Lois Menzel

Come my Celia, let us prove,

While we may, the sports of love; Time will not be ours, for ever: He, at length, our good will sever.

Spend not then his gifts in vain.

Suns, that set, may rise again: But if once we lose this light, ‘Tis, with us, perpetual night.

—Ben Jonson, “Song. To Celia.”

Although it was close on one o’clock in the morning, light shown from nearly every window of Devonshire House. Inside the massive ballroom, the light and heat of several hundred candles poured down upon the assembly. The brightly clad ladies and soberly hued gentlemen were neatly coupled, dancing to the melodious strains of Schubert. The waltz, a few years earlier considered shockingly foreign and indecent, was now widely performed and accepted, even within the revered halls of Almack’s Assembly Rooms.

Mrs. Lavinia Demming sat at the edge of the room and observed the dancers with rapt attention. She did not notice the heat nor the tightness of a too-small pair of slippers she had chosen to wear. She did note, however, that Miss Roper looked sick in pink, that Mr. Severson was dancing for the second time with a chit from the Harris brood, that Miss Mablethorpe was not as beautiful as everyone had been led to believe, and that Lord Moorcroft was smiling in a most possessive way at his partner, the daughter of the Earl of Siddons.

Mrs. Demming’s sharp ears listened with a rabbit’s attention to all comments that came her way. She heard a lady two seats from her comment that Lord Trevanian had finally arrived at the ball. Another woman strolling by was heard to say that Lady Elliot was increasing.

Leaving off her observation of Lord Moorcroft and his partner, Mrs. Demming sought her own child among the dancers. Noticing first the pale green gown and then the unmistakable auburn curls of her youngest daughter, Mrs. Demming smiled with contentment.

For the past ten years she had been consumed by one occupation: securing suitable, unexceptionable, advantageous matches for her daughters. Amelia, Dorothea, Melinda, and Sophia were all safely wed. Only Celia remained—her youngest and, some would argue, loveliest child.

As the music ended, Celia’s partner gallantly returned her to her mother’s side. Celia smiled and curtsied as she thanked him for the dance.

“The pleasure was all mine, Miss Demming,” he replied as he bowed, smiled at her mother, then turned away.

“A very pretty performance, child,” her mother approved when the gentleman was out of earshot. She spoke quietly, knowing that others were always listening. “Lord Arlington has ten thousand a year, a handsome estate in Suffolk.”

“He is very shy, Mama.”

“I find shyness becoming in a gentleman. Too many men are bold as brass these days. Lord Trevanian is here.”

Celia allowed herself a sideways glance at her mother. “He does not admire me, Mama.”

“Nonsense. All men admire you. What is there not to admire? If he cares not for your person, then perhaps your fortune will attach him. If he should ask you to dance, you must do your utmost to please him.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“You are flushed, child. Fan yourself.”

Celia unfurled her fan as her mother bade her and began gently to cool her face. “It is stifling in here. I had not expected such a huge crowd, especially during the Little Season.”

“Spirits were low in the spring with all the talk of war,” her mother replied. “No one felt much like dancing, with Bonaparte marching across France. Now that we are safe from him at last, all wish to celebrate. It appears as if everyone has come to Town; it will be a wonderful opportunity for you.”

Another thirty minutes passed, but Lord Trevanian did not approach them. Celia danced again and was once more seated with her mother when her attention was drawn to a young man standing in conversation nearby. She watched him openly, admiring his trim figure and handsomely tanned face. He was tall with slightly curling light brown hair. When he laughed at something his companion said, his smile was devastating.

“Who is the gentleman speaking with Lord Roth?” she asked her mother quietly. “I do not believe I have ever seen him before.”

Mrs. Demming followed the direction of her daughter’s gaze. When she replied, her tone held an approving note, and Celia was relieved. She had learned from past experience that disapproval in her mother’s voice denoted either a married man or one who was totally unsuitable for any of a score of reasons, ranging from lack of money to lack of connections.

“That is Anthony Graydon, younger son of the Earl of Walsh. I am surprised to see him here. I had understood he was in the Low Countries, searching for his elder brother.”

“Searching?”

“Viscount Wexford fought at Waterloo. He was attached to Lord Uxbridge, I believe. He has been missing since the battle.”

“Missing? You mean he was killed?”

“So it is assumed. Yet they have not recovered his body.”

“Perhaps he was buried in one of the common graves.”

“It is not likely that they would cast a colonel into a common grave.”

“But if he is not dead, where could he be?”

“God only knows, child. Perhaps he is dead, buried almost anywhere. Perhaps his brother has found him. Since we cannot walk over and ask him, we must wait to see what rumor yields.”

While her mother spoke, Celia regarded the gentleman with growing interest. Just then he glanced in her direction, and instinctively she smiled at him. Then she blushed at her own boldness and turned her face away.

“During the month of July, I searched every hospital and medical facility,” Anthony Graydon said to his companion. “I found nothing. In August, I decided to go to Brussels and try there.”

“And had you any luck?” Lord Roth asked.

“No. None. There is no trace of him.”

As Anthony glanced past Lord Roth, he noticed a remarkably lovely young woman sitting at the side of the room regarding him. She smiled at him in so friendly a manner that he wondered for a moment if they were acquainted. After she looked away, he regarded her a moment longer. Her skin was pale and delicate. Her hair was dressed fashionably, with a few curling tendrils allowed to escape to lie shining on her shoulders. He glanced briefly at the woman beside her—no doubt her mother. He did not know her.

“I have not danced all evening, Roth. Are you acquainted with the lady in violet, beside the young lady in green?”

Lord Roth turned to see to whom Anthony referred and answered, “That is Mrs. Demming; the girl is her youngest. Should you like an introduction?”

“Very much so,” Anthony answered.

“Come along then, but be on your best behavior. The mother is a high stickler.”

Introductions having been properly made, Anthony Graydon asked Miss Demming if she would care to stand up with him. With her mother’s permission, they moved off to join in a set of country dances.

Separated by the movements of the dance, they had little opportunity for speech. Delighted by Miss Demming’s proficiency on the floor, Anthony smiled his pleasure. Each time he smiled at her, she responded in kind.

At the edge of the room, Mrs. Demming watched the couple for a few moments, then turned to study other faces that were watching them as well. She sat up straighter and allowed a pleased smile to settle on her countenance.

Celia rose at ten o’clock the following morning and spent one full hour in careful preparation before presenting herself downstairs. Diligent attention to one’s appearance was one of Mrs. Demming’s cardinal rules and one that Celia never considered breaking. Since one never knew who might call or whom one might encounter during the day’s activities, it was prudent to look one’s best at all times.

When Celia descended, she found her elder sister Dorothea and Dorothea’s husband, Mr. Edgehill, seated with her mother in the breakfast parlor.

She arrived in time to hear her mother ask, “And did you happen to see, Dotty, with whom Celia shared the last set of the evening?”

“Indeed we did,” Dorothea responded. “I did not realize you were acquainted with the Graydon family.”

“Nor am I.
He
sought the introduction.” As Celia filled her plate from a selection of dishes on the sideboard, taking only eggs and toast, Mr. Edgehill added, “He is recently back from the Continent.”

Mrs. Demming turned her gaze upon her son-in-law. “So I had heard. Tell me, how did his journey fare?”

“He found no trace of Wexford, if that is what you mean. Awkward situation for him, I should think. Most likely Wexford is dead, but it would be simpler for Graydon to succeed if there were some proof.”

Celia seated herself at the table and accepted the cup of tea her sister had poured for her.

“The Earl of Walsh suffered an apoplexy in the spring, and his condition has deteriorated steadily since,” Dorothea said. “He is bedridden at his home in Buckinghamshire. No one expects him to live long, poor man. I think it is a blessing that he will never know of Wexford’s death.”

“You think he is dead, then, Dotty?” Celia asked.

“He must be, or surely he would have been found by now. It has been three months since Waterloo.”

Mr. Edgehill soon departed, saying he had an appointment to keep. While the conversation shifted to other items of gossip, Celia carefully spread blackberry jam on a piece of toast and for a moment permitted herself to speculate. Mr. Graydon had sought an introduction and had danced with her. He had also complimented her on her gown—something he was not obliged to do. Perhaps it was mere gallantry—or perhaps . . . Dorothea and Sophia had married well, their husbands were both of good family with respectable fortunes. Melinda had wed a knight, and Amelia a baronet, both pleasing their mama by becoming ladies. If Mr. Graydon was interested . . . and if his brother was indeed dead . . . and if she could somehow manage to attach him . . . she could someday be a countess!

What joy would be hers if she could accomplish this noble feat! All her life she had been made to fetch and carry by her sisters. All her life she had been last: last to put up her hair, last to have long dresses and jewelry, last to go to parties, last to be brought out. If she could manage in the end to be first in rank, much could be atoned for.

She had to abandon her grandiose dreams when she realized her sister was asking her what she intended to wear to the Effinghams’ ball on Saturday.

Though she asked the question of Celia, both Dotty and Celia looked to their mother for the answer, for Celia never chose any gown herself; the choice was always Lavinia’s.

“I did think she should wear the turquoise satin,” their mother replied, “since I believe it to be Trevanian’s favorite color. But I wonder . . . perhaps the white would be more appropriate in the event Mr. Graydon should be present.”

Lavinia Demming stepped back to regard her daughter with a critical eye. The gown was an excellent choice. White crepe over white satin, it accentuated Celia’s flawless complexion and contrasted sharply with her luxurious hair. How fortunate, Lavinia thought, that the girl should be blessed with that bold touch of red in her dark curls, a trait that set her apart from other dark women. A simple strand of pearls, matching ear bobs, long white gloves, a chicken-skin fan, and a dainty reticule studded with seed pearls completed Celia’s ensemble.

As they mounted the grand staircase at Lord and Lady Effingham’s home, Lavinia whispered last-minute instructions to her daughter. “If by some good fortune Mr. Graydon should approach us again, mind each word you say, Celia. Do nothing that might offend. Smile. And answer his questions with good sense. He does not strike me as a man who would appreciate a ninnyhammer. He is an out-and-outer, make no mistake, but you are handsome enough to turn any head. If you were to take his fancy, it would please me no end.”

Celia said nothing and allowed herself to hope. Since her come-out, she’d had many admirers and two offers of marriage. The proposals had been politely refused, for although both suitors were young and personable, they were also poor as church mice and therefore considered by Mrs. Demming to be fortune hunters. Celia was twenty, and she knew that many other girls her age were already married or at least engaged. Perhaps Mr. Graydon would be the man in her future.

Anthony Graydon did approach the Demming ladies again. He was one of the first gentlemen to greet them after they had gained the ballroom. When he asked Celia to save the first waltz for him, she had no need to remember her mother’s admonitions, for her smile was spontaneous.

Anthony Graydon had been enchanted with Miss Demming at their first meeting and was looking forward to seeing her again. He found her fragile beauty intriguing and wondered why he had never noticed her before. While he marked time, waiting for their promised dance, he anticipated how she would feel in his arms.

As they took the floor together, he said, “Since we met the other evening, Miss Demming, I have been wondering what your given name is. Might I know it, or will you consider me too bold?”