—”
Someone took pity on him and began clapping, for everyone was chattering; even the musicians had begun to retune their instruments. The applause spread enthusiastically through the hall, cheers and caps tossed in appreciation of the feast that they could all get back to now that the ceremony was over. Raven looked gratified. Miss Beryl smiled her charming, perfunctory smile, turned her back just as Raven stepped toward her; she was drawn away from him into the dancers by Mr. Moren. Another of her friends clapped Raven on the shoulder, said something, and shrugged. He smiled again, reluctantly.
Judd came finally, laden with plates, forks, napkins.
“How clever of you to find us chairs, Miss Blair!”
“Wasn’t it? And how brave of you, Mr. Cauley, to battle the mob to forage for us.”
“That,” Judd said, “is to make you admire me so much that you might even dance with me.”
He sounded hesitant, waited for her answer before he even took a bite. Gwyneth waited to swallow hers.
“You mean,” she said shrewdly, “in front of my father and my aunt, the Sproules and the better part of Sealey Head?”
“Yes,” he said without smiling. “It would mean that much to me.”
“A declaration,” she guessed abruptly, with unladylike precision.
“Of serious intent. Yes.”
She held his eyes, seriously moved. “Judd. I can’t answer for my aunt, or the Sproules, or most of Sealey Head. But my father will most wholeheartedly think the better of me for choosing to dance with you.”
He flushed. “Really?”
“Yes. So eat your supper in peace.”
She herself was pleasantly surprised, a little later, by the sight of her aunt Phoebe and Mr. Trent taking a turn on the floor. The bookseller smiled from sideburn to bushy sideburn; Phoebe, her bun slipping down her neck, laughed unexpectedly at something he said. Gwyneth glanced around, wondering if her father had been tempted by anyone. But no: there he was beside the fire, discussing the affairs of Sealey Head, no doubt, with the ruddy and brawny Sir Weldon Sproule and other local businessmen.
There was a scrape and a flounce beside her as Daria pulled an empty chair up next to her and sat down.
“Mr. Dow left,” she announced dolefully. “He was unfit for dancing, he told me, and not much better for company. He disappeared into the crowd to pay his respects to Miss Beryl, then he left without saying good night to me. Exactly what kind of an accident did he have, Mr. Cauley? Did somebody shoot him or something?”
“I’m not certain of the details,” Judd answered. “But he seems a bit feverish, I think. That’s probably why he forgot.”
“But I know the very remedy for that!” she exclaimed. “It’s a concoction of my grandmother’s. I’ll ride to the inn tomorrow, bring some to him.”
“I’m sure he would be—” Judd began, and gave up, dropping his fork without finishing the thought. “Have you eaten, Miss Sproule? May I get you a plate?”
“That would be so kind of you, Mr. Cauley,” she said glumly. “My feet got so tired from holding the wall up with Mr. Dow.” She waited while Judd, exchanging a wry glance with Gwyneth, put his plate down and took himself out of earshot. Then she said softly to Gwyneth, “You shouldn’t encourage him, you know. He has such feelings for you, poor man.”
“There you are, Daria!” boomed a voice that made them both start. Lady Amaryllis Sproule, resplendent in blue taffeta with a beehive of lace the color of old ivory over it, put her hands to her ample waist and tapped her slipper at her daughter. “Why on earth are you sitting when there are hosts of young men to dance with? Everyone has been asking where you are.” She extended a hand the size of an ox hoof and hauled Daria to her feet.
“Mother, Mr. Cauley is fetching my supper!”
“Supper! Who needs supper on such a night, with all this music and these eager lads? Go on, girl, get out there.”
“But I can’t leave Gwyneth—”
“From what I see, Gwyneth is doing just fine as she is.” She flashed a pair of deep dimples at Gwyneth and hurried away to boom cordially at a neighbor.
“Whatever did she mean by that?” Daria asked Gwyneth puzzledly. “I haven’t seen you dance at all.” Gwyneth shrugged wordlessly; Daria heaved a sigh. “How I wish Mr. Dow had not left. Oh, well. I suppose I must cajole somebody into dancing with me.”
She adjusted the expression on her face and went off to flirt. Gwyneth, left alone, studied her plate hungrily, chose a forkful of cold potatoes dressed in dill and oil and vinegar, and looked up, inelegantly chewing, to find Miss Beryl’s shimmering skirt swirling in front of her. She and Mr. Moren were attempting one of the local dances, more gracefully, Gwyneth thought, than many of those born to it, yet not, apparently, without mishap.
“Oh, Mr. Moren, was that your foot?”
“I believe it was. No matter, my dear. Another dance, and I think we’ll have it.”
“Fortunately,” Miss Beryl commented, looking down at her feet, “we have only two; what would we do with a third to keep track of? I promised the next dance to Raven Sproule. Since he is feeding us those great roast creatures, I think it only polite to oblige him.”
“Let him wait,” Mr. Moren suggested without pity.
“No. I think they take such things seriously here. They aren’t accustomed to our casual rudeness.”
“You are letting me wait.”
Miss Beryl was silent; Gwyneth swallowed her bite quickly and sat suspended, willing herself invisible.
“You know I take forever to make decisions,” Miranda Beryl said finally, lightly. “And I always forget immediately what it was I had made up my mind to do. Don’t let’s talk about it. Words get in the way of my feet.”
“I won’t take no for an answer,” Mr. Moren warned her, a smile on his sallow, clever face. His eye fell on Gwyneth; he nodded to her amiably, the smile deepening in his eyes as though he had heard her listening. Miss Beryl stepped on his foot again, and his expression changed abruptly.
“I am so sorry—”
“Are you?”
“That must have been my third foot, clumsier than the others.” The music spun a merry flourish and stopped; Miss Beryl drew back. “Rest a little, here with Miss Blair, while I practice with Raven Sproule.”
Mr. Moren sat rather heavily down next to Gwyneth, to her discomfort. “Miss Blair, I hope you don’t mind if I keep you company until your friends return.”
“Nothing could please me more,” she said, and he looked at her with interest.
“How strange words are, don’t you think? They can mean their exact opposite so easily. Don’t you find that fascinating?”
“Yes, I do,” she answered with considerably more feeling, and he nodded. “These country dances can be a bit rough,” she added. “I hope you aren’t badly injured.”
“To say that I am would be to imply blame,” he answered smoothly, “and that would be ungallant. Let us say that the injury done is not to my foot, but to my pride, which is worth far less. I think both will heal nicely before the evening ends. Was that Mr. Dow on the edges of the gathering earlier? I noticed you talking. About newts or mushrooms, no doubt?”
“He is rather bookish,” she agreed.
“We haven’t seen him lately. Off wandering the coastal thickets? The cliffs of Sealey Head? He, at least, was wise enough not to try to dance.”
“He has not been well, I believe.”
“Ah. That must be why he didn’t brave the crush to pay court to the guest of honor.”
“Didn’t he?” she said, surprised. “Someone said he had. I must have misunderstood.”
“Miss Beryl remarked upon it,” he said carelessly. “She likes her courtiers to be attentive even though she tires of us easily.”
“Mr. Dow had an accident recently,” Gwyneth said carefully. “Perhaps he simply was not feeling strong enough to get through such an energetic mob.”
