Chapter 6

Chapter Six

M ary pushed a feather-shaped hair comb deeper into her hair with a shaking hand. She steadied it by seizing her locket, but her breath came short. Were her stays too tight? They weren’t, but the parts of herself that she tried to hide were warm and glowy and fluttery, like the juvenile jitter she’d experienced at her first balls. More than anticipation, hope blossomed. The possibility of meeting someone. The chance of falling in love. Though blood rushed through her with as much persistent life and feeling—nay, more—as it had in her adolescence, her expectations were all for Louisa. Wrinkles embellished the corners of her eyes, and she could swear, just the day before a new line appeared from nowhere at the edge of her mouth. The one person who would tell her she looked more beautiful than ever had been gone for so long that the sound of his voice and the warmth of his hands were as accessible as the morning’s mist.

She examined Louisa, whose appearance mattered. She wore a new-made silk and brocade gown in blush. Pearls lay against flawless skin. Pomaded and powdered hair curled to magnificent, but not unseemly, heights. She was ready.

“You are beautiful, Louisa. I wish your mother were here.” She took her hand and spun her around. Louisa obliged but did so in the drooping attitude of the extremely bored. “You don’t like your dress?”

She brightened. “Oh! I love it. Thank you for taking me to the dressmaker.” Before the mirror, she twirled with a real smile. The child changed like the wind.

In the carriage, smashed between Louisa and Agnes, Mary tamped the sparks in her belly by recalling that her purpose in visiting Bath was to witness Louisa’s falling in love. At Mary’s advanced age, one could hope for nothing more.

What were these defeated thoughts? She’d never wanted another husband. It must be nostalgia for the trees that canopied her courtship, the cobbled streets she walked when she first slid her arm through Lord Allen’s, drawing her back to her younger, more buoyant self.

It was Louisa’s turn. For Mary, it might be the very inspiration she needed for her next novel. A novel that would never be read by another soul. Decency prohibited ladies from engaging in authorship, and she experienced unseemly pleasure in the accolades she received. Here in Bath, her obscurity as a widowed aunt sheltered her, assured her that no one would guess what she’d done. She dismounted from the carriage, thoroughly sobered, and entered the assembly hall with equanimity.

“Louisa.” Mary squeezed her arm which was tucked into her own. “Is this not breathtaking? I am so glad we’ve come. You’ve been out of spirits, but dancing will put you to rights.”

“Mm.”

Mary watched as Louisa’s attention flitted from one person to the next, absorbing the room, the crowd, the décor, even the refreshments. As she did so, her face fell by degrees, dimming until her lower lip quivered. She required a partner. Of course, the girl was overwhelmed with the glitter that lay before her. She did not know she gleamed brighter than everyone else in the room. At moments such as these, it was natural for one to miss her mother. Mary hesitated to mention it, not wishing to further upset her or spoil the evening.

“Aunt, when will the country dances begin?” The girl’s voice cracked, but she cleared it and gave a faltering smile.

Mary listened to the music. A minuet, of course. She tapped her foot to the rhythm, losing herself in the past.

“Aunt Mary? I asked when the country dances will begin.” Louisa bounced in the impatient way a young child might when being ignored.

“Perhaps only one or two more.”

“We came too early. I knew it.” Though Louisa spoke to herself, Mary fought the urge to reprimand her.

The rules of the Bath Assembly, as posted in the Pump Room, required women who wished to perform the minuets to wear a full-trimmed sack with lappets and large hoops, as at St. James Court. Not wishing to bother with the costume, Louisa dressed in country dance attire, for which no hoops were allowed.

Mary turned to Agnes and whispered, “To whom can you introduce us? We must secure Louisa a partner for the first country dance.”

Just then, Mary’s eyes caught on a gentleman entering the assembly. Beginning with fine legs, broad shoulders, and a trim figure, he completed his flawlessness with a splendid visage, a prepossessing face that appeared both open and kind. Mary Allen’s heart swelled at the sight of him. If perfection were a man, it was he.

“Who is he?” Mary nudged Agnes and directed her notice toward the door where the man in question stood in conversation with another gentleman, both dressed in full-trimmed suits of clothes.

“Ah. You have landed on the most eligible man in the room, excluding those in the peerage. That is Mr. Daniel Fletcher, and if we trust rumor, he is in search of a wife.”

Mary perused him more thoroughly. Brown hair en queue tied with a ribbon, unassuming. Quality breeches, well-tailored jacket, good taste. The ruffle around his neck and the buckle on his shoes befitted the occasion of a ball but were not ostentatious. He appeared thirty-three or thirty-four. Louisa might take issue with his age, but he was old enough to have his finances in order, which took precedent over a preference for a younger man.

“We must gain an introduction to Mr. Fletcher.” Mary tugged Agnes’s sleeve, a gesture sure to irritate her friend into action.

Agnes slapped Mary’s hand away. “Consider it done. But I will first introduce her to the other young men. She will be even more desirable in the arms of another.”

With Louisa in tow, Agnes disappeared into the crowd, leaving Mary to follow behind. Agnes flew from one group to the next, introducing Louisa and Mary as she went. Before the first country dance began, Louisa had a half-dozen partners. Mary sighed in gratitude for Agnes’s efficiency.

The minuets over, Louisa took her place on the dance floor.

“He is rather green, but better than no one.” Agnes referred to Louisa’s partner.

In compliance with the rules, Mary and Agnes sat on the second bench, allowing the gentlemen access to the younger ladies. Behind a wall of skirts, Mary caught glimpses of her niece, whose partner turned the wrong way and bumped into the person next to him. He would benefit from a few more rounds with a dancing master.

“Wait here.” The crowd swallowed Agnes, who reemerged moments later with Mr. Fletcher at her side. Mary’s heart erupted at the sight of him. She turned away, reprimanding herself for the ridiculous reaction. Then, with her most ladylike smile, she rotated toward him.

“Mrs. Allen, allow me to introduce Mr. Fletcher,” Agnes said.

He bowed and stood to face her. Their eyes collided, and the room seemed to hold its breath. Mary was falling, sinking, drowning in his pale blue stare. A slow smile ticked the edges of his mouth and grew into a lopsided grin. His gaze held her like a physical embrace, the room spinning around them in a blur of light. Mary felt her mouth hitch in an answering smile. Her lips parted, and a silent breath escaped. Butterflies fluttered from her toes into her head, but more than that, she became the butterfly. Blossoming warmth opened in her stomach and spread to her feet, to her chest, through her arms. She felt beautiful—even desirable—under his gaze. More than that, she wanted him.

He cleared his throat, and she looked away. Goodness. What was that?

In the noise of the room, he stepped toward her, and speaking into her ear, he told Mary, his voice as low and rich as coffee with cream, how pleased he was to make her acquaintance. “Mrs. Allen, would you… er… care to dance?”

He seemed nervous, in a charming way. Heat traveled up the back of Mary’s neck. It had been an age since she’d danced. She blinked up at him, sure she had not heard him correctly. Declining an invitation to dance was not among her cache of polite phrases. Her fingers covered her locket, and she opened her mouth, waiting for the words to come. Agnes pinched the back of Mary’s arm, alerting her to her social faux pas.

“Yes. Thank you.”

She slipped her arm through his, and all unease melted away at his touch. Why shouldn’t she dance? It was a respectable diversion for a widow. Her lavender-colored gown embroidered in black hinted at her loss, though perhaps full mourning would better express the profound depth of her sorrow. This evening marked the first time she’d discarded her blacks and greys in favor of color. While it stung to shed her mourning in the same room where she’d danced with her husband, her movements became a tribute to her loss rather than a show of disrespect for her departed loved one. She’d been widowed over two decades ago. Surely it was time to dance again.

And dance she did.

Her feet recalled each step, and her arms moved with what felt like immaculate grace. Reaching up, she pressed her palm against his. Heat burned through silk. She examined his face. The line between his brow suggested private worries, but his eyes were large and candid, his face open and intelligent. Though his dancing lacked polish, the unpracticed movements made him seem unaffected, and he never stepped amiss. They separated, chasséed down the line.

Framed in dark lashes, his eyes followed her. How long had it been since a man’s gaze had made her feel so desired, so assured? They came together again, hands touching, sliding together then apart in a way that suddenly felt unseemly. The room was so very warm.

It ended. They bowed, and Mr. Fletcher walked her back to Agnes.

“I have seen you before,” he said. “Through the window of the bookseller’s, looking at A Woman Who Loves. Have you read it?”

Her stomach plummeted and she reached for a lie that was not a lie. “I have heard of it.”

“The shop is well-stocked both with new and used books. Do you enjoy reading?”

His voice, so deep and rumbling, reverberated through her, so it took a moment for her brain to catch up with his words. “Yes. Very much.” She searched for a change of topic. “Where are you from?”

“Gloucestershire.”

She wanted to reply but could not remark on that part of the country.

After a beat he said, “The weather is fine.”

“Yes. We are fortunate that it is not raining.” He kept opening his mouth and leaning toward her as if to speak. She did not care if he remained mute, wanting only to look at his lovely blue eyes, the line of his jaw, the slope of his lips.

“Mrs. Allen, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Roberts.” Agnes arrived, yet another man in her wake. Mr. Fletcher thanked Mary for the dance and left her bereft.

“He wishes to dance with you,” Agnes said, pushing a short, thin man toward her.

Before Mary could contrive a response, her arm linked with his, and she walked toward the dance. The night continued thusly. She never lacked a partner and did not know Louisa’s whereabouts or whether she was enjoying the evening. Mary consoled herself that she had done her best to encourage all whom she judged worthy to call and meet her niece, with the notable exception of Mr. Fletcher.

It wasn’t until one of her partners asked after the size of her estate that she understood. The men were set upon her by Agnes, who had certainly whispered that Mary was a widow who loved to dance. Mary hoped Agnes had not said more. Agnes thought Mary should find another husband and was not above exaggerating the truth to make Mary seem more appealing. Her modest fortune and lack of children made her attractive to men. But the more information Agnes shared, the more likely someone might guess she authored A Woman Who Loves.

Candles burned low, and the orchestra began making exhausted errors in their harmony. With the final dance afoot, Mary stole herself away into a quiet corner where Agnes could not find her and where she could watch the final moments of the ball half-tucked behind a leafy plant. Through the palm fronds, she met Mr. Fletcher’s eyes from where he stood directly across the room. She lowered her head in acknowledgement and tried to find Louisa among the dancers, but her gaze kept returning to Mr. Fletcher, who seemed to watch her.

An effervescent bubbling excitement trickled through her, a sensation she believed was lost in her past. She threaded her locket along its chain, recalling with pleasure of their dance before forcing herself to consider how well Mr. Fletcher and Louisa would suit.

T he following morning, Mary trudged downstairs, hoping breakfast waited for her at so late an hour. The ball had ended at eleven, but thoughts of Daniel Fletcher kept her awake well into the night.

In the breakfast room, Mary found the sideboard replete with food, a welcome sight.

“Mary, how are your feet this morning?” Agnes sat with a bowl before her.

“Well, thank you. Why do you ask?”

“On account of all the dancing.”

Mary served herself and sat down across from her friend, wondering if she should feel guilty for having enjoyed herself so well and if Agnes noticed how taken she was with Mr. Fletcher. “I have you to thank for sending all those gentlemen my way,” she said primly.

“Not at all. You were the belle of the ball. The men clambered after you, as if you were a rich young heiress.”

Mary’s heart fluttered. “What did you tell them?” She wanted to imagine what Mr. Fletcher might think of whatever Agnes had told him.

With high brows and heavily lidded eyes, Agnes lifted a shoulder before taking an enormous bite of porridge and widening her eyes.

Mary said, “Bringing me partners was unnecessary. Our concern is Louisa.”

Louisa appeared in the doorway. “What are you saying about me, Aunt?”

“Only that all the men want to know you.”

“From what I saw, they were more interested in you.”

Mary looked from Louisa’s red-rimmed eyes to her pale face and wondered if the girl had been crying. Surely, she was not jealous of Mary’s dancing.

“Louisa, I spoke of you to every gentleman I thought worthy of you. There were only two or three, for I am very discerning, but I have special hopes for Mr. Fletcher.” Her stomach twisted, but she pressed on. “We must invite him to dinner.”

“Oh, yes. I danced with him as well. He’s ancient. Could be my father.” She slathered honey on her bread.

“He is not so old. And besides, the younger gentlemen are foppish and careless these days. Really, Louisa, they are not to compare with Mr. Fletcher. He is?—”

“I already did,” Agnes interrupted. “Invite him to dinner. He is coming tonight with his friend, Mr. Savage. But I thought Fletcher more suited for someone else.” She took another bite, her focus not slipping from Mary.

Agnes, who noticed everything, must have seen Mary’s absurd response to Mr. Fletcher. She did not know the man. They had barely spoken. He might be a highwayman. No, not a highwayman. They were mysterious and alluring. Mr. Fletcher was probably boring and steady.

He would be at dinner that very night. Panic gripped her lungs.

“Aunt, are you choking?” Louisa pounded her on the back.

“No, no. Please. I am well. When you’re finished eating, let’s get some air.”

Louisa nodded and piled her plate with food. At least she had an appetite. Her despondence was surely an effect of travel and the stimulation of last night’s dance.