modiste gave a little gasp of appreciation and pulled the garment into the light.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “This is a thing of beauty. Madame,” she addressed the Duchess, “I suggest I make amendments to this garment to bring it up to current fashion, but keep the fabric and trimmings. Would that be to your standards?”

“It would,” the Duchess answered sheepishly. She looked up at Ruth with an almost childish smile. “It will be just like old times, will it not?”

Ruth nodded, hoping that the reminder old times would be a chance to heal the past.

The modiste tended to the Duchess’ gown, pinning and snipping to create a template for modification later. She asked only a few more questions about style as she worked, focusing mostly on the task at hand. Finally, the Duchess was able to change back into her day gown and the modiste folded the scarlet dress up for further tailoring away from the manor.

“And Miss Selwyn, I have instructions to tend to your garment next.” The modiste smiled.

Ruth blushed. She knew that Stephen had offered a new gown, but it still felt so foreign and strange to allow a gentleman such as himself to purchase a gown for her. She hesitated. “Perhaps you could redo one of my day gowns, as you are remaking the scarlet gown for her ladyship,” she offered demurely.

The modiste raised her eyebrows. “The scarlet gown is hardly a day dress,” She said. “It is one thing for me to take something as beautiful as the Duchess’ original gown and bring it up to current fashion. It is another thing entirely for me to create a ball gown out of something meant for summer walks. Do you have anything as fine as the scarlet?”

Lady Cecelia inserted blithely. “Not in the least,” she said. “Her wardrobe is entirely ordinary.”

“My Lady,” Ruth interjected, a note of warning in her voice. “I would hardly say—”

“Stephen wished you to have something new and special, and if you are not going to be your own advocate I will speak for you,” the Duchess said with finality. “Step up upon the stool.”

“You heard the Lady,” the modiste said, hiding a smile.

Ruth climbed up, feeling self-conscious. She raised her arms and submitted to the measurements, after which point the modiste helped her down and opened a book of sketches.

“Do you have a style you prefer?” she asked.

Ruth shook her head, feeling useless. “I wish I could give you a more specific answer,” she said, “but I’ve simply never gone to any event like this before. I have no history of ball gowns, and do not know what would suit me.”

The modiste tilted her head to the side and examined Ruth carefully.

“Am I permitted to speak freely, my Lady?” she asked.

“Of course,” Ruth answered.

“It seems to me that you are a little small,” the modiste said, “and therefore the lengthening style of the time will suit you well. There is something about your bone structure that is oddly Grecian, though your hair and skin do not look the part. I think we might do well to fashion your gown after that style.”

She flipped through the book and found a sketch of a gown that was high-waisted with a long skirt trailing the ground. The sleeves, unlike the capped style typical of the time, were gathered with what appeared to be a delicate ribbon at the crest of the shoulder. The neckline was an elongated ‘v’ that poured down from the shoulder gather.

Ruth gave a short laugh. “I think that is a bit too grand for me,” she said, flipping through some of the other sketches and settling on one with a shortened skirt and the traditional puffed sleeves. “This will attract less attention, I think. It takes a woman of real stature and societal standing to pull off a style such as the one you suggested.”

The modiste shrugged. “It takes no such thing,” she said. “Truly, a gown such as this requires only confidence. The gown you chose is pretty enough, but not brave or beautiful. You strike me as the sort of girl who could pull of something courageous if she chose.”

Ruth swallowed hard. “What color would you even make such a thing?”

“Blue,” Lady Cecelia interjected.

“Yes,” said the modiste, “but a silvery blue that verges on white. You want it to look as though you have just walked out of Olympus.”

“Oh, heavens.” Ruth shook her head in defeat. “I can hardly argue with two people who have such vision. Consider me in agreement with you. Make a gown that you think would suit me, and know that I will hold you both responsible if I look scandalous in any way.”

Lady Cecelia put her chin on her hand, affecting an innocent stare. “You know,” she said, “I think that Stephen will like a silver shade of blue. It will be like one of those feathery things that grows in the garden before the first frost.”

Ruth blushed deeply, dropping her head. She didn’t respond, not wanting to encourage such conversation, but her heart leapt at the thought. She would not admit it, but the thought of what Stephen would like had already crossed her mind.