May 4, 1821
Dearest Josephine,
I have decided to forsake people, all of them. Arthur and Lorelai can stay at Cadwallader, but I wish to remain alone. My teapot seems good enough company. It refrains from hinting at marriage or coaxing me into the public’s eye. Really, I consider my library the pinnacle of social interaction.
As you probably deduce, the ball did not go as planned. It was no disaster, mind you. Guests were polite, and the festivities lasted until dawn. Mr. Rose complimented the orchestra. Lady Seymore and her son praised the experience, which says a lot, for they are the most miserable people I have ever met. The trouble came from an unlikely person.
Lorelai Glas.
The night seemed varnished with a golden sheen. Carriages rounded the manor’s drive, their horses pounding gravel as if to applaud the parade. One by one, gentry clothed in satin and velvet emerged from their boxes. They bid adieu to their drivers and flocked to the main house, glittering like jewels in the torchlight.
I watched the commotion from a second-floor balcony as the string quartet played a minuet. Guests drifted into the great hall, where candles and chandeliers shooed away the gloom. I might have greeted them at the front door, but I was delayed as my valet outfitted me in a tailcoat with a silk collar, a bloody awful design. I do not recall purchasing the garment. Surely Arthur ordered it from town to mess with me.
Before you blame vanity for my tardiness, let me add that the tailcoat was large and required alterations, for I am both tall and slim, as you know.
That said, I was late to my own ball.
Guests approached me once I entered the gallery. It would suit me fine if I never again engaged in small talk. How can one discuss weather for more than a minute? Northumberland experiences rain, fog, snow, and brief spells of sunshine in the summer. There. I have summarized the nation’s environmental report for the next thousand years.
Arthur teased me when I reached his side. He snatched two cups of Madeira wine from a footman’s tray and observed the dance floor, perhaps to select his next partner.
I followed him along the gallery wall, past my collection of sculptures. Older guests lingered near the artwork. They raised their ratafia and cigars to toast my good fortune. Indeed, my sudden popularity struck me as odd. I have attended countless parties over the years, and most of them included whispers about my birth, faux pleasantries, and gentlemen who ensured I did not speak with their daughters. How strange. I am now the most sought-after man in Atteberry.
My friend came to an abrupt halt, his stare fixed on Mary Rose, who stood alone while her husband prowled the card tables. He placed his empty cups on a bust of Julius Caesar, then marched toward the lady without so much as telling me good night.
The Banes Family cares little about their reputation. Mr. Banes earned his wealth from shrewd business. He married a bourbon heiress whom he met in Prussia before the French Wars. Their rise in high society involved politics and the worst of rumours. However, their popularity grew, for the public enjoyed gossip. Such behaviour encouraged Arthur to befriend me and to flirt with married women.
Not knowing what to do without Arthur, I moved toward the dining room. Dancers floated in a sea of ostrich plumes. Rainbows glistened on the marble floor, crawled up the partitions, and hovered above heads.
You would have enjoyed the party, Josephine. The whole night, I thought about dancing with you. I imagined us facing each other on the dance floor. Better yet, I remembered our horrid moves from the night we met, and I pictured us re-enacting them on the patio. A performance to give my guests a shock.
Lorelai drifted from the crowd as musicians played a waltz. She looked unlike herself, dressed in an emerald ball gown, her champagne hair no longer in its bun. At first, I did not recognize her, for I have grown used to her fixed and rather plain appearance.
She asked if I would paint with her tomorrow.
Women speak in code, do they not? I try to decipher it, but I cannot manage. They mean what they do not say, and they say far less than what they mean.
In hindsight I now see how Lorelai blushed and batted her eyelashes. Instead, I asked her to dance. She needed a partner, and gentlemen were scarce. A waltz seemed harmless.
Lorelai smiled as we entered the whirlpool of dancers. She asked if I minded her prolonged stay at Cadwallader. I confess—I was not paying her much attention and do not recall my response. I gazed into space as we orbited the room like a planet within a candlelit solar system.
She touched my shoulder, her left hand clasped in my right. I twirled her across the floor, not once bruising her toes, thanks to my hours of practice. Then music slowed us to a turn, and our audience blurred into a kaleidoscope.
One face remained distinct.
A naval officer stood near the door with Lady Seymore. He caught my gaze, and in a flash of nostalgia I became a child peering into my father’s study. This man used to visit Lord Roch.
Lorelai opened her mouth to speak, but I silenced her with the question: “Are you acquainted with that gentleman?” I motioned to the officer. My heart pounded as if to warn me, and my thoughts raced to memories of Father, his meetings, the names of his acquaintances. He dined with nobility and members of the militia. He welcomed friends, comrades, anyone with a decent title. Admiral Gipson visited most frequently.
The man’s presence in my home filled me with dread. Father had warned me someone might challenge my inheritance. However, until that moment, I never considered my fortune in danger. But I sensed it. I knew. The admiral had come to Cadwallader to confront
