Pam Rosenthal - The Slightest Provocation

It was an entertainment, Kit thought, to watch a beautiful young woman emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon. And, as in nature, Elizabeth was emerging from her girlhood with more than a little awkwardness, her postures and expressions far too obvious in their flirtatiousness. But one could forgive so lovely a creature a great many things, for the simple pleasure of watching her spread her wings, or even of watching her discover she had them.

A simple, disinterested, even an avuncular sort of pleasure-it was with a certain abashed relief that Kit afforded this to himself. He hadn’t wanted to mention it to Mary this morning when she’d suggested he dance with the girls. But, in fact, he’d been a bit troubled by the suspicion that Elizabeth might have conceived an attachment to himself-not to speak of chagrined, that he found himself rather enjoying it.

No need to concern himself any longer with that business. At this particular moment, the blazing candlepower from Miss Grandin’s blue eyes was turned directly in Gerry’s direction. As were some inky black scowls from the puppy in the lavender waistcoat, poor fellow.

No doubt he’d simply imagined her interest, out of petty vanity or fear of leaving his youth behind. Or perhaps in truth he had flirted, even postured a bit for her benefit, while all in a muddle and confusion about his reconciliation with Mary.

And then there’d been the fact that the girl had made herself so constantly visible the last week or so-she and the red-haired one as well. It had seemed to him they were always underfoot-rather like Snug, the little dog from Curzon Street, now grown fat and somnolent, living a contented old age at Rowen with Mr. Greenlee seeing to him when he needed it. Kit wondered if Mary ever gave a thought to what had become of Snug.

In any case, no harm had come of his flirting and posturing, and Mary needn’t know it had ever transpired. Though the muddle and confusion still remained, as to whether he and Mary were, in fact, reconciled.

How do we manage to get ourselves into these scrapes? And moreover, to intertwine their own future with that of the English nation? And if they really did make the journey to Wakefield tomorrow, they’d be dragging Morrice into it as well.

And whom, he wondered, did he suppose he was deceiving? If they made the journey … he and Mary would be setting off for Wakefield as surely as the night follows the day, if for no other reason than for the prospect of the day’s drive up there, just the two of them in the carriage. Make no mistake: he and she would be in one of the formidable Rowen traveling coaches tomorrow morning even if it meant he’d have to face ten Morrices at the end of their journey.

Good to get that settled anyway. He hoped he hadn’t been too rude to those around him, letting his thoughts drift off like that. No, they all seemed quite cordial: no impatient stares at him or scowls at his lapse of manners. He smiled apologetically at the person directly across from him-the red-haired young lady, and very pretty as well in her bright gown. Nice to see a young lady wearing something so simple, so little fuss and frill about her. Though one was supposed to say auburn-haired, wasn’t one? She’d returned his smile; so far as he could see she wasn’t at all put out by his woolgathering. Very sweet-looking, actually.

The musicians were striking up a quadrille. Damn, he’d forgotten. For there was Colonel Halsey, making his way over to this corner of the room, armored, if you liked, with that unmistakable look and bearing a certain sort of gentleman always wore at an occasion like this one-of wanting to be anywhere but in the midst of a knot of dancing ninnies, and couldn’t one speak of something sensible, like troops, weapons, or munitions?

Kit’s original plan in this eventuality was to dance with Susanna. But he’d been slow to move, abstracted by his thoughts; Georgy had already led her out to the dance floor. And although Gerry wouldn’t be able to dance, he’d evidently claimed blond Miss Grandin’s company for a promenade about the room’s perimeter, while the lavender fellow-Ayres, was it?-appeared about to turn to Miss Fannie Grandin.

Sorry, Ayres, Kit thought. It’s a military matter. I need to dance. For England’s sake.

And indeed, she rather reminded him of Mary at her age-that gleam of good sense in her eye anyway. If he had to dance-if he couldn’t just drift homeward to meditate upon his situation (or rather dream about the two of them being jolted about, with Mary in his lap, all the long day’s drive up to Wakefield)…

Colonel Halsey was advancing like a crack cavalry regiment.

“Should you like to dance, Miss Fannie?”

She’d been quite absolutely correct. There was nothing so romantic as a country assembly. He danced very well indeed; he was charming, circumspect, graceful, and polite.

And it did seem as though he liked her a little.

While she found herself entirely captivated by the dreamy, almost magical look in his eye. It seemed to promise something; she was fascinated by the secret knowledge she felt he must be carrying about with him. It was this… well, this aura one might say, that she liked about him, besides the fact that he clearly wouldn’t be hers for the taking. Fannie always liked a challenge, and here was one entirely worth the attempt.

And he was intelligent; he knew things. He’d been at the Congress of Vienna; he understood how Europe was being disposed of and what might happen in the next decade. She’d picked up a bit of understanding from Papa’s newspapers-not a great deal, of course, but she tried to follow the careers of Lord Castlereagh and the brilliant Prince Metternich.

He’d been happy to answer her questions at supper, before the Stansell party made their early farewells. The young marchioness wanted to get back to her husband. And then, of course, there was the dowager, Lady Rowen, who wouldn’t leave her oldest son’s bedside until they returned.

And being as intelligent as he was, and so adult-well, surely he must have noticed that she found him appealing. Not that she’d flirted in such an obvious way as Elizabeth had. But sometimes she’d gotten the sense that he knew something. And certainly wouldn’t object to speaking to her once again.

Fannie sank into a chair, as though any physical exertion at all might disturb the fervid motion of her imagination. For now that she understood Mr. Brown’s design of the confusing footpaths at Rowen…

Of course, she, Elizabeth, and the young men-and Miss Kimball as well-would be going to the Halseys’ tomorrow for a few days. But they wouldn’t be leaving so early as all that.

Some faceless gentleman seemed to have materialized in front of her. Bowing now, putting out a neatly gloved hand, asking for the pleasure of the next dance.

Pray excuse me, sir, she murmured. Ah yes. Bit overwrought. Lovely party. To attempt the next cotillion.

Nice simply to watch Elizabeth instead. Dear Elizabeth, how young, how charming she was. And so very much cleverer than of late-more like the old Betts, who wouldn’t have paid the slightest attention to a gentleman who everyone could see was very much too old for her, and her uncle besides.

Fannie smiled to watch her cousin curtsy to Lord Ayres and then turn to bestow a mirror-image curtsy upon Mr. Smith (who remained, to be quite honest, the handsomest man in the room despite his yellow cravat).

She stifled a yawn. Best to rest a while, and then to get a good night’s sleep. And to wake up early, for a bracing early morning walk upon the fascinating footpaths at Rowen.