The line of Marianne’s gown was simple. Its close-fitting bodice, ornamented with three small ribbon bows one above the other, showed off her trim waist, and the full skirt, with the merest hint of a bustle, was decorated with a large bow at the back. A slight train flowed becomingly behind her.
‘And now for your pearls,’ said Trudie, fastening the simple necklace round Marianne’s neck.
Marianne surveyed herself in the cheval glass. Her dark hair, brushed until it shone, had been arranged into a mass of ringlets that surrounded her face and fell halfway down her back. It was decorated with an ivory plume that picked up the colour of the lace which edged her scooped neckline and spilled from her three-quarter-length sleeves.
She turned to see herself from the back. As she did so the full skirt swirled around her ankles, making a delightful swishing sound, reminding Marianne that it was an age since she had last dressed up and attended a ball.
‘Well, I say it as shouldn’t,’ said Trudie mistily, ‘you look as pretty as a picture. Your mama’d be proud.’
‘You spoil me,’ smiled Marianne.
‘Someone has to,’ returned Trudie. ‘You’ve grown too serious of late, Miss Marianne. You need a bit of fun. But mind, you be home by midnight.’
‘Or the carriage will turn into a pumpkin,’ Marianne teased.
‘It better not,’ said Trudie with relish, ‘or Henri will make it into soup.’
‘I must just go in and see Papa before I go,’ said Marianne, picking up her fan and gloves.
Trudie stood aside and Marianne made her way to her father’s bedroom. She knocked on the door and went in.
The room was sombre, with heavy oak furniture adding to the air of gloom. Dark red drapes round the four poster bed matched dark red drapes at the windows. She thought again how much she would like to change them. But her papa, knocked first of all by the death of his wife and then by the disgrace of his son, had retreated into his own little world and would not now hear of any change.
‘I have come to say goodnight, Papa,’ she said brightly, going over to the man who sat slumped in his chair by the window.
‘Is it bed time already?’ he asked querulously, clutching at the blanket that covered his knees.
‘No, Papa,’ she said, kissing him on the forehead. ‘But I won’t be home until late. I am going to the Cosgroves’ ball, and I know you will not like to be disturbed when I get in.’
‘A ball, you say, my dear?’ he asked tremulously. ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
‘Quite sure, Papa.’ She spoke briskly, to try and counteract the air of stagnation that hung about the room.
‘Miss Marianne looks beautiful tonight, does she not, my lord?’ prompted Lowe, her father’s valet, as her father made no comment on her appearance.
‘Marianne always looks very well,’ he said, without, however, taking any notice of her dress. ‘But you had better not go, Marianne. The roads are treacherous and there may be robbers and –’
‘I will be quite all right, Papa. I will have Tom to look after me. And tomorrow I will come and tell you all about it,’ said Marianne, cutting across his fretful protests. Then, giving him a last kiss, she made her way down to the hall and, donning her long gloves and travelling cloak, went out to the waiting carriage.
Once she was comfortably settled, Tom took up the reins of the carriage, which had been specially polished for the occasion, and called to the horses, ‘Walk on.’
It took a good half an hour to reach the Cosgroves’ house, but with a stone hot water bottle for her feet and a little silver flask for her hands, to say nothing of her cloak and muff, Marianne hardly felt the cold. She was enjoying being Miss Travis for once, and resolved that for this evening at least she would put all her duties out of her mind.
When they were nearly there the carriage took a slight detour. Miss Stock, the rector’s sister, was to accompany Marianne as her chaperon. Having collected Miss Stock, they went on, finally pulling up in front of Mr and Mrs Cosgrove’s house. The house was ablaze with light. Flambeaux flickered outside, whilst chandeliers sparkled from within. As Marianne walked up the stone steps that led to the front door, followed by the good Miss Stock, she could hear the sound of chatter drifting into the night. She felt a wave of excitement. It was months since she had been to a ball, and she was looking forward to it.
‘Miss Travis! And Miss Stock.’
The Cosgroves gave both ladies a warm welcome, and Marianne was soon at home. Having lived in the neighbourhood all her life she knew most of the people present, and was quickly introduced to everyone else.
‘Let me introduce you to Mr and Mrs Hurst,’ said Jennifer.
Jennifer was Mr and Mrs Cosgrove’s bouncing sixteen-year-old daughter, who was delighting in the fact that her parents had finally allowed her to attend a ball.
Mr and Mrs Hurst were charming.
‘And over there is Mr Windham,’ said Jennifer, as Mr and Mrs Hurst engaged Miss Stock in conversation. She gave an awed giggle. ‘Isn’t he divine?’
Mr Windham looked over in their direction at that moment and Marianne could see why Jennifer was so impressed. Mr Windham was just the sort of gentleman to provoke a girlish fancy. His features were regular and his face was handsome, if bland.
‘But tell me, have you met Lord Ravensford yet?’ asked Jennifer, as Mr Windham turned his attention back to his own party.
‘Yes.’ Marianne was amused at the excitement in Jennifer’s voice.
‘Is he as wildly attractive as everyone says he is?’
‘Everyone?’ asked Marianne, using a teasing tone to cover up the fact that she was uncomfortable talking about Lord Ravensford. She was not sure what her feelings were towards him, and she was unwilling to talk about him until she had decided. On the one hand he had been very rude to her at their first meeting but on the other, he had seen to the matter of the mantraps, and he had taken care, whilst in her own home, to be polite; although even at his politest there was something distinctly unsettling about him.
‘Well, the Lenton girls, at least,’ said Jennifer, blissfully unaware of Marianne’s thoughts. ‘I’m just glad they aren’t here tonight, otherwise they would be simpering and flirting in the most dreadful way.’
Then, remembering her duties as a hostess, Jennifer led Marianne over to a long table covered in a snowy white cloth and offered her a glass of fruit punch.
‘But is he?’ asked Jennifer, returning to her earlier theme. ‘Lord Ravensford. Is he as handsome as Mr Windham?’
Marianne glanced at Mr Windham again, and was disconcerted to find he was looking at her. But he quickly looked away.
‘His features are not so perfect,’ said Marianne. ‘But I don’t think it would be possible to grow tired of looking at Lord Ravensford’s face, in the way it would be with Mr Windham’s.’
‘Oh, here is Lord Ravensford!’ exclaimed Jennifer, going bright red as he crossed the room towards them. She gave a long sigh. ‘Oh! He looks like a dream.’
Marianne felt her heart begin to beat more quickly, for he did indeed look like a dream. His wild dark hair was pulled back from his face, accentuating the masculine line of his cheek and jaw, before being tied in a black ribbon bow at the nape of his neck. His dark green tailcoat, cut away to reveal a heavily embroidered gold waistcoat, clung effortlessly to his broad shoulders, and his knee breeches fit his long legs like a second skin. White silk stockings revealed the firmness of his lower leg and then disappeared into black pumps.
Marianne opened her fan and began to waft it to and fro, creating a cooling breeze, for not only was her heart beating more quickly at the sight of Lord Ravensford, but she could feel herself growing hot. She did not know why, but Lord Ravensford seemed to have this effect on her. She was not sure whether she liked the feeling. It was unsettling; disturbing; but she felt that, before she had experienced it, she had only been half alive.
His eyes met hers with amusement, as though he knew exactly what she was thinkin
g, and she found herself blushing. Really! She was behaving like a débutante, instead of a twenty-three-year-old who ran a country estate.
Giving a sardonic smile, as though satisfied with the effect he had had on her, he turned his attention to Jennifer.
‘Miss Cosgrove,’ he said politely.
‘Lord Ravensford!’ Jennifer gave a long sigh.
He smiled, but there was no mockery in the smile, Marianne was pleased to see; no double edge, as there was when he smiled at her. It was a kindly smile; the sort of smile a brother might bestow on a younger sister.
‘Miss Travis,’ he said, turning to her once more. ‘I have come to remind you of your promise. You owe me the first dance.’
Marianne accepted his hand, feeling her skin tingle through her glove, and as the musicians struck up the chords for one of her favourite country dances, they took their places on the floor.
The Cosgroves’ house was lacking a ballroom, but the double doors between the dining-room and drawing-room had been thrown open to make a tolerably large room and the dancing began.
Lord Ravensford proved to be a good dancer. After years of having her feet trodden on, and her dresses torn, it was a pleasure for Marianne to dance with a man who was in control of his body. And that was one of the things that set him apart from the other men, she realised, his degree of control. There was a tension about him, as though he were controlling himself all the time; as though he could not afford to reveal his true self; and it deepened her feeling that there was something mysterious about him.
‘I thought you would like to know that all the mantraps have been cleared,’ he said as they came together, touching hands as part of the dance. ‘Now that the snow has melted, it has been possible to check that none remain.’
‘Has Jakes given you dire warnings about poachers, now they have gone?’ asked Marianne.
‘He has. But I told him that a good manager didn’t need pieces of iron to do his job for him.’ He smiled. ‘Jakes was not amused.’
Marianne laughed. ‘I should think he wouldn’t be. But you must not tease him too much. Good estate managers are hard to find, and Mr Billingsdale won’t thank me if I lose Jakes for him.’
‘It won’t come to that, never fear. Jakes was simply testing my mettle.’
Marianne felt the smallest of shivers, knowing instinctively how strong that mettle was.
They were parted by the dance, walking away from each other before meeting up again further down the line.
‘And how are you enjoying your time down in Sussex?’ asked Marianne. ‘This is rather a dead time of year. I hope you are not too bored?’
His eyes roamed over her face. ‘No,’ he said with a meaningful smile. ‘I have not been bored.’
‘Have you relatives in the area?’ Marianne asked, conscious of her heart beating quickly, and trying to keep the conversation within normal bounds.
He threw her a curious glance. ‘No.’
‘I simply wondered whether that was why you had decided to rent an estate in this neighbourhood.’
‘Ah. I see.’ He gave a careless shrug. ‘I wanted a large estate in the south of England, and Billingsdale Manor was the most suitable one I was shown.’
His words were polite enough, and his tone good-humoured. Even so, Marianne felt as if a constraint had somehow entered the atmosphere. It was as if the tension she had felt coming from him earlier had now extended to their conversation. He continued to talk to her, but he was merely saying the sort of things he might have said to any young lady at a ball, instead of talking to her about things which mattered to them both. He talked to her about the size of the room, the number of couples and the assembled guests, determinedly avoiding any more personal subject.
At last the music came to an end. He escorted her back to the side of the room, but any hopes she might have had that their rapport would be re-established were dashed as he immediately asked a delighted Jennifer to dance.
Marianne was unsettled. Why should he be so unwilling to talk about his reasons for staying in the neighbourhood? she wondered. Or was it just that she had read too much into his manner, and the things he had said?
She had no time to ponder on it, however, as Jem Cosgrove quickly claimed her hand. There was no formality here tonight. The ladies did not have cards on which they wrote the names of their dancing partners, arranging their evening before the dancing had really begun. Instead they accepted partners from dance to dance, and Marianne, in the spirit of the evening, readily accepted Jem as a partner - despite the fact her gown would suffer!
From there onwards she had no chance to think of Lord Ravensford’s constrained manner any further. She was much in demand, and had no chance to sit down. After dancing for almost an hour she was completely worn out. She had not danced so much in months, and she took herself into the sitting-room where, the dining-room being used for the dancing, refreshments had been laid out. The Cosgroves’ cook had laid on a lavish spread. Silver dishes covered the snowy white table cloth, and silver candlesticks ensured plenty of light. There were tureens of spiced mulligatawny soup, dishes of boiled fowl, and plates of tongue and ham. Pies and pasties were set on silver salvers, and a pyramid of fruit took pride of place. Marianne was just helping herself to a venison pasty – the pastry, alas, being not as light as Henri’s – when she heard a voice at her shoulder and turned to see Mr Windham.
Unaccountably, she felt uncomfortable. Her gaze swept the room, hoping for the reassurance of familiar faces, but there was no one else there. They were quite alone.
‘Miss Travis, is it not?’ he asked as he helped himself to a slice of veal pie.
Marianne nodded.
‘I thought that is what Mr Cosgrove said. A delightful family, the Cosgroves.’
‘Yes,’ Marianne agreed.
‘You were dancing with Jem earlier, I noticed. A fine young man. And his sister a jovial girl.’
Marianne agreed again. The conversation, whilst being unexceptionable, struck her as slightly odd. It seemed forced; not natural; as though it was leading somewhere. But where, she could not guess.
His manner, too, made her feel uneasy, although she could not think why. He was perfectly polite – charming, even – but there was something smooth about him, something uncomfortable and unnerving. If she had not been in the middle of eating a pasty she would have excused herself and returned to the dancing. As it was, she had no choice but to remain.
‘Have you any brothers or sisters, Miss Travis?’ he asked.
He gave her a reassuring smile, but somehow it had the opposite effect and she felt her skin prickle.
‘One. A brother.’ She spoke unwillingly. She did not know why, but somehow she did not want this man to know about her family.
‘Ah. You are fortunate. Me, I have no family. It must be a great comfort to have a brother. He is here tonight?’
‘No.’ Marianne’s answer was brief.
‘A pity. I would like to meet him. He is in London, perhaps?’
‘I – yes.’ Marianne frowned. She did not actually know where Kit was, and she wondered why she had just lied. She was usually a very truthful person, but somehow she didn’t want to tell this man anything about her brother.
‘He is there long?’
The questions, whilst trivial, seemed pointed, and Marianne had just decided that she would excuse herself, no matter how odd it may seem, when Lord Ravensford entered the room.
She felt a tide of relief wash over her.
Lord Ravensford had his own depths but somehow they were intriguing rather than murky, like Mr Windham’s.
‘Ah! There you are, Miss Travis,’ he said, going over to Marianne. ‘I have been looking for you everywhere. You have not forgotten your promise to dance the minuet with me, I hope?’
And without giving Marianne the chance to object he took her plate from her, put it down on the table, and steered her out of the room.
The tension in his hand conveyed itself to her through her
long glove. She could not deny the fact that she was grateful to him for rescuing her from Mr Windham, but even so she did not take kindly to being treated in such a way. She was about to wrest her arm free when he opened one of the small doors leading off from the hall, and to her surprise he steered her into a small room. Because she had visited the house many times she knew, even before she entered the room, that it was Mr Cosgrove’s study, but she suspected that Lord Ravensford had simply picked a door at random.