Chapter Six

The dress was, admittedly, beautiful. Abigail held her breath, turning this way and that to watch it swish around her legs.

It was a mint green colour, a little brighter than she would have chosen for herself, but it did suit her. It was heavily ruched and frilled, according to the latest fashions, but somehow felt less silly than when she’d worn Scarlett’s dress.

Lucy, a cheerful, round-faced young woman who’d chattered non-stop since she entered Abigail’s room, took a step back, and beamed.

“You look lovely, Miss. Just lovely.”

“Thank you,” Abigail murmured, pulling at the end of one ringlet. Lucy had insisted on doing Abigail’s hair differently – all curled and piled up on her head, with a few ringlets hanging down, rather than the tight knot Abigail generally favoured. It had taken a lot longer to do than usual, but the results were definitely worth it.

“Knock, knock,” called a familiar voice at the door, letting herself in without actually knocking. Aunt Florence wore a surprisingly sedate gown in silver-coloured silk, fringed with jet beads. She gave an exclamation when she saw Abigail.

“Well, you are a picture ! You’ve done well, Lucy. Very well indeed.”

Lucy gave a little curtsey, beaming with pride. Aunt Florence circled Abigail, taking in every detail. Abigail held her arms out at her sides for inspection, for once not feeling unbearably self-conscious. It was nice.

“Yes, yes, very nice,” she murmured. “I have to admit, I was worried about the sort of dresses your mother might send along with you, but this is very nice. How do you feel in it?”

“I love it,” Abigail admitted. “I’ve never had such a beautiful dress.”

Aunt Florence lifted her eyebrow. “Not even during your Season?”

Abigail flushed, biting her tongue. “Well, the style of dresses in my first Season were a little different to this, and my second Season… well, they were all annoyed that I wasn’t married, and Mama said she wasn’t going to waste more money on me.”

Aunt Florence pursed her lips. “I see. Hm. Well, enough about that, I suppose. We’re going down in a minute, but first I think you’re missing something.”

“What do you mean?”

With a flourish, Aunt Florence produced a little box, covered in peach-coloured silk. She opened the box, revealing a coral necklace and matching earrings. Abigail muffled a gasp.

“Oh, Aunt, they’re beautiful! Am I to wear them?”

“If you like.”

“But the dress is green.”

Aunt Florence chuckled. She took out the necklace, stringing it around Abigail’s throat. “Sometimes, a contrast is the most beautiful thing one can imagine.”

Sure enough, the beautiful orange-red colour of the coral stood out against the pale green of the gown, making Abigail’s skin seem creamier than before. She lifted a hand gingerly to her throat, tracing the beads.

“It’s lovely. It’s so kind of you to let me wear this, Aunt.”

“Wear it? It’s yours. It’s a gift. Here, I’ll let you put in the earrings yourself.”

Abigail bit her lip, eyeing the unfamiliar girl in the mirror. She felt… oh, she wasn’t sure how she felt. Different , for sure.

“You’re so kind, Aunt,” Abigail murmured. “I… I’ll do my best not to embarrass you.”

Aunt Florence’s gaze narrowed. She flicked her hand, wordlessly dismissing Lucy. They stood in silence until the door closed.

“You won’t embarrass me,” she said firmly. “I invited you because I like you, Abigail. I believe you’ve been passed over far too much in your life. Such is the fate of a middle child, I’m afraid. I suppose you don’t need me to tell you that you need to think about marriage?”

Abigail looked down. “I’ve been trying, I promise.”

“I know you have, dear. But this is a great opportunity for you to make a good match. The sort of match that will give you security, wealth, happiness . The sort of match that will put you in a position to leave your family for good.”

She bit her lip. “I love my family.”

“Yes, yes, we all love our families, but sometimes we don’t like them very much, do we? It’s not a sin to want a good future for oneself, my dear.”

Abigail’s hands clenched at her sides, bunching up the expensive fabric. She tilted her head to one side. Could she find a decent husband, looking like this? Abigail was used to thinking of herself as plain . Her mother said it often enough, and certainly Scarlett. Even her father occasionally tapped her cheek and sighed, saying he wished she was a beauty like her sister.

But without Scarlett beside her, preening and flirting, things felt… they felt different. Abigail felt different.

“Do you think I’m plain, Aunt?” Abigail asked in a rush.

Aunt Florence’s eyes flew up to meet herself in the mirror.

“No,” she said firmly, without hesitation.

“You can tell me the truth.”

“I am. I’m not in the habit of lying to spare the feelings of others, I can assure you.”

“I’m not as pretty as Scarlett.”

“No, you are not,” Aunt Florence conceded, tweaking a curl into place. “Just as I was prettier than your mother when we were young. Society sets the standards as to what beauty means. It changes yearly. One Season fair beauties are all the rage, the next Season it is brunettes. Olive skin goes in and out of fashion, as do curls and blue eyes and shapes. Society dictates what beauty means, just as they choose the fashion for sleeves and necklines and hairstyles. The difference is that people cannot choose their faces, or even their shapes. One cannot slough off olive skin like a dress if next year favours a peach-and-cream complexion. Worrying about whether one is considered fashionably beautiful is a waste of time, I can assure you.”

Abigail let out her breath in one long exhale. Had anyone ever said anything like that to her? No, she thought not. It felt as though a heavy yoke had been lifted off her shoulders. When somebody like Aunt Florence said, with all the confidence that seemed to come so easily to her, that being beautiful did not matter, Abigail found herself inclined to believe it.

Their eyes met in the mirror, and Aunt Florence dropped her a slow wink.

“Better?”

“Better,” Abigail confirmed, feeling the mad urge to giggle.

“Excellent. Now, shall we venture downstairs? I can hear a lot of commotion down there, which means that the guests are arriving. Do you have your dance card?”

Abigail lifted her wrist obediently, displaying the card. It was empty, of course, and generally speaking it would stay empty for the rest of the night.

Aunt Florence eyed the card, a grin spreading across her face. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Abigail answered, and for once it didn’t feel like an absolute lie.

***

Downstairs was absolute chaos. From wall to wall, the hallway was crammed with people. Abigail couldn’t see into the ballroom, but she suspected that it was worse. Faint strains of music climbed over the noise of chatter and laughter, almost drowned out.

Aunt Florence made a decent job of manoeuvring them through the crowd. Every few steps an acquaintance hailed her, and then there were generally introductions and pleasantries to get through. All in all, the walk from the staircase to the ballroom threshold took at least twenty minutes, probably more.

There was a little space surrounding the doorway, and the two women had a chance to stand and catch their breath a little. Abigail was already sweating. She wished she hadn’t left her fan upstairs. There would be no going back to get it now.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aunt Florence asked. “Is it too much for you?”

It was, but Abigail had no intention of saying so.

“I’m fine, thank you. If I can just find somewhere to sit…”

“Sit? Oh, my darling girl. Only matrons and chaperones sit .”

“I always sit down at balls.”

“Because you are a wallflower. Wallflowers don’t get asked to dance, and if I’m not mistaken, you are about to be asked.”

Aunt Florence tapped Abigail on the shoulder with her closed fan and nodded in the direction of a gentleman heading their way. He was a rabbity-looking young man, fairly harmless, and smiled hopefully at Abigail as he approached.

Aunt Florence quickly made the introductions – Sir Tobias Hemming – and Sir Tobias immediately asked for a dance. Abigail was so shocked that she nearly dropped her pencil when she filled in his name. He bowed, smiled, and retreated into the crowd.

“For future reference,” Aunt Florence remarked, “better let the gentlemen sign their own names. They like that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. He seemed pleasant.”

“He is, but sadly requires a rich wife. Your dowry wouldn’t be enough.”

Abigail flinched. “Oh. Why did you let me accept a dance with him, then?”

“My dear girl,” Aunt Florence laughed, “A full dance card is the most attractive thing a lady can possess. Sir Tobias probably already knows you are not rich enough for him, but he wants to curry favour with us both. And it worked. He wants to be seen dancing with lots of suitable ladies, and you want to be seen dancing with gentlemen. A symbiotic relationship, you see.”

“I see,” Abigail lied smoothly.

“I should hope so. Ah, I see there’s a refreshment stand over there. I shall get lemonades, you stand here and look pretty.”

Without waiting for a response, Aunt Florence plunged off into the crowd, leaving Abigail standing alone.

Not alone for long.

“You look overwhelmed, Miss Atwater,” came a male voice from just behind her, making Abigail jump.

She already knew whose voice it was, although she’d only heard it once. Best not to think about that too hard.

“My lord,” she managed, her voice little more than a squeak. “You startled me.”

“I beg your pardon,” he responded, moving to stand beside her. He looked very fine tonight, Abigail thought. It was fine to think such things, so long as she didn’t dwell on those thoughts.

He wore a dark blue suit, which might be a little too colourful for a party like this, and a blue and gold waistcoat underneath, which was certainly too colourful.

That odd clenching feeling returned to Abigail’s chest. Perhaps the dress was too tight.

“What do you think?” Lord Alexander asked, gesturing to the ball in general with his whiskey glass.

“It’s very crowded, but the ballroom looks beautiful.”

He nodded, taking a long sip. “I made the centrepieces myself.”

Blinking, Abigail glanced over at one of the centrepieces in question. It was an expertly arranged bouquet of flowers, set in an elegant white vase decorated with ribbon. The flowers weren’t the usual hothouse variety.

“They’re wildflowers,” she heard herself say, vaguely surprised.

He winced. “Yes, a lot of people would have preferred roses, I think.”

“I prefer wildflowers.”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “I’m glad. That’s a very nice dress, Miss Atwater. You suit the colour.”

Abigail hadn’t got as far as accepting compliments. Instead of saying something witty – no doubt she’d think of something clever later – she mumbled incoherently and smoothed down the front of her dress.

“In fact, I was wondering…” Lord Alexander began.

He was not able to finish. Aunt Florence appeared from nowhere, a glass of lemonade in each hand, and directed a strange, flat gaze at the man.

“Lord Alexander, how do you do,” she said, voice oddly disjointed. “Thank you for keeping my Abigail company. I’m sure you know how worrying it is, being a chaperone for a lovely girl like her in a busy ballroom.”

Abigail wasn’t entirely sure what all that meant, but Lord Alexander coloured and looked away.

“Of course,” he said tightly. “Excuse me, ladies. Enjoy the night.”

And with that, he melted away, leaving Abigail with a faint feeling of disappointment that she could not quite interpret.

“Stop it,” Aunt Florence said shortly, pushing a glass of lemonade into her niece’s hand.

Abigail blinked down at the lemonade. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Stop mooning over him. Didn’t I say that his lordship was no good?”

“That’s unkind.”

“It’s realistic. I like him well enough, but not when I have you to worry about.”

Abigail cleared her throat. “Would… would being seen with Lord Alexander damage my reputation?”

Aunt Florence sighed. “Not exactly. But he’s known to be a bit of a flirt. He’s handsome, charming, and rich, and at his heart, I don’t believe he’s a bad man. That’s a dangerous combination. If I take you out into Society only for you to lose your heart and head to a known rake, I might as well have just left you with your mother and sister.”

Abigail bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Aunt. I should have listened. I didn’t know how to get away from him without being rude.”

“You can’t be rude, of course. His mother is our host, and his brother is the Duke of Dunleigh. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you away from him. Ah, another gentleman is coming over for an introduction, I think. Two, in fact. The older is not looking to marry, as far as I know, but the other is highly eligible. Just to let you know, dearest.”

Abigail began choking on her lemonade just in time for the two men to approach. Their names were Mr. Mutton and Lord Donovan, the former clearly well known to Lady Florence.

Mr. Mutton was a man of middle-years, with a cheerful face and a way of never quite looking Abigail full in the face. He requested a dance, and this time Abigail remembered to let him sign his own name. He did so, then fell into deep conversation with Aunt Florence, leaving Abigail free to speak to the second man.

“You seem a little overwhelmed, Miss Atwater,” Lord Donovan said, smiling wryly. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

She sighed. “I don’t mind. It is very crowded.”

“Your name seems familiar – is this your first Season?”

She had to laugh at that. “First Season? Heavens, no. This is my third.”

Abigail immediately winced at that. She shouldn’t have been so open about her third Season. The first question gentlemen would wonder – according to her mother, at least – was why on earth she hadn’t gotten married in her first few Seasons.

Lord Donovan, however, did not seem shocked or put off. He only laughed, shaking his head.

“Three Seasons? You’re a braver person than I. Or perhaps you’re the sort of lady who relishes balls and gatherings?”

“I wish I were. I’m not, I’m afraid.”

He nodded. “Neither am I. Some gentlemen – Lord Alexander Willenshire, for example – see balls such as these as their own personal playground. I can’t say that I agree with that sentiment.”

There was a hardness in his voice when he mentioned his lordship. Abigail tried to read his face and failed miserably. She’d never been much good at knowing what people were thinking.

Lord Donovan was a handsome enough man. He was around thirty, by Abigail’s estimation – although she wasn’t much good at guessing ages either – and had good hair and a pleasant face. He dressed in a fairly ordinary evening suit, nothing spectacular. It hung oddly on him, and she found herself comparing it to Lord Alexander’s glittering blue and gold waistcoat.

Stop it! She scolded herself. Here a nice, eligible man is talking to you, and all you can do is think about some charming rogue who spoke to you briefly.

She swallowed hard, forcibly pushing all thoughts of Lord Alexander – who, she was willing to bet, was not thinking of her – from her mind.

Lord Donovan was looking at her strangely, head tilted to one side.

“I haven’t seen that hairstyle tonight, I think.”

Blood rushed to Abigail’s face. She hadn’t considered that a gentleman might know things about hairstyles .

“Oh? Is it unfashionable? I really don’t know about these things.”

He laughed again, a light, airy sort of laugh that immediately put Abigail at ease.

“It wasn’t a judgement; I can assure you. I like to see things that are different. That hairstyle is very becoming, and I often find it suits me better to go against fashion than along with it. One stands out more.”

As if to contradict his point – or perhaps strengthen it – Lord Donovan straightened his plain black suit jacket, identical to most of the other jackets in the room.

Well, it’s probably best to dress conservatively in a place like this, Abigail thought. Out of respect for one’s hosts.

“Are you dancing tonight, Miss Atwater?” Lord Donovan asked suddenly. Out of the corner of her eye, she was aware of Aunt Florence half-turning their way as if to listen. Lord Donovan had not, as yet, asked her to dance.

“I am,” Abigail managed. Butterflies fluttered inside her. Was this really happening? Was a nice, eligible lord about to ask her to dance?

“May I see your dance card?”

She wordlessly held out her wrist. “Only two names on there,” she answered, since it felt like she should say something.

Lord Donovan’s gaze flicked down the list of names, almost as if he were looking for something. He pursed his lips.

“Only two? What a pity. Can I tempt you to stand up with me, Miss Atwater?”

Aunt Florence had ended her conversation altogether and was turning towards them now. She said nothing, but when Abigail glanced questioningly at her aunt, she smiled encouragingly and nodded.

Don’t be too eager, Abigail admonished herself.

“I would like that, thank you.”

Lord Donovan smiled and scribbled his name on the dance card. In the background, the music had paused, and the musicians were getting ready to play in earnest. Couples were gathering on the dance floor, and it struck Abigail that the dancing was about to begin.

It was thrilling to think that at least three gentlemen would come and claim her for dances throughout the night. Before, Abigail could easily go an entire ball without dancing once.

“I noticed that you don’t have a partner for the very first dance,” Lord Donovan said, smiling. “I took the liberty of putting my name down.”

“Oh,” Abigail managed, feeling breathless.

He extended a hand. “Shall we?”

She took it. “It would be my pleasure.”