Authors: Compromised
Instead, he said impulsively, “You must have loved it.”
Her face warmed. “I did. I do. I miss it. I miss seeing new things, new places. Not everywhere thinks like England, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “I can’t help but think we are far too impressed with ourselves and therefore think too lowly of everyone else.”
Max smiled. “But then again,” he debated, “most societies think their own is superior to all others.”
“True,” Gail conceded. “But England takes an almost childlike glee in having a world under its thumb. Why do we consider ourselves to own India? Or Australia? Other people were there first, some of them living in societies much further advanced than ours, but we won’t let ourselves see beyond the differences. Take the Greeks for example, we have raped them of their very history, when young men like you go on grand tours and come back with antiquities, and…” She stopped when she saw Max’s bemusement.
Her cheeks had taken on the most delightful hue of pink, her eyes the color of fire, and Max couldn’t tear his attention away from the way her whole person warmed and moved when she was impassioned. His imagination highlighted other ways she could become impassioned before he could stop it.
“I’m sorry,” she said, letting go the stream of fire she was building up in a sigh. “I tend to become heated about this subject.”
Max was wholly entranced. “Young ladies aren’t supposed to talk like you.”
“You have just stumbled onto my greatest failure. I have too often spoken exactly as I thought, not as I should. So, it seems easier to not say anything.”
“You have been truthful to the point of bluntness tonight, Brat,” Max countered in a whispered growl, but Gail shook her head.
“I have long since given up any care what you think of me. It frees me to be honest.” She tried to smile ironically, but the sadness in her voice struck at his heart. On the one hand, he was strangely pleased to have no cause for pretense with Gail. It was certainly freeing, and it made him feel almost special. But, he also realized the very intelligence that defined her was a trial to her. She wasn’t allowed to speak her thoughts—because it wasn’t what proper young ladies did. Or rather, she didn’t have the thoughts of a proper young lady.
He pulled her an inch closer. If the matrons saw, they would have his head. But when he looked into her eyes, he saw a naked vulnerability he would have never guessed was there—not in this hard-shelled, wisecracking, insult-lobbing hellion. She looked like a woman who needed holding, and he wanted to be the one to hold her, just for a moment.
But as soon as he saw it, that transient vulnerability was gone, replaced by an up-quirked eyebrow.
“The music stopped,” she said, breaking into his mind.
Indeed it had. The pairs of dancers around him had stopped moving and broken apart. Polite applause for the musicians sounded through the hall, as the young ladies and gentlemen moved about, changing partners, organizing themselves for the next dance.
Max slowly released his hand from Gail’s waist and escorted her off the floor. They walked silently toward the edge of the room, where Will was already standing and chatting with Evangeline.
“You didn’t tell your sister what I said,” Max whispered.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you…for not revealing how mundane I am.”
Her lips twitched up, and she blushed. “It’s simply that I didn’t—”
“One last question, Miss Gail,” Max interrupted, before she could say anything further. “You have a knack for languages,” he began, and she smiled impishly.
“Yes, I have, as you say, ‘a knack.’”
“I have a talent myself. I took a First at Oxford in French, Spanish, and German,” he said, not without some pride.
“How lovely. Is there a question coming, or shall I just fawn over your brilliance?”
“Feel free to fawn anytime,” he replied, winning an approving smile, “but I meant to ask you how many languages you speak.”
“A goodly number. How many do you speak?”
“Fluently? Or enough to get by?”
“Enough to get by.”
He counted on his hands. “Six, including Latin. How many is a goodly number?”
She sighed the sigh of the long suffering. “Fluently, or enough to get by?”
“Enough to get by.”
“Counting Latin?”
“Counting Latin.”
“Because you realize it is a dead language; there is no present culture that speaks it as its main form of communication.”
“I said, counting Latin!” But he kept his voice low, so only Gail could hear his ire.
“Fourteen,” she replied immediately.
Max gaped. They had reached their friends’ sides, but all his attention was focused on Gail. Will and Evangeline watched the exchange with wide-eyed interest.
“Name them,” he challenged.
She sighed. “English, French, Spanish, German, Dutch, Swedish, Russian, Latin, Pig Latin, Portuguese, Arabic, Turkish, Hebrew, and Greek,” she quickly supplied.
“Miss Gail, you speak all those languages?” Will interjected. She and Evangeline nodded in response.
Max was dumbstruck. Fourteen? But…
“Pig Latin? That’s not a language,” Max said curtly.
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not—not a real one.”
“But I require it in my list,” Gail stubbornly defended.
“You have thirteen others!” Max burst out.
“But, Lord Fontaine,” Evangeline stepped in, placing her hand on his arm soothingly, “thirteen is an unlucky number.”
“Yes,” agreed her sister, “and since you included Latin, I had to include Latin, and—”
“I understand!” Will said triumphantly. “You needed to count Pig Latin to make the number something other than thirteen.”
“Precisely.”
“May I ask, what did you do when you were thirteen years old?” Max said sarcastically. “Pretend to be fourteen?”
Gail looked to her toes. “Of course not,” she mumbled. “But I did trip a great deal.”
Max had to smile—but only a little. She was exasperating. But always surprising. He shook his head in mock defeat.
“You win, Miss Gail. I am utterly undone by your obviously superior mind.” But Gail’s face went cold, as pained as if he had struck her.
“I never viewed it as a competition, sir.”
“Yes, hardly a competition at all, eh, Fontaine?” Will said jovially, slapping his friend on the back, trying to alleviate the sudden black mood. Max cracked a strained smile.
“You did not list Italian, Miss Gail,” Max said finally.
“No, we never went to Italy,” Gail replied, blinking.
“Well, thank God for that.” He bowed and began to lead Evangeline to the punch bowl.
“Oh, Lord Fontaine!” Gail called after him, and as he turned, his eyes captured hers. And held them for an eternity.
“Thank you for the dance.”
ALTHOUGH
the world of Britain’s social elite revolved around the Season, which ran from just after Easter to the end of Parliament’s session on the twelfth of August, what greased society’s wheels was gossip. So, as it would happen, as it should happen, and as it was always known to happen, the events of the previous evening were discussed over the breakfast table in every household of note. (And even some households of no note—but since they are insignificant in the scheme of this story, their reactions do not signify.)
So naturally, in the course of eggs, coffee, steak, kidney, and jam, the Pickerings mentioned the lovely decor of the great hall of Almack’s, Lady Hurstwood’s daughter gushed over her two dances with Captain Sterling, and Lord Draye said he was most impressed with this year’s crop of marriageables. Young Lord Ommersley didn’t say much that morning; he was nursing his head and his pride. However, polite conversation quickly turned more sloe-eyed and juicy, and everyone took care to mention Lord Fontaine. He danced a great deal with Miss Evangeline Alton, don’t you agree? Why yes, Mother, I did see that, he stood up with her twice! And fetched her punch at every turn. What does it mean? Well, my dearest husband, I have no notion, only that Lord Fontaine has been continually in the Altons’ drawing room since the Alton girls came out. But what about the rumors? Rumors? Bah, Miss Sally, I’ll be tellin’ ya whot—that comes to nuthin’—no proof—and the chit’s parent’s let ’im in tha house meantimes? Them rumors ’re pure rubbish. Just some maid tellin’ stories, dozy cow.
While this course of gossip was by far and away the standard for the day, a select few had noted something else in Lord Fontaine’s behavior the previous evening.
Lady Charlbury had been one of the first to notice, because she had eyes on her person of interest all evening. It was odd, as someone who tried to avoid liking young people whenever possible, she found herself liking Miss Gail Alton. She watched as that odious Lord Ommersely backed Miss Gail into a corner (really, she must speak with Lady Jersey about his Almack’s admission) and the subsequent rescue by Lord Fontaine. She watched as they danced—stumbling at first and then with a flair and intensity that sent a ripple of warm feeling through Lady Charlbury.
And Lady Charlbury was not a woman given to warm ripples.
They spoke animatedly, with arch looks and challenging postures. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, of course, but she doubted the topics were restricted to the spring weather and the number of couples. They didn’t move delicately, instead they made the dance a fluid battle, well worth watching. Lady Charlbury leaned to whisper something to this effect in Lady Jersey’s ear, but thought better of it. This observation she would keep to herself and see how it developed.
The next person to note Lord Fontaine’s remarkable waltzing technique had just recently walked in from the refreshments room, not being one for dancing.
Baron Rentworth, faithful informant to the Earl of Longsbowe, had stepped away from the tables of mutton and cheese for the opportunity to stretch his legs, and wandered into the crowded ballroom. He was surprised when he spotted the Earl’s only son on the dance floor, for he had not known the young man would be there. The viscount was dancing quite remarkably well, Rentworth reflected, with a tall brunette young lady. Always aware of his duty to the Earl, Rentworth leaned over to the nearest person, a young man engaged in raucous conversation with his companions, and not at all inclined to assist a portly old man in stays and pink waistcoat. So when Rentworth asked who was partnered with Lord Fontaine, the young buck glanced at the floor, said the name “Alton,” and returned to his jokes and laughter.
So this must be the upstart young lady the Earl was so disapproving of! The one Lord Fontaine was intent upon marrying. She seemed pretty enough, he supposed, but nothing uncommon. However, Lord Fontaine seemed utterly engaged by her conversation. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad a match as all that, if he was keen on the girl. Rentworth hoped to get a better look at the future countess when the dance ended, but when it did, Fontaine led Miss Alton in the opposite direction, toward his friend Mr. Holt and another young lady. He tried to cross the room, but by then it was impossible, as another dance was starting in the too crowded space. He shrugged, committed the girl’s features to memory, and retired again to the dining room.
The third person to take a wide-eyed notice of Gail and Lord Fontaine’s fiery, mesmerizing waltz was someone who had the unfortunate tendency to think of Gail second, and therefore immediately taking notice of her seemed odd.
Romilla had been flirting harmlessly with an old acquaintance, keeping her sharp eyes on Evangeline and her sharp ears open to catch even the barest hint of malicious gossip about her girls. Although her intention had been to be the ever-vigilant chaperone, she could not help but feel the excitement of it all. Almack’s! She hadn’t had the opportunity to dance in these halls during her own season, oh so many years ago. Her marriage had been so quick, and her mother so disapproving…Then, her first husband had whisked her away to Europe mere hours after their wedding.
He had been an undersecretary to the ambassador of Spain—respectable, but certainly not particularly highborn (then again, neither was she). But together, they were working to become influential, to shape the world—he, having the ear of the ambassador, and she being his perfect hostess. Who cared if her letters home were always returned unopened? She was making great friends abroad, and one day, her husband would have his own appointment, then they would triumphantly return to England, he’d run for Parliament, and…
But then came the fever—and suddenly she was alone.
Now here she was, finally in the grand hall, over a decade past. She had buried a husband in Spain, lived through years on her own, and survived. But that part of her life was past, and here were the faces she’d missed and the ones she’d not had the chance to know. The English fashions and dances, the music—all of it called to her blood, saying, “Welcome home.” It affected her so, there were a few times when she had to blink back tears.
So naturally, she missed it when Lord Fontaine took Gail to the dance floor.
Only the beginning, at least. While Romilla was laughing with a group of new friends, Mrs. Pickering tapped her on the arm with her fan and drew her attention to the dance floor, where her own twin daughters were dancing with Lord Whatshisname and Mr. Something or Other. Romilla had stopped listening the moment she saw Gail dancing with Lord Fontaine. In theory, there was nothing improper about it. Lord Fontaine and Gail were well acquainted, having been in each other’s daily presence for a week now. Gail had received permission to waltz. Lord Fontaine was, in fact, to be her brother-in-law.
But the way Fontaine looked at Gail, the way he leaned in to whisper in her ear—the flash in his eyes when she said something—Romilla couldn’t put her finger on it, but it made her very nervous.
Was he holding her a bit too close for propriety? Was his grip at her waist just a hair too tight? Was she…good Lord, was she
smiling
at him? Romilla glanced to her companions, but they didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. Their eyes fell rarely on Gail, as they were looking out for their own interests. When the dance ended, Romilla began to breathe easier, but as Lord Fontaine escorted Gail to the side, there was still a palatable tension between them—was it only she who could see it?
Romilla prayed she was the only one to see it.
As Gail was deposited with Mr. Holt, and Evangeline was once again on Lord Fontaine’s arm, Romilla returned her attention to her companions and slipped easily into their conversation. Luckily such inane chatter didn’t require much of her mind. That was consumed by a much more volatile topic.
THE
next morning, Romilla had the girls up at their usual hour, regardless of the fact that they hadn’t gotten home until well past two. She was waiting for them as they came down the steps, holding hands and chatting with the speed and incoherence of youth. It was not yet eight o’clock, and Gail was dressed for her morning ride in the dark green habit, holding that wretched swatch of leather she called a hat. Both curtsied as they greeted Romilla.
“Abigail, what is that in your hand?” Romilla asked, ice freezing her voice.
Gail blinked. “’Tis my hat, ma’am,” she replied.
“And you actually intend to wear it?” Romilla mixed incredulity and sarcasm, and watched as Gail shrunk into herself.
“I…I only wear it riding, ma’am, in the mornings.” Gail had brought it to her chest, clutching it like a mother protecting her child.
“You have a hat that matches that habit, do you not? I know so, I purchased it for you. If you will not wear the appropriate hat, you will not go riding, whether it be in the early morning or at high riding time.”
Evangeline’s jaw dropped, and she held all the tighter to her sister’s hand. Romilla feared she had gone too far, and that Gail might cry. But only for a moment. The child then straightened her spine and looked down her nose at Romilla (easily done, considering their height difference, but haughtiness was not a posture Gail often tried with her stepmother).
“Fine,” was the reply, as she let go of her sister’s hand. “I’ll go find the
appropriate
hat.”
Gail turned from her stepmother with the bone-deep strength of a queen and did not slump or look behind her as she climbed the stairs. When she was out of sight, Evangeline turned to Romilla, her eyes fiery, her lips so tight they were white.
“That was uncalled for,” she said quietly.
Romilla turned innocent eyes on her eldest stepdaughter. “I know your sister has some silly sentimentality for that hat, and it does you credit to defend her feelings, but it
is
inappropriate. Evangeline, dearest, you know it is. She needs to learn how to dress and act correctly.”
Evangeline shook her head. “That was not a lesson in propriety.” She pointed to the empty spot where Gail had stood. “That was a lesson in control. And it was little, and mean.” Evangeline turned up the steps. “I have some letters to write,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll take my breakfast upstairs.”
Romilla stood at the base of the stairs alone for a full minute. She was shaking, but her fury was directed at herself. Why had she said that? Why had she lashed out in such a horrible way? She had intended to take the girls into the breakfast room, find some way of speaking to Gail alone, and ask her calmly about the dance last night with Lord Fontaine. But the minute she had seen that hat…her mind went black, all her good intentions had gone out the window. She could only think that this girl continued to defy what was right, what was proper. So she said something mean and made Gail, and herself, feel small and wrong. Romilla laid her head in her hands. This was not the way she had intended to start the morning.
EVANGELINE
knocked quietly on Gail’s door. When no one answered, she silently turned the handle and stepped inside. It was empty. On the bed sat the brown hat that Gail had worn riding ever since the first time she had sat on a horse. Evangeline smiled a little at its ugliness. Next to it sat a newly empty hatbox, wrinkled tissue paper lying around it.
She would go riding after all, meanness be damned.
“Well done, Gail,” Evangeline whispered, daring the walls to hear it.
TENSION
can build in a household on incidents such as these, or it can dissipate. In Number Seven, it was simply put on hold. There was too much to do, Romilla surmised, than to worry over hurt feelings. The dinner for the Barivian ambassador was to be the next day, and the entire house was busy in intense preparation. It was a whirlwind of activity when Gail returned from her ride, muddy and flushed. She and Evangeline were immediately taken to the modiste’s for a final fitting of their latest slate of gowns, as well as to acquire gloves, hats, underthings, and all the necessities to match. When Lord Fontaine and Mr. Holt called, for the first time in their acquaintance with the Altons, they were not admitted, for the ladies were not at home. In fact, they were told most seriously that the Alton ladies were scheduled for every minute of this day and, right up until the dinner party.
Max left his card and the flowers he had brought with Morrison and headed down the steps, almost at a loss as to how to spend this newfound time—so used was he to spending his mornings with the ladies.
Holt, with a surprise morning free, tried his best to shrug off disappointment, decided to head to the docks to check on some newly acquired ships.
“I still haven’t any idea why Father would purchase such a light flier, no less three of them,” Will said, frowning, “and now I’m to find some use for ’em. They’ve got good-sized strongholds, maybe they’d do well on moderate journeys to the Spanish coast.”
He invited Max along to investigate the new purchases, knowing how his friend was enamored of the ships, but Max decided against it. He was behind in his own work. There were several documents he had been contracted to translate from German and Italian into English, and a novel waiting to be turned from English into French. Max spent the morning, night, and following day lost in his work, for he considered nothing more graceful than the study of words.
When he at last emerged from his hollow, he posted his finished work to the appropriate officials and publishers, was shaved and cravated, and turned from a scruffy intellect into a gentleman of breeding, arriving at the Alton’s doorstep right on time.