A Waltzing Ball

4

A Waltzing Ball

    “I shall wear my new grey and mauve striped silk again, of course,” said Miss Humphreys, ushering Midge and Polly into the parlour with a mysterious smile upon her narrow, faded face. “Please—do sit down, dear Miss Burden.”

    Midge sat down on the sofa. “Oh—this asparagus is for you, Miss Humphreys. Lady Ventnor very kindly sent us some from the Hall, but there is far too much for us.”

    Miss Humphreys fluttered, exclaimed, and protested, but accepted the asparagus.

    “Now, Miss Humphreys!” urged Polly, looking very excited.

    Miss Burden swallowed a sigh. Whatever this mysterious plot was between Polly and Miss Humphreys—and it was now clear there was a plot—it could not possibly turn out to be anything exciting. Or, very like, even interesting.

    Nodding mysteriously, Miss Humphreys disappeared.

    There was a short silence.

    “She is an excellent dressmaker: she made her new gown herself, you know,” said Polly.

    “Mm.”

    “She has very good taste, I think.”

    “Well, yes. Though personally I would not have filled the most of the neckline of that gown in with net, not even to stitch on that delightful piece of Venetian point lace she had off the cap that was her mamma’s.”

    Polly smiled, and reached to squeeze her aunt’s hand very tight. “No, but then you, dearest Aunty Midge, have the shoulders to support a neckline without net or tuckings of any kind!”

    “Er—thank you,” said Midge, rather startled.

    “We should have asked her to make up the brown silk for you in the first place, rather than Miss Murton,” said Polly, frowning. “That bunchy effect of the bodice is horrid, I have always said so. I think she must have thought she was required to—to hide your bosom, rather than—than show it off to its best advantage, as an evening gown should!”

    Miss Murton was the village dressmaker; Midge returned in a low voice: “Dearest, we could not ask Miss Humphreys such a thing: she is a gentlewoman.”

    “Yes, of course.” After a moment Polly added uncertainly: “It is so silly... I think she could make a tidy little income, sewing for the ladies of the district.”

    “Yes, it is silly indeed,” Miss Burden agreed with a sigh.

    “I hope she will actually eat some of that asparagus,” said Polly in a low voice: “rather than give it all to her brother.”

    “Mm. Well, I gave her plenty.”

    “Yes,” said Polly, smiling at her and again squeezing her hand rather tight.

    They waited.

    Eventually there was an immense rustling upon the stairs, and Miss Humphreys rustled in, holding something swathed in paper up very high.

    Polly bounced up, clapping her hands. “Quick, quick, dear Miss Humphreys!”

    Proudly Miss Humphreys unveiled it.

    “What do you think, Aunty Midge?” squeaked Polly.

    Midge looked at it blankly. It was a very lovely black silk gown, adorned with a number of cunningly placed rosettes of palest pink satin ribbon, and a wide satin sash to match. “it is delightful; but I thought you were to wear your grey and lilac striped gown to the Somertons’ ball, Miss Humphreys?”

    Miss Humphreys gave a crow of girlish laughter. “It is not for me!”

    “Oh.” Midge took another look at it. It was certainly fine enough to be for any of the grander ladies of the district, but... Well, perhaps one of them had asked her as a favour, for certainly Miss Murton’s efforts tended to be along the lines of the disastrous brown silk, for any female person over about twelve years of age. “Um—Mrs Somerton?”

    “Pooh!” cried Polly loudly. “Has she the shoulders to support this style?”

    “Er—” It was hard to tell, with the dress held up like that, but very probably not, no: Mrs Somerton was an older version of her thin little daughter. “Well, I dare say not.”

    “Try it on, Aunty Midge!” burst out Polly, unable to contain herself.

    “Me?” she gasped. “Polly, what have you done?”

    “Nothing very dreadful!” said Polly with a gurgle. “Have we, dearest Miss Humphreys?”

    Very flushed and excited, the little lady shook her head, twinkling.

    “You will never guess!” cried Polly, dancing up and down in her impatience.

    Miss Burden rose slowly. “No, I do not think I shall. Polly,” she said grimly: “tell me this instant. Where did the money for this wonderful gown come from?”

    “See?” cried Polly triumphantly to her fellow conspirator. “I told you no-one would ever, ever guess! –Darling Aunty Midge, there was no money involved! Well, only a very little to the dyers!” she choked, going into a fit of the giggles.

    “D—” Miss Burden swallowed, goggling at the gown.

    “Yes, indeed!” beamed Miss Humphreys. “We took it to the dyers in Nettleford, dear Miss Burden, and only see how it has come up!”

    “Miss Humphreys,” said Midge, going very red: “it is terribly kind of you to do this for me, but pray do not attempt to make me believe that that is my old brown silk.”

    “But of course it is, my dear! We unpicked it first, naturally.”

    “Yes, we took it to pieces entirely,” agreed Polly. “The dyers were pleased, were they not, Miss Humphreys? They said that it is the way to ensure the best result, for then the stuff may be dried perfectly flat.”

    Dubiously Midge fingered the gown.

    “Then dear Miss Humphreys completely remodelled it!” finished Polly ecstatically. “Oh, do try it on, Aunty Midge!”

    “It used to have a frill round the hem,” she said dubiously.

    “But that is where Miss Humphreys was so cunning!” she cried.

    “I used the stuff from the frill to fashion these new, fuller puff sleeves,” said Miss Humphreys.

    Midge fingered a puff sleeve dubiously. The dress had been used to have long, tight sleeves.

    “And in any case, a heavy frill makes a little lady look shorter,” said Polly seriously.

    “Oh, quite,” agreed Miss Humphreys.

    Miss Burden gnawed on her lip.

    “Just to entirely convince you, dear Miss Burden,” said Miss Humphreys with a twinkle: “look here.” She picked up the skirt of the gown and found a place on a seam inside the back.

    “See?” cried Polly. “That is the remains of the mark that was used to ruin the front of the skirt! She has recut the skirt entirely, you see?”

    Miss Burden was convinced. She nodded limply.

    “Get into it, Aunty Midge!”

    Limply Miss Burden divested herself of her outer integument in Miss Humphreys’ stuffy little front parlour and got into black silk with palest pink ribbons.

    “Oh, you were so right, Miss Humphreys!” cried Polly, clapping her hands. “That palest pink of the ribbons is delicious with her skin!”

    Miss Burden looked warily down at her bosom. She had thought that the way Miss Humphreys had recut the bodice, with a sash-like effect of the black silk which masked the tops of the sleeves, would result in a modest neckline.

    “No, no,” said Miss Humphreys as she twitched at the shoulders: “the dress sits just below the point of the shoulder, my dear Miss Burden! –There!” She readjusted it. “It is the very latest mode.”

    “Yes,” said Midge faintly. She could see that it was: it was precisely what Mrs Patterson’s neckline had been like, at the Ventnors’ dinner. “I feel so exposed,” she said weakly.

    Miss Humphreys gave a tolerant laugh.

    “You will get used to it,” said Polly confidently. “Oh, Aunty Midge, you look splendid!”

    “Indeed,” sighed the little spinster lady. “—Wait!” She rushed out.

    Miss Burden had just time to hiss: “Polly, how could you ask her?” when she rushed in again, bearing the mirror from her dressing-table. Which certainly explained what it had been doing in the front hall as they came in.

    Midge looked at herself in black silk with a low-cut neckline, puff sleeves, and palest pink bows at strategic places, and swallowed hard.

    “You do like it, don’t you?” said Polly anxiously.

    “I love it,” she said with tears in her eyes, “and I can never thank you both enough—though you should not have asked, Polly! But—but is black suitable for me? I—I am not a married lady, you know.’

    There was a short pause.

    “Oh, pooh,” said Polly uneasily.

    “We wanted a very deep green,” admitted Miss Humphreys, “but the master dyer himself—a very nicely spoken man, most courteous—assured me the result could not but disappoint.”

    “Mm,” said Midge, swallowing hard. “Well, no matter what may be the opinion of the Mrs Cartwrights and Mrs Somertons of our little world,” she said bravely, holding up her rounded chin, and blinking tears away: “I shall wear it: for it is the most delightful thing I ever laid eyes on in my life!”

    The conspirators beamed, laughed. and clapped their hands

    “Highly unsuitable,” said Mrs Cartwright with a frown, lowering the lorgnette.

    The elderly sisters, Mrs Kinwell and Miss Platt, were in considerable awe of the majestic Mrs Cartwright. Nevertheless Mrs Kinwell replied firmly: “I think she looks delightfully.”

    “Quite queenly, indeed,” contributed Miss Platt, almost equally firm.

    “Queenly!” said Mrs Cartwright with a surprised snort, raising the lorgnette again.

    The sisters quailed.

    “And I know not where they can have acquired the silk!” she said strongly.

    “Er—perhaps they found it in an attic,” contributed Mrs Kinwell, rather relieved that the unsuitability of the gown no longer seemed to be the subject of the conversation.

    “In a trunk!” squeaked Miss Platt hopefully, nodding her faded head, much adorned for the occasion of the Somertons’ waltzing ball with little flattened bows, squashed rosettes of lace, silk violets, and so forth. All of which smelled tremendously of camphor.

    “Hardly. They did not have many trunks when they moved into Bluebell Dell,” Mrs Cartwright reminded the sisters without the flicker of a smile.

    Mrs Kinwell’s crumpled soft face, that was rather like a very faded many-petalled rose, took on an obstinate expression under its cap of exquisite Chantilly. –Only brought out for the grandest of occasions. “In any case I do not see it is any of our business.”

    Miss Platt winced, and suppressed an impulse to close her eyes.

    “Those who make themselves remarked by garbing themselves in gowns unfitted to their age, marital status and position in life must resign themselves to having their business made public business,” said Mrs Cartwright flatly. She raised the lorgnette yet again. “Talking of which, the Patterson woman appears to be wearing lace. Lace! To a country hop like this?”

    Mrs Kinwell’s eye met her sister’s. She rose, looking as determined as her sweet, crumpled-rose face would permit. “I think I will just go and say hullo to Miss Humphreys; pray excuse me, Mrs Cartwright. –Come along, Georgiana, my dear.’

    The sisters escaped. Mrs Cartwright continued to survey throng grimly through the lorgnette.

 
  “It is lace, of course,” said Mrs Burden with a deep sigh.

    “Mm,” agreed Miss Burden. “Delicious, I agree, but it probably cost as much as we spend on food and firewood for our little household in a year.”

    “Yes,” sighed Mrs Burden, continuing to watch Mrs Patterson.

    “How much would it be, truly?” said Polly abruptly.

    Her aunt blinked. “Well, I have no real notion, my dear: I have never bought a piece of lace in my life. –Letty, pray speak as a married woman on this knotty point!”

    “Midgey, dear!” said Lettice with a laugh. “Er—well, I do not know, Polly, but your aunt’s estimate cannot be far out, I think.”

    After a moment Polly said uncertainly: “The gown is exquisite, but... It seems criminal, somehow. Well, that is an exaggeration, but...”

    “Yes,” said her aunt grimly. “Considering that Mrs Bill Lunn cannot afford firewood this week, let alone a new jacket for Bobby or shoes for Freddy, it most certainly does.”

    “Midge, you could give her those old shoes of Timmy’s,” murmured Mrs Burden.

    Midge admitted with a little smile: “I already have.”

    “But what about the firewood? It is so cold in the evenings, still,” said Polly anxiously. “And they must cook.”

    “Though cook what, is another question,” said Miss Burden. “Um—well, yes, firewood was a problem...” She looked at them sideways. “I am so fine tonight, I dare not tell you what I did,” she murmured.

    Mrs Burden gulped.

    “Ooh, what?” gasped Polly.

    Miss Burden lowered her voice. “I took my basket into Maunsleigh Wood with the look on my face of an innocent young woman out for innocent exercise.”

    “Midge, you could be prosecuted if you were caught stealing the Earl’s firewood,” said Mrs Burden faintly.

    “One basket-load is not much,” said Polly dubiously.

    Miss Burden looked airily at the elegant plaster ceiling of the Plumbways ballroom. “Fourteen times.”

    Polly gasped, and clapped a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders shook.

    “Midgey, that was— Well, great Heavens, it was multiplying the risk,” said Mrs Burden limply.

    “Yes. I know I should have bought a cord off Mr Lumley, but I had no money. And before you say anything, I dare say he might have done it as a favour, but while I have two sound legs and two sound arms, there would seem to be no good reason for asking him.” She paused. “And a sound basket, of course,” she said in a wobbly voice.

    Forthwith the Burden ladies all three collapsed in helpless splutters.

    “We shall not know hardly a person here, out of course,” said Simon Golightly cheerfully as the Deanery carriage approached the front door of Plumbways.

    “So you have not visited much in the district, before this?” asked Colin Hargreaves.

    “No. Well, s’pose Mamma tends to look down her nose at the locals. Accustomed to seeing them bowing and scraping to our grandfather, and then to our uncle, y’see. And Arthur and I have never really lived here, y’know.”

    Their cousin nodded: he was aware that Mr Golightly had until lately been the curate of a parish on the other side of the county, and was come home to reconsider his position with regard to the Church. Mr Hargreaves had expected his Uncle David to be, frankly, rabid about this; but the Dean appeared to have taken it quite placidly. Dr Golightly had until recently been a don, at the college privileged to witness Mr Hargreaves’s own undistinguished academic career. He had just taken up a position as secretary to the local archdeacon. Mr Hargreaves was aware that the Dean disliked Archdeacon Wells: he had expected him to be rabid over it, but he appeared to be taking it with perfect equanimity.

    “Never mind: soon get to know a few of them, eh?” concluded Mr Golightly cheerfully.

    “Aye, but a few of what?” said Mr Hargreaves glumly. “Miss Buck Teeth or Miss Bows?”

    “Alan Pryce-Cavell was sayin’ there was above seventeen on that gown,” said Simon solemnly.

    Mr Hargreaves choked.

    In view of the fact that Mr Golightly had been behaving like a boy let out of school since he gave up his curacy, his older brother felt constrained to say: “Just remember, Simon, you are no longer an undergraduate.”

    “And?” replied Mr Golightly crossly.

    “And, mind you favour all of the Miss Waldgraves with a dance: it will not do to neglect any courtesy in that direction: Papa would be most displeased an you did.”

    “Ho, and I suppose you would be the one to tell him?” he retorted angrily.

    “No, I am very sure I would not need to,” said his brother drily as the carriage drew up. “And just step down and repeat that remark, will you?”

    “Sorry, Arthur,” said Simon, grinning sheepishly. “But I ain’t a brat, y’know! Of course I shall make sure I dance with the freaks as well as the pretty ones!”

    “Provided there are any pretty ones,” noted his young cousin glumly.

    “What? Bound to be! Well, little Miss Somerton herself!” Mr Golightly encouraged him.

    “If one can get near her, yes.”

    “Eh?”

    “Well, you know what these country affairs are like, Simon: all the pretty girls are surrounded by rustic idiots what have known ’em forever!”

    “That is where address comes in, dear boy,” he said smoothly, jumping down quickly.

    “He is teasing!” said Dr Golightly with a laugh. “Get down, Colin. I am very sure that that neckcloth that is impeding the movement of your head will have all the rural young ladies positively agog!”

    “Hah, hah,” he said sourly, getting down.

    Dr Golightly followed him, smiling slightly.

    Simon had forged ahead: Colin hesitated, then said in his older cousin’s ear: “I say, Arthur: what the Devil do we do if he tries to spend the whole evening in that pretty widow’s pocket?”

    “Realistically, I have no notion,” he replied grimly.

    “My uncle won’t like it,” he warned.

    “Quite. And Mamma will like it even less.”

    Mr Hargreaves looked glumly at the house.

    “Come along: once more into the breach!” said Dr Golightly with a laugh, patting his back.

    Smiling weakly, Mr Hargreaves went in. The place would be stiff with rustics, all of whom would have booked all the prettiest gals for all the waltzes: bound to be.

    The elderly sisters had joined dear Mrs Burden and her party. “There, now, my dear Polly!” said Mrs Kinwell, nodding the Chantilly cap pleasedly as the Deanery party came in: “there are some pleasant young men for you!”

    Used though she was to this sort of remark from elderly ladies who wished her well, Polly went very red and did not say anything.

    “Oh, yes, the Dean’s sons. And I think the other young man is a cousin,” said Mrs Burden placidly.

    “Quite a lot younger, I would say,” said Midge idly.

    “They are not old,” said Polly in a stifled voice.

    “—There, Mr Waldgrave has captured them for his girls!” added Midge with a laugh. “Never mind, Polly, I dare swear the clerical connection will let the laity get a look in at some time during the evening, and you will have your turn!”

    “Of course! And yourself, dear Miss Burden!” beamed Mrs Kinwell.

    “Me?” said Midge, startled. “I am not here to dance.”

    “But of course you must dance!” the old sisters cried.

    “In fact,” said Mrs Burden with a chuckle in her voice: “I think you must dance now, my love!”

    Miss Burden and Polly looked round. They gulped.

    Well-pomaded black curls flashing, large teeth a-gleam, nostril- and ear-hair almost frolicking with hope and good cheer— Oh, no!

    Alas, yes. Mr Butterworth, bowing very, very low, begged the honour of Miss Burden.

    Midge could only reflect, as she was led off to the slaughter, that at least Polly, whose shoulders were quite visibly shaking, would be well served out for her premature rejoicing over another’s misfortune: for Mr Butterworth was so polite he would be sure to ask her niece, next.

    The Nettlefold Hall carriage had been into the village, collected and delivered Miss Humphreys and the Burdens, and returned to Nettlefold Hall for its owners and their house guests. This had meant that the first carriage-load had been somewhat early, but the Burdens and Miss Humphreys had no objections to being able to sit and watch everybody come in—and if they had done, it would not have weighed with Lady Ventnor.

    “I hope we are not late,” said Harry Pryce-Cavell uneasily as the carriage bowled up to the gates of Plumbways.

    “No, no, dear boy!” replied his uncle breezily. “These hops take forever to get under way!”

    Mr Harry reflected glumly that the local yokels doubtless, slow though they might be, did not take forever to book up all the prettiest girls for the waltzes. He frowned and said nothing.

    “Never fear, dear boy, Miss Bows will have saved a waltz for you!” choked his older brother.

    “Drop it, Alan,” he growled, reddening.

    “Which reminds me,” said Lady Ventnor with a sigh. “Pray do not neglect to invite all three of the Waldgrave girls to dance, boys. Tedious duty though it may be.”

    The two young men exchanged wary glances and said nothing.

    “Yes, yes! Explained that!” said Sir William hastily. “And the two Patterson gals!”

    “Uncle William, those Patterson girls have no conversation whatsoever!” burst out Harry. “One absolutely cannot talk to ’em!”

    “Pooh! You was copin’ very well at the dinner, Harry!” choked his brother. “‘Yes, Mr Pryce-Cavell,’” he said in a squeaky voice. “‘Indeed, Mr Pryce-Cavell.’—‘It did not rain, Mr Pryce-Cavell.’”

    “Very FUNNY!” he cried angrily. “—Sir,” he said to Sir William before his uncle could tell him not to shout, his aunt did not like it: “that is precisely it! That is all she will say!”

    “Dare say she is shy, lots of girls are.”

    “She ain’t that much of a girl,” he muttered.

    “Y’don’t need to talk much at a dance, old fellow,” said Sir William comfortably.

    “He’s right, you know,” said Alan.

    Harry gave him a glare.

    “Now, little Miss Somerton is a pleasant gal,” rumbled Sir William as they approached the house. “Only child, too. Her father’s sole heir,” he spelled out. “You could do worse, Alan, m’boy: Harry’s all right: comin’ in for old Cousin Jerome’s property, ain’t he? But just remember, dear lad, oldest son or not, your father will have very little to leave, and there are your sisters to be provided for, yet. You could do a lot worse.”

    Alan went very red.

    “They are nobodies, of course,” sighed Lady Ventnor.

    “Now, now, me dear! Very decent sort of man, old Somerton! Regularly gets out with us!”

    Lady Ventnor sighed, and did not reply.

    Miss Humphreys had rejoined dear Mrs Burden and her group. “There! Here is kind Sir William, now! What fine-looking young men his nephews are, to be sure.”

    “Indeed. And we are about to see the edifying spectacle of Mrs Patterson and Mrs Waldgrave fighting over them, I believe,” noted Miss Burden, very dry. “Oops! No: Mrs Somerton has captured a fine one for Lacey! Well done, Mrs Somerton!”

    “Ssh! My dear!” squeaked Miss Humphreys, collapsing in giggles and pressing her best lace-edged handkerchief to her mouth.

    Mrs Kinwell and Miss Platt exchanged glances and did not dare smile.

    “That—that was not funny, Aunty Midge,” said Polly shakily.

    “Pooh! Do but look, Polly. –My money is on Mrs P., she has the advantage in weight, certainly with those diamonds above that lace.”

    “Midgey, dear, really,” murmured Mrs Burden weakly.

    “Now that is odd,” said Miss Burden as Mrs Patterson, the diamonds flashing in triumph, captured the remaining Pryce-Cavell and led him off to lay him at her younger daughter’s feet.

    “No, it is not, Midgey: she is saving the older daughter for the Earl!” gurgled Lettice, giving in almost entirely.

    This time both elderly sisters as well as Miss Humphreys squeaked and applied wisps of cambric and lace to their mouths.

    “No, I mean surely that is the younger Mr Pryce-Cavell? All that exertion, merely for a younger son?”

    “Yes, but—” Polly broke off, pinkening, as the attention of all five older ladies immediately became fixed on her.

    “Do not tell us, if it was in confidence,” said her aunt, very dry.

    “N— Well, it was not— But she may have had it wrong,” she said limply.

    “If this be Amanda, she scarcely ever has it wrong,” said Midge drily. “Long, involved, but not wrong.”

    “Um—well, yes, it was.” Polly reported Amanda’s report that it was the younger Mr Pryce-Cavell who had expectations from an elderly cousin.

    The ladies all nodded, watching Mr Harry Pryce-Cavell lead Miss Rosalind Patterson into a set for a country dance.

    They were so busy watching that they did not perceive a gentleman had approached until a voice said “Good evening, ladies. May I beg the favour of this dance, dear Miss Polly?”

    Polly smiled weakly, accepted politely, and went off to dance with Mr Cuthbertson. He was a pleasant man who owned a pleasant house near Upper Nettlefold. But he was also a widower of sixty-odd.

    After a little, Miss Platt, who was given absently to voicing thoughts where angels feared, said in a vague voice: “December and May, oh, dear.”

    Her sister went red and attempted to catch her eye; Miss Humphreys also reddened. But Mrs Burden merely smiled sadly and murmured: “Indeed,” and Miss Burden merely sighed.

    “The guest of honour is somewhat delayed, is he not?” said Miss Burden with a smile that was a little forced, as old Mr Wardle invited her to take a turn around the room on his arm.

    “Probably made the mistake of poling up some of his late cousin’s bone-shakers,” said the old gentleman drily.

    “Really? Are they that bad?”

    “Worse. Sleyven—the previous man, I mean—was notorious for his bad horseflesh. Though I concede that no-one ever quite determined satisfactorily, at the least to my knowledge, whether it were parsimony or lack of judgement, Miss Burden.”

    She laughed and said: “And to which opinion do you incline, sir?”

    “I incline to the opinion that it was equal shares of both, Miss Burden.”

    Miss Burden laughed again and the two strolled on slowly, rather pleased with each other. And the old gentleman not at all displeased to discover that his former intelligent table-companion had metamorphosed into a very lovely woman—though to the connoisseur the quality of the hair and skin had always been apparent. He pressed her hand rather too tightly into his side, and thought wistful thoughts of other ladies and little alcoves and sitting-out places he had known off other ballrooms.

    “So far my spies have revealed to me,” said Charles Langford with a chuckle as their carriage approached the house: “that your predecessor never went next or nigh the local worthies, never showed his face at the local assemblies, was never known to dance with anyone below the rank of marchioness when he did grace anythin’ where there was dancing, never touched that damn’ nawab’s turban pin what you’re wearin’ in that travesty of a Waterfall—more like a Pitfall,” he noted by the by: the Earl choked slightly—“and never in his puff got out with the local hunt! Now! What do you say to that?”

    “I scarcely knew him, but if you wish me to say something, Charles, I shall say that I am not surprised to hear it. I may add that he never looked to his tied cottages, never checked to see if his tenants were treating their farm labourers decently, never spent a groat on capital repairs on any of the farms, never repaired his damned hedges, and never bought a decent horse in his life. How should this affect my conduct?” he returned tranquilly.

    The Colonel looked at him affectionately. “Well, you’re a cool hand, I’ll say that for you, Jarvis! But couldn’t you at the least give up the cursed turban-pin?”

    “No. Every time I have tried to retire it to a drawer, Bates—or a hidden hand, but I know damn’ well it is he—has placed it back proudly in possession of the damned pincushion which the same hidden hand has positioned in the centre of my dressing-table.”

    Colonel Langford had a choking fit.

    “Now tell me I need a valet,” said the Earl drily.

    “You—do!” he choked.

    “Aye, but where do I find a man with the strength of character to protect me—” The Earl paused. “From my burra khitmagar?” he finished with a smile in his voice.

    “By God: you like the fellow!” discovered the Colonel.

    “Mm. He couples a sound grasp of his duties with considerable intelligence and—er—no respect whatsoever for me as a man.”

    “What?” said the Colonel, staring.

    “I have to earn it, you see. –Oh, he shows respect for the rank, never fear! But not for Jarvis Wynton.”

    After a moment the Colonel said somewhat weakly: “It may have been like that for the first five minutes after you walked into the house, dear man, yes.”

    “You flatter me,” he said on a dry note. “Oh—we are arrived, I think. It is a rather pretty house from the outside: Jacobean, largely; a pity it is not a lighter evening.”

    “Jacobean?” said the Colonel incredulously in his old friend’s ear as a footman led the way down a spacious hall, panelled in pale blue and white, with a pretty plaster ceiling, past a series of rooms—which they could see quite clearly, their doors being thrown open—full of modern, light furniture and more light panelling, towards the sounds of revelry.

    “Shelby tells me Somerton made a lot of renovations on his marriage,” said the Earl in an entirely neutral voice.

    The Colonel gave him an amazed, indignant look.

    “And beware sakht burra memsahibs,” added the Earl calmly.

    The footman flinging open the door to announce them at that moment, the Colonel was unable to respond in kind.

    The old sisters had passed on, smiling and nodding, to speak with other acquaintances; and Polly was at last dancing with something under the age of forty-five: young Mr Hargreaves, to be exact. She had smiled at him very nicely when he asked for the dance, but nevertheless both her mother and her aunt had felt in a vaguely puzzled way that there was something lacking in the smile. No... spark?

    “Oh!” gasped Miss Humphreys, clasping her hands together. “Here he is, my dears! Oh—now: shall we—shall we just—? Er—well, for my part I think I might just join dear Mrs Cartwright!” She bustled off, very flushed up.

    “Now we sit here like stocks, do we? While Mr Somerton does not present the Maunsleigh party any more than Sir William did. Or do I have the procedure wrong?” said Miss Burden affably. Successfully hiding the fact that the mere idea of being presented to the impertinent man was making her shake in her little evening slippers.

    “Perhaps we should have sat with Mrs Cartwright: do but look, Miss Humphreys’s guess was correct: they are being presented to him!” said Lettice with a smile.

    Midge sighed. “I could not have sat there biting my tongue while she told you that you should not have let me out without a leading-string—I beg your pardon: in a gown unsuited to my unwed status.”

    Lettice gave a sudden little gurgle.

    “What?” said Midge uncertainly.

    “It is just that you look—well, really, dearest Midgey, I cannot find better words than glowingly mature, in that gown!”

    Midge went very red.

    Mrs Burden patted her knee. “You are as well dressed as any lady here, dearest, so let us forget all about Mrs C., and just enjoy ourselves! And Polly is looking lovely, do you not think?”

    “Yes. I would never have thought of those spangled gold ribands for a girl with her yellow hair, but—yes. Entirely lovely: all white and gold,” said Miss Burden, smiling at the proud mamma.

    “Mm.” Lettice’s eyes followed the Maunsleigh party somewhat nervously.

    Miss Burden cleared her throat. “Those narcissi Polly is carrying—”

    “Ssh!”

    “I dare swear he has no notion whatsoever of what grows in his own grounds. You may be easy,” she said with a curl of her lip.

    “Well, it was semi-official, dearest: it was so very kind in Mrs Fendlesham to offer them.”

    “Having seen how scraggy and empty the garden of Bluebell Dell is looking: yes.”

    “Yes,” said Mrs Burden with a smothered sigh. “I would so love a rose garden,”

    Midge did not ask what connection this remark had with the semi-official Maunsleigh scented narcissi Polly was carrying: she merely nodded.

    Miss Burden had not expected to dance again, after the one with Mr Butterworth, unless possibly, much later in the evening, the good-natured Sir William might take pity on her. This was pretty much the usual thing: she did not really think about it. The hiatus after the dance with Mr Butterworth which had permitted the Burden ladies to observe the entrance of the Earl’s party and to chat about narcissi had also allowed them to observe such exciting features of the social scene as Mr Patterson politely dancing with Lady Ventnor, and the squire leading Mrs Patterson onto the floor. This was pretty much the usual thing. too. After the Earl’s party had been joined up with the Pattersons’ they had been gratified by the spectacle of Lord Sleyven leading his hostess out: this was, if not precisely the usual thing, not wholly unexpected.

    After that, however, things had taken quite a different turn. Miss Burden had danced with the squire, beaming and even more jovial than usual, holding her waist far too tight in the waltz. She had danced with the widowered Mr Cuthbertson, all complaisance, smiles, and extra-curricula bobs, in a country dance. Miss Burden had smiled at him in a puzzled way: she had of course, known him forever, but hitherto he had never seemed quite so... Her mind had shied away from the word “interested”. Pleased with her company? Er—yes. No sooner had Mr Cuthbertson returned her to her seat than the Vicar, smiling all over his dark and not wholly unattractive face, had begged a dance on the score of old acquaintanceship and Miss Burden’s pity. Miss Burden had always hitherto assumed the boot to be on the other foot when a married gentleman requested a dance of her. She had gone off with him dutifully, looking vaguely puzzled. Mrs Burden and Miss Humphreys, again seated together, had exchanged glances and smiled a little.

    The proper clerical gentleman, apparently wholly delighted by the experience of having Miss Burden step on his foot twice in the course of one waltz, duly returned her to her sister-in-law’s side. He then politely, but with what Miss Burden could not but recognise as a certain diminution of enthusiasm, asked the next of Mrs Burden. Lettice duly rose and went off with him, but gave Midge a speaking look over her shoulder as she did so.

    “That was odd,” said Miss Burden limply to Miss Humphreys.

    Polly had just been returned to her seat by the elder Pryce-Cavell. “I do not think so,” she said airily. “Oh—have you met my aunt, Miss Burden, Mr Pryce-Cavell? She is a very young aunt, of course!” she added with a gurgle in her voice. “Aunty Midge, pray allow me to present Sir William’s nephew, Mr Pryce-Cavell.”

    Mr Pryce-Cavell bowed very low, beaming at Miss Burden, and professed himself delighted. And forthwith begged her for the dance.

    “Me?” said Midge limply.

    “Certainly, my dear: off you go!” said Miss Humphreys brightly. Miss Burden gave her an amazed look. Miss Humphreys looked smug.

    “Mr Pryce-Cavell, you are very kind, but you do not have to dance with me,” said Midge firmly.

    Alan Pryce-Cavell replied with a laugh in his voice and another bow: “I am not kind at all, Miss Burden, and l shall be positively crushed if you do not dance with me! I hope you are not saving this one for some fellow more worthy of your favours?” he added with a humorous look.

    “More worthy of— No,” she said limply. “Wuh-well, thank you, Mr Pryce-Cavell.”

    Smiling, Mr Pryce-Cavell offered her his arm and bore her off into the set.

    “See?” said Polly complacently.

    Miss Humphreys nodded and beamed.

    “He is the older one, you know!” she hissed.

    Miss Humphreys nodded and beamed again.

    Dr Golightly had, of course, greeted his Mamma’s second cousin politely as his host had conducted the Earl and Colonel Langford around the circle of those apparently deemed worthy to speak to his Lordship. Somehow, Arthur Golightly could not have said how, this had resulted in his being absorbed into the group of the Pattersons, the Somertons and the gentlemen from Maunsleigh. It had not resulted in his getting a dance with little Miss Somerton—not that he particularly wished to, but it would most certainly have been preferable to leading out Miss Patterson, Mrs Patterson, Mrs Somerton, Miss Rosalind Patterson and Lady Ventnor. In that order. It did not precisely help that in the meantime Simon and Colin had aligned themselves firmly with the Pryce-Cavells and were happily sharing between them all the pretty young ladies in the room. Including— Dr Golightly's eyebrows rose slightly. That was undoubtedly the little red-head that Papa had mentioned: well! It had not been a tarradiddle, after all.

    Colonel Langford, meanwhile, had had the dubious pleasure of dancing with Lady Ventnor, Miss Patterson, Miss Rosalind Patterson, Mrs Somerton, and Mrs Patterson. In that order.

    Lord Sleyven, both gentlemen had had time to observe in spite of their terpsichorean activity, had danced merely with Mrs Somerton, Lady Ventnor and Mrs Patterson, and, his duty to the senior ladies apparently done, had retired into conversation with some of the senior gentlemen.

    Not, however, all of them. It was apparently the thing at the Lower Nettlefold dances, Dr Golightly and Colonel Langford observed grimly, for persons such as that fellow, Ventnor, to take the floor with graceful ladies of not yet middle age in elegant lilac gowns—Colonel Langford gritted his teeth and determined that he would get Ventnor to present him to her, or die in the attempt—or such as that clerical clod, Waldgrave, to cut out damned Simon, serve him right, and bear off that delicate vision in the white and gold: a scowl gathered on Dr Golightly’s saturnine brow.

    After a moment the Colonel said abruptly: “Golightly, who is that lady in the lilac? Fair. Dancing with Ventnor.”

    “Er—I am afraid I do not know her, Colonel,” he said politely. “I believe she is a local lady, but we have not been introduced.”

    The Colonel swallowed a sigh. Naturally.

    Dr Golightly looked at him dubiously. “Um—I think she is a widow. I am afraid I know very few people here, sir: Simon and I have hardly set foot in Lower Nettlefold in our lives.”

    “No. I see.” After a moment he said: “A widow, did you say?”

    “Yes. She has a daughter,” said Dr Golightly stiffly, his throat tight.

    Colonel Langford did not notice anything odd about the younger man’s reply: his face had brightened. So she was a widow!

    Miss Polly Burden had had the pleasure of a dance with Mr Golightly. And also with Mr Hargreaves and both Pryce-Cavells. And with other, older gentlemen, who did not count. Miss Portia’s sister Amanda had had Mr Hargreaves, twice, and both Pryce-Cavells, as well as Mr Golightly. That cat, Lacey Somerton, had had the pleasure of dancing with Mr Golightly twice! Plus once with Mr Hargreaves and both Pryce-Cavells. Both Miss Pattersons had danced with Mr Hargreaves, the Pryce-Cavells, and once, each, with Mr Golightly. And as for Miss Burden! Miss Portia could only be thankful it was not a near relative of her own who was making such a spectacle of herself: draped in low-cut black silk for all the world as if she was a married woman, and flirting with all the young men! Miss Burden had danced once with Mr Golightly, as well as twice with Alan Pryce-Cavell, once with his brother, and once with Mr Hargreaves.

    But as for Mrs Burden! Well! Her conduct was the most reprehensible of all! And she was old enough to be his mamma! Mrs Burden, laughing and protesting, had allowed Simon Golightly one dance, and had then sat out the next with him. To the apparent complete enjoyment of both parties.

    And it was not fair! For He had not asked Miss Portia once! And it was very nearly time for the supper!

    “Mrs Burden,” said Sir William, beaming and bowing: “may I present—”

    At last! Charles Langford took her in his arms for the waltz. He could not have said, afterwards, what he said to her. He was but aware that she was as charming and lovely and intelligent as he had known she must be.

    “Shall we sit this next out?” he said as the dance ended.

    Mrs Burden looked around, but Polly had been returned safely to Miss Humphreys’ side by nice Mr Hargreaves, and Midge, very pink and smiling, was accepting a glass of orgeat—and apparently a compliment—from the older Pryce-Cavell, so— She allowed Colonel Langford to lead her to a sofa set all by itself in the lee of a pillar.

    “I hope you do not mean to send me off on dispatches, Mrs Burden,” he said with a twinkle. “For of course I should do me duty, y’know: we Langfords know what a stiff upper lip is. And naturally one would not wish to see a lady dyin’ of thirst in this burning desert,” he finished primly.

    “Oh!” said Lettice with a gurgle. “I could not imagine what you— No, no, I am not thirsty, thank you, Colonel Langford!”

    Smiling very much, he returned: “I am glad to hear it. Now, will you tell me a little about yourself, Mrs Burden? I think the pretty little girl in the white with the gold ribbons must be yours, is that correct?”

    “Yes: that is Polly, my only daughter, and my eldest child.”

    “So you have boys as well?” He began to draw her out about her family.

    Lettice chatted happily, very pleased to find herself with an elegant, agreeable gentleman who evidently admired her, could converse like a reasonable human being, and was not impossibly old or impossibly fat. Or, indeed, impossibly bald: though she could fully see why the Earl of Sleyven had set the unlikely combination of Miss Humphreys and Mrs Patterson in a flutter, she could never really fancy that in a man, herself. She was conscious of a hope that Colonel Langford might add to his other delightful features that of not being impossibly married.

    Miss Burden rose, looking determined. “Please excuse me, Mr Pryce-Cavell. It has been delightful talking to you, but I think someone should go and chat with Mrs Shelby. Since it appears that the ladies of the neighbourhood, are, as usual, slighting her,” she added grimly.

    “Er—well, pray allow me to escort you, Miss Burden. Is there something wrong with her?” he added in a low voice.

    “Very wrong, she comes of decent farming stock and is married to the Earl of Sleyven’s agent,” said Midge through her teeth.

    Alan Pryce-Cavell stuttered somewhat.

    “Your aunt is ignoring her as much as—nay, more than—any, so you need not pretend you share my sentiments, sir.”

    Alan went very red. “She is not my aunt, she is merely married to my uncle; and I do share your sentiments, ma’am!”

    Suddenly Midge smiled at him. “Thank you. She is just over there. I must admit that making conversation with her is not easy, she is very stiff in her manner: so if you wish to run off and dance after I have introduced you, please do: I shall understand.”

    “Miss Burden,” said Mr Pryce-Cavell with a smile, tucking her hand very firmly in his arm: “you are what my papa would call a jolly fine little soldier!”

    “Would he?” she said with a startled laugh.

    Smiling and nodding, Mr Pryce-Cavell managed to tell her rather a lot about Papa and the nickname “Little Soldier” he had given his littlest sister—who sounded, to the not wholly innocent Miss Burden, about as short, plump and grimly determined as one, Midge Burden, if she were as yet only eleven years of age—as they crossed the crowded ballroom.

    Mrs Shelby was manifestly both flustered and very gratified, as Miss Burden greeted her pleasantly, introduced Mr Pryce-Cavell and sat down with her.

    “That,” said Midge to herself as Alan then insisted that Mrs Shelby dance this one with him and led her blushing if still stiff person off into the set: “is a very nice boy.”

    “Or at the least, one who wishes to find favour in your eyes,” said a very dry voice from behind Mrs Shelby’s obscure sofa. Midge gasped, and made to rise.

    Lord Sleyven came round the sofa. “Remain seated,” he said in a grim voice. “I wish to speak with you.”

    She gulped, and remained seated. The Earl sat down beside her. Miss Burden did not dare to look at him. She gripped her hands together very tightly in her lap. She was thus unaware that his own hand had clenched on his knee and he was staring in front of him, the long mouth compressed, the nostrils slightly flared.

    “I apologize,” he said harshly.

    Miss Burden took a deep breath. “Very well, if you regret your action, sir—”

    “I did not say that,” he said evenly.

    She  turned her head in astonishment.

    “It would be a lie to say that I regret it: no man could.”

    Miss Burden’s eyes went round and wrathful: she took a deep breath.

    “But I do apologize. I took you for a country lass, which is why I—er—took the liberty.”

    “I do not consider that that absolves you of the responsibility of acting like a gentleman,” she said through her teeth.

    “No,” he said in a very low voice.

    Miss Burden waited, but he was evidently not prompted to crawl to her. “Very well, let us say no more,” she said grimly.

    “No, I—” He swallowed. “Please forgive me.”

    “Pooh, why should you care a button if I forgive you or not! You and your kind will always do as you please, convinced until the day the peasants rise up with their scythes in their hands that you have a God-given right to do so!”

    His nostrils flickered, but he managed to say calmly: “Madam, a man is not to be held responsible for the position into which the lottery of life has decreed he be born.”

    “No. But I think he is to be held responsible for those slums at Jefford Slough, and poor Mr Lumley’s having had to pay to re-roof the farmhouse which his son will no doubt see himself thrown out of on his death!”

    “For God’s sake, I have been in the district scarce a month!” he said angrily.

    “Quite: and it is a year since the last earl died, I believe?”

    “I was in India!” replied Jarvis Wynton in indignation.

    “Oh,” she said limply. “So that much was true.”

    The Earl swallowed. “I have every intention of tearing down the cottages at Jefford Slough. And of compensating the tenants for whatever they may have spent on capital repairs.”

    “Indeed? Well, while you are at it, you may care to inform one of your principal tenants, a man named Garrity who is, I am very thankful to say, not present tonight, that enclosing the wood known as Turpen’s Way and the two neighbouring fields is in breach of common law. The folk over at Critchley Down have always had right of way through that wood and the fields, and the right of mast—the right to graze their pigs on the acorns.”

    “Critchley Down? You cannot mean General Sir Michael Garrity?” he said limply.

    “I believe it is he who has the right to sublet Critchley Farm, Lucas Farm, The Winnows, Turpen’s Farm and Kendlewood Place and its farms and small-holdings?” replied Miss Burden arctically.

    “Er—no, the lease of Kendlewood Place was not renew— Who are you? How do you know all this?” he said dazedly.

    “I am a person of no account, Lord Sleyven. And I know it because I am neither deaf nor blind. And in the habit of listening when those considered by such as yourself to be my social inferiors speak to me.”

    “So am I. I shall look into it,” said the Earl grimly.

    She gave him a doubtful look: he smiled a little and said on a rueful note: “And though you may never have considered the point, ma’am, I beg you to believe that I am not personally responsible for the rules and conduct of society. I am merely their victim, like yourself.”

    Millicent Burden might have lived all her life buried in a small country district but she was of course far from stupid, and could see that Lord Sleyven believed that the rueful, somewhat confidential tone he had assumed, combined with the smile, not to mention the fact that he was directing it straight into her eyes, would instantly win her over. In the which she was doing Jarvis Wynton one more injustice: it was true he felt he would win the little red-headed thing over, but he was acting not deliberately, but instinctively.

    Her cheeks had flushed brightly. “Indeed? Perhaps you will be able to convince the next unwary country lass you meet that you are as much a victim as she, then. But you have certainly not convinced me.”

    She walked off, her chin very high, her shoulders very straight.

    The Earl of Sleyven sat there on the sofa, looking after her with a very odd expression indeed on his face.

    Mrs Cartwright had said: “Well!” as Lord Sleyven and Miss Burden appeared to plunge into intimate conversation. “I suppose we might have expected that, after the way she has been putting herself forward all evening!”

    The meek Mr Platt, her current victim, had only been able to smile weakly.

    Miss Burden was then seen to rise and abruptly desert the Earl. Mrs Cartwright sniffed. “One collects he has given her her comeuppance.”

    Given sufficient provocation, even a mouse will bite. Mr Platt rose. An odd little smile hovered on his little, thin, wrinkled face. “I think not. If you will favour his Lordship with your lorgnette, ma’am, you will perceive that the boot appears to be very much on the other foot.” He bowed, and walked away.

    “Now,” said Simon Golightly confidentially: “if you will take Miss Somerton, Colin, and Harry Miss Bows—that’s all right, ain’t it, old man?—then Alan may have another touch at the elder Miss Burden, and I will take little Miss Polly!”

    “You will not,” said a grim voice over his shoulder, “for you have not so much as been near Miss Portia Waldgrave all night. You will take Miss Portia.”

    “Eh? But Arthur, it’s the supper dance!” he gasped.

    Dr Golightly replied grimly: “Which do you wish: a dance and supper with Miss Portia, or my report to Papa that you have behaved like a selfish brat all evening?”

    The Pryce-Cavells melted quietly away like dew in the morning at this point. Mr Hargreaves would have liked to follow their example, but did not quite dare. He remained, in nervous support of Simon, silently wondering what his own sins, whether of omission or of commission, might have been that evening.

    “Do it,” said Dr Golightly grimly.

    “But Arthur!” he hissed: “ten to one that rustic, Butterworth, will grab her!”

    “He will not, for I shall grab her, as you so elegantly put it, myself. –And you,” he finished, seizing his cousin’s arm, “may introduce me.’

    “Er—yes, absolutely, old man, glad to!” gasped Mr Hargreaves, directing an anguished, apologetic look over his shoulder at Simon as he was borne inexorably away by Dr Golightly’s very hard hand.

    Miss Polly’s well-wishers watched in stunned amaze as, eyes and cheeks a-glow, she accepted to dance the supper waltz with a saturnine old man who must be nigh on thirty-five.

    After a moment Midge said limply to Miss Humphreys: “His is quite understandable: after all, she is the prettiest girl in the room. But she?”

    “Oh! Is it not Romantick!” sighed Miss Humphreys, clasping her hands ecstatically.

    “Well, no. Dear Miss Humphreys, Polly is but seventeen. Dr Golightly must be twice her age.”

    “But that does not signify at all, my dear, when the affections are involved!” she cried.

    Midge swallowed. “I suppose it is but a dance,” she said feebly.

    “And one that I trust you will dance with me!” said a laughing voice. Mr Pryce-Cavell bowed before Miss Burden, his pleasant face wreathed in smiles.

    “She will not, you know,” said another voice, “for she is dancing it with me.”

    Miss Humphreys’s eyes bolted from her head as Lord Sleyven came up and bowed to Miss Burden, his hard face unsmiling.

    “Of course, sir,” said the young man, flushing up but bowing politely.

    Miss Burden had stood up. “I must say, I had thought you had more bottom, Mr Pryce-Cavell,” she said grimly.

    “It is tactics, ma’am: an he yields now to force majeure he may yet live to fight another day,” said the Earl calmly. He nodded dismissively and the young man bowed again and vanished precipitately.

    “I never saw a man so take unfair advantage of his position!” gasped Miss Burden indignantly.

    He gave her a wry look. “I think you did, you know. Come along.” He held out his hand.

    Miss Burden turned bright pink and glared at him impotently.

    “Go along, my dear,” said Miss Humphreys, very faintly.

    “Lord Sleyven,” she said with difficulty: “this is the supper dance.”

    “Is it? Good, then your good manners will constrain you to eat supper with me.”

    “Yes, I am sure Mrs Patterson, Lady Ventnor and Mrs Somerton will welcome me into your party with open arms!”

    “No, with me,” he said unemotionally.

    “I am not going to dance with you,” she said grimly. “Go away, you are making me remarked.”

    “On the contrary, it is you who are making us remarked, ma’am, by standing there like a stock when I have asked you for this dance.”

    “My dear Miss Burden, it is perfectly acceptable!” hissed the little spinster lady.

    Midge had been about to appeal for her aid. She reddened.

    “Yes, my dear Miss Burden, it is perfectly acceptable,” he said.

    Miss Burden perceived that the eyes of a large number of persons were, indeed, on them. And poor Miss Humphreys was looking very distressed. “Very well,” she said through her teeth.

    He bowed, took her hand, and led her onto the floor.

    After a certain period had elapsed in silence Miss Burden said in a hard voice, though only to his waistcoat: “I am a very bad dancer.”

    “My feet have already perceived that, Miss Burden.”

    “Good,” she said to his waistcoat.

    After a moment the Earl said with a smile in his voice: “You are also, if I may say so, a very short dancer, ma’am. And charming though the top of your head is, I should be immensely gratified to get a glimpse of your even more charming face.”

    “Hah, hah,” said Midge grimly to the waistcoat.

    Jarvis was very taken aback. He had not imagined, after their previous conversation, that his consequence would impress Miss Burden; but he had imagined... well, that she would not be entirely unaffected by Jarvis Wynton, the man? He did not think he over-estimated his powers of attraction, but he was aware that many ladies had felt them in the past. “No, truly,” he said weakly.

    Midge replied grimly to the waistcoat: “You have successfully blackmailed me into dancing with you, for though I do not care very much about making myself particular, it would upset my sister-in-law, and it was already beginning to upset poor Miss Humphreys. But you cannot force me either to look at you with the appropriate admiring simper, or to talk to you.”

    “I do not require either admiration or simpers,” he said on an annoyed note. “And you did not seem to have very much trouble, ma’am, in according both to all the fortunates whom you have favoured with dances this evening.”

    “Were you watching?” said Midge in amaze, forgetting she was not going to look at him, and staring up into his face.

    “Yes,” he said, smiling very much. “I was.’

    After a few shaken seconds, during which she was even more fluttered by the discovery of the dimples that had appeared in the lean cheeks than his Lordship’s housekeeper had been, Miss Burden looked back at the waistcoat.

    His hand tightened a little on her waist. She swallowed, and trod on his foot.

    “We are approaching a corner,” he said in a neutral voice.

    “Do not dare to reverse,” said Midge on a grim but despairing note into the waistcoat.

    The Earl smiled and did not reply. Miss Burden experienced a very odd sinking feeling, the which was not entirely despair, as his grasp tightened noticeably on her waist and he whirled her round the corner.

    “I did not reverse, I think?” he murmured.

    Miss Burden said nothing.

    “Very well, let us not talk,” he murmured.

    They finished the dance with the gentleman smiling just a little, and the lady scowling horribly into his waistcoat.

    “I shall not force you to sup with me, if you should not care for it,” he said, bowing very low as the music ceased.

    Miss Burden made a sketchy curtsey. “If that was supposed to take the wind out of my sails, you may think again,” she said in a hard voice. “I do not care if you are an earl; in fact, I would not sup with you if you were the King of Persia!”

    He gave a startled little laugh. “You read Horace?”

    Reddening crossly, the honest Miss Burden replied: “No. It is a phrase I picked up from Mr Humphreys. But I might have known it was Horace. I am going to have supper with Miss Humphreys. I cannot imagine that you enjoyed that dance so much that you will ask me for another, but in the case you do, be warned: I shall refuse.”

    The Earl watched wryly as she marched defiantly away, head held very high.

    He did not request another dance of her that night: but he saw with considerable interest that Miss Burden, though clearly she was asked, did not dance again after the supper. What did that mean? ...If anything.

Next chapter:

https://thepatchworkparasol.blogspot.com/2022/12/callers-at-bluebell-dell.html