With a rare, sweet smile, he said, “Miss Morecroft is going nowhere.
She will be very busy making sure tomorrow is everything you could have wished
for. After that” — the look he sent Sarah made her tremble — “I
think it’s time to review the current arrangements.”
Caro and Sarah stood in the centre of the ballroom Venetia had had
built and gazed with satisfaction at the huge vases of flowers placed on
plinths in each corner.
Swathes of
pink muslin tied in bows — Sarah’s idea — adorned the gilt chairs
arranged around the walls.
“I hope I don’t spend my evening occupying one of those,” sighed
Caro.
“You’ll be so sought after you’ll want nothing more than to rest
your tired feet sitting in one of those,” Sarah prophesised. “I’ll wager there
are more than a couple of eligible gentlemen, as we speak, who’d like to engage
you for
every
waltz.” She squeezed
Caro’s shoulder as they turned their attention to the refreshments table,
before adding slyly, “Perhaps that nice Mr Hollingsworth is one of them.”
Caro blushed. “Philly is much prettier than I am,” she mumbled,
pretending concentration on a silver urn filled with Lilies of the Valley.
“Only if one prefers plump, giggling girls.” When she saw Caro was
staring at her, eyes wide with expectation, she added, “In my opinion Mr
Hollingsworth appears far more interested in tall, dark, serious young ladies.”
Caro put down the urn with a clatter and clasped her hands together
in a semblance of entreaty. “I don’t suppose I could borrow a touch of your
Olympian Dew?” she asked.
“I thought blue-stockings didn’t approve of such artifice.” Sarah
pretended to sound prim as she took Caro’s hand and led her to the stairs.
“Only three hours until the guests arrive. We might as well start preparing
ourselves now.”
When they reached her tiny room, Caro sat on her lumpy bed while
Sarah rummaged in her drawers for the pot of magic ointment.
“Didn’t you say it was possible to be both a blue-stocking and a
beauty?” Caro asked.
“I did.” Sarah unscrewed the lid and dipped in her finger. “Aren’t I
just such a manifestation? Now you shall have just the merest suggestion of a
blush of roses upon your cheeks, if you will allow me to do it. Exercising
restraint is the secret. With your lustrous dark curls to set off your perfect
pale skin, a tinge of colour will instantly transform you.”
Caro returned to her own room to finish dressing with the help of
Aunt Cecily’s maid, Betty, but was soon back so that Sarah could complete her
toilette. Betty could not be trusted with tales of Caro’s use of complexion
enhancers.
“What a couple of beauties,” declared Sarah as they stood side by
side in front of the small tarnished mirror which balanced on her chest of
drawers. “Your father will be so proud of you tonight.”
“And of you,” replied Caro. But when Sarah glanced suspiciously at
her she was met by Caro’s ingenuous smile. She swallowed down her nervousness
as she recalled Mr Hawthorne’s expression when he’d vowed she’d remain. Dear
Lord, dare she hope it would all end well?
“Let me help you into
your dress, Miss Morecroft. I haven’t seen it yet in all its glory.”
“Only because I sewed the last stitch at four o’ clock this
afternoon.” Sarah was pleased with the finished work. The esterhazy lutestring,
the colour of rain-darkened sky, was cut low and fell in shimmering folds from
just beneath the bust.
A sense of
devilry had inspired her to use the silver grey netting from one of Mrs
Hawthorne’s cast-off gowns for the puffed sleeves and a decoration of leaves
around the hem which ended at Sarah’s ankles. She still had the unusual silver
and green dancing slippers beneath her bed which Caro had given her the night
she’d supplied her with Venetia’s clothing for her demonstration.
Caro gasped. “I cannot believe that with just a simple bolt of
silver fabric you have made … this! You should be a modiste.”
Sarah preened at the compliment. “Your aunt helped,” she said,
smiling at Caro’s open-mouthed amazement. “You remember her grey round dress
from last season which she gave me? The one with the ugly, bulky rouleau just
above the hem? I unpicked the rouleau, smoothed it out and cut from it the
sleeves and leaf decoration.”
Caro giggled. “I can’t wait to draw her attention to it. She’ll look
like a boiled chicken.”
“Now, now, Caro,” Sarah admonished mildly. “Life has dealt your aunt
a poor hand whereas you can look forward to a glittering future. As to becoming
a modiste, it is a hard way to make a living but more than that, I’d miss you
too much.”
Caro stared at her for a long moment. “You won’t ever leave
Larchfield, will you?”
Studying the silver-backed brush in her hand, Sarah weighed up her
response. The lie she was living had turned into a nightmare. She longed to
unburden herself, but how could she under present circumstances?
“Not willingly,” she said, unable to predict Mr Hawthorne’s response
to her deception? So much depended on how she conveyed to him the truth.
She gave Caro a quick hug and pushed her towards the door. “Your
aunt and father will be looking for you. It’s nearly time to start receiving
guests downstairs.”
Apparently satisfied, Caro turned the door knob then hesitated, her
thoughts now focussed on herself. She looked suddenly stricken. “What if I’m
not good enough?”
“Good enough?” Marching over to her, Sarah grasped her shoulders and
looked into her face. “You, my dear,” she said, severely, “will be the toast of
the town.”
Caro’s frown vanished. Smiling, she stepped across the threshold,
“My mother would have been proud of me, I think.”
Sarah watched her disappear down the stairs, her fondness for the
girl suddenly replaced with terror at her own imminent entrance. It was
ridiculous. She’d been to dozens, if not hundreds of balls, all far grander
than this small, country birthday celebration for Caro.
But Mr Hawthorne would be there, and that changed everything. She
swallowed nervously as she smoothed her hair which she had dressed with ribbons
to match her dress.
When it was time, she took the stairs from her bedchamber to the ground
level. Servants scurried about, making last minute preparations, replacing the
occasional wax candle that would not sit straight, glancing anxiously out of
the window as the crunch of gravel heralded the first arrivals.
From half way down the stairs Sarah watched Mr Hawthorne greet his
daughter as she was about to progress into the ballroom.
“I have never seen you in greater beauty, Caro,” he declared, as she
curtsied.
His gaze moved on to Sarah. She saw admiration flare into
astonishment and her heart pulsed into renewed life. In a state of self
conscious turmoil, she took the last few steps to the bottom.
“Miss Morecroft,” he murmured, the touch of his lips sending shivers
of excitement fizzing through her veins as he bowed over her hand, “you are without
equal.”
“Roland, there you are—” Mrs Hawthorne stopped abruptly as she
rounded the corner. She frowned at the trio, her eyes drawn to Sarah’s dress.
“I had no idea you possessed such a fine gown, Miss Morecroft?” She slanted a
suspicious look at her brother-in-law.
“Miss Morecroft has done a magnificent job making up the fabric we
gave her, hasn’t she, Papa?” Caro burst out. “It’s a pity you didn’t ask her to
make your gown, Aunt Cecily.”
Bridling as she glanced at her own gown of ruby velvet, adorned with
every embellishment, Mrs Hawthorne presented Sarah with her back as she took
Caro’s arm. “Lavery is admitting the first arrivals. It’s time you and your
father did your duty.”
Mr Hawthorne ignored the departing pair. His gaze locked with
Sarah’s. Laugher pealed in the hallway. Sarah recognised it as Philly’s. She
heard the click of the front door closing, the approach of voices, the rustle
of silk. The lengthening silence was heavy with a thousand unsaid words, but Mr
Hawthorne’s eyes reflected everything she longed to hear. With a final
lingering look at Sarah, he stepped back, ready to do his duty by his daughter
but not before he’d asked in a voice hoarse with longing, “Promise the first
waltz to me?”
Unable to speak, she nodded, admiring the way his evening clothes
hung on his strong, athletic body and the confident way he carried himself as
he strode into the saloon after Caro. Like a schoolroom miss, she shrank
against the wall and covered her eyes with her hands, shivering with
excitement.
He loved her! She’d known in from the start. And Caro endorsed their
union. Arriving at the entrance to the ballroom she was still shaking, though
now fear outweighed her excitement. She was going to have to exercise every
piece of cunning and understanding of Mr Hawthorne’s character if her heart’s
desire were to be realised.
Chattering and giggling, Philly and Georgiana entered
the ballroom by the door opposite,
accompanied by their dignified aunt. Sarah watched as the girls crowded around
Caro, marvelling at her fine dress and improved looks. Some time later, their
entrance was followed by a group of officers, dashing in scarlet, who stood,
rather awkwardly in the centre of the room, casting surreptitious glances at
the young ladies.
Sarah’s mouth curved into a smile which took on the added joy of
being collaborative as Mr Hawthorne joined her, observing, “The boys admire the
girls when they think they’re not looking, and the girls pretend ignorance,
ogling the boys the moment their backs are turned.” Leading her towards a
corner, he plucked a glass of orgeat from the tray of a passing footman.
She accepted it with a grimace. “I trust you’ll serve something a
little more fortifying, later this evening.”
“You perplex me, Miss Morecroft.” He looked puzzled. Unconsciously,
it seemed, he’d led her into semi seclusion behind the luxuriant fronds of a
lush indoor fern. “When has champagne been the diet of a poor governess?” His
hand moved to a small, faded scar above her wrist. Tracing it with the
forefinger of his gloved hand, he smiled up at her as she trembled. “There is
so much more I want to know about you.”
Not yet!
a voice screamed inside her head.
When the time is right …
She swallowed and put her hand to her
bosom to control her erratic breathing. Light strains of music drifted from the
annexe where the orchestra was tuning up. The room filled with guests, but here
they were alone. In a cocoon of intimacy.
“How can you possibly have escaped marriage” — his smile faded
and his gaze grew more intense — “when you are so very lovely?”
Still she could not reply. He went on. “Or did you always wish to be
a governess?”
Sarah tore her eyes away. Carefully, she said, “I became a governess
because my father wished me to marry someone I could not care for. Not as a
husband, anyway.”
Clearly, her response astonished him. “Godby-?”
She cut him off, quickly. “My father wanted me to marry my cousin.
We were more like brother and sister. My cousin didn’t want to marry me,
either, but when a parent believes he knows best” — she shrugged —
“drastic action is sometimes called for.”
“I would not have thought it of your father,” he murmured.
“I nearly married—” She nearly said in her first season but
stopped herself. She was treading a tenuous line between giving the truth and a
reason for her actions. She could not risk being caught out, yet.
“Was it a match of your choosing?”
“We were mad for each other.” Over Mr Hawthorne’s shoulder, Sarah
regarded the group of young men in the centre of the room chatting amongst
themselves. What callow youths they appeared compared with Mr Hawthorne. She
slanted a glance at him. He regarded her soberly, the flirtation gone from his
manner. He understood she wanted to give an account of her past as
straightforwardly as she could before she was ready to embrace the next phase.
If her courage didn’t fail her. “Two weeks before our wedding his
regiment was called to fight. He did not return.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes, but that is nearly six years ago now.” She met and held his
eye. “Nearly as long ago as your wife died. At the time I believed I’d never
get over it, but one can’t forever mourn for what one cannot have.”
“One can mourn for what might have been.”
“Only hopeless dreamers do that. And not forever.”
Mr Hawthorne’s smile held admiration. “Your presence at Larchfield
has been good for us all,” he said. “The change in Caro has been remarkable.
See, a young gentleman has just engaged her in conversation and she doesn’t
look as if she’s about to sink through the floor.”
“That’s Mr Hollingsworth, whose innocent addresses to Caro nearly
cost me my job.” She gave him a wry look. “He’s renting Hawthorndene until the
end of the hunting season and appears a personable fellow. Certainly, he’s
charmed Lady Charlotte who seems to want to push Philly his way.”
A group of young ladies brushed past Mr Hawthorne. When he stumbled
against Sarah he did not move away. Sensation charged through her. She could
tell he felt it, too. His breath stirred the tendrils that curled about her
ears. “I need you about the place, Miss Morecroft” — his smile was self
deprecating — “to keep me from descending into a crotchety dotage.”