Мэри Бэлоу: Someone to Wed

“Thank you.” She lifted her head to look in the mirror, raising a hand at the same time to touch the necklace. Her hand froze before it arrived. The chain was gold. It was dotted with small diamonds along its whole length with a larger one at the center, hanging just above the neckline of her dress. “Oh,” she said, and one finger ran lightly over the right side of the chain. “Oh.”

“They will never outshine the daffodils,” he said. “But it is high time I gave you a wedding gift.”

“It must be the most beautiful necklace ever,” she said. “Oh, thank you, Alexander. But how inadequate words can be.”

“There are earbobs too,” he said.

She turned on the stool to look up at him. “I have never worn any,” she said as he drew them out of his pocket to display on his palm—two single diamonds, a little smaller than the one at the center of the necklace, set in gold. “How exquisite they are. See how the light glints off them. I do not even know how to put them on.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “I have never worn any either. Can we work it out together, do you suppose, on the theory that two brains are more effective than one?”

“And four hands better than two?” she said as her own hovered over his while he clipped the first to her left ear. She lowered her hands to her lap while he clipped on the second, and then she stood and wrapped her arms about his neck. “Alexander, thank you. I am so glad the first two gentlemen on my list did not come up to snuff.” She laughed. Actually, it was more of a giggle.

“And I am very glad,” he said, “that I was not number four on your list. Number three might have taken your fancy before I had a chance.”

“Never,” she said. “Alexander? You do not ever regret—”

He set a finger across her lips. “You must ask again? Do I behave like a man who regrets anything he has done recently?” he asked her. “Should we perhaps consider going downstairs? It would be a huge embarrassment, do you not think, to arrive at Archer House too late to stand in the receiving line for the ball that is in your honor?”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “There is no danger of that, is there?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, drawing her arm through his, “Mama and Lizzie may be starting to think we have climbed out of the window and gone without them.”

She reached for her filmy wrap and fan on the side of the dressing table, and Alexander heard her draw and hold a deep breath before releasing it and turning to smile at him.

Wren’s heart was in her throat from the moment of their arrival at Archer House, when she saw the red carpet that had been run out over the steps and across the pavement. And inside there was the grand hall and stairway bedecked with white and yellow and orange flowers and copious amounts of greenery. There were more than the usual number of footmen in gorgeous livery that included pale gold satin coats, white knee breeches and stockings and gloves, buckled shoes, and powdered wigs. Upstairs there were salons whose open doors gave glimpses of lavish floral arrangements within and candelabra and tables covered with starched white cloths. Some seemed designed for quiet relaxation for guests wishing to escape the noise and bustle of the dancing for a while. Others had been set up for cardplayers. One large salon next to the ballroom was ready for the refreshments that would be served despite the fact that there was to be a proper supper late in the evening.

Everything suggested a grand occasion, and it was all in her honor .

And there was the ballroom itself. Wren had seen it on an earlier visit and had been awed by its size and magnificence. Now it looked unfamiliar in all the splendor of banks of flowers and chandeliers and wall sconces in which hundreds of candles burned and a freshly polished floor that gleamed in the candlelight and chairs upholstered in dark green velvet arranged in a double row around the perimeter.

She had never in her life felt more intimidated. Just three months ago she had been living the life of a virtual recluse, carefully veiled on the rare occasions when she ventured beyond her own home. Even indoors she had worn her veil when any stranger intruded. She had lifted it to a stranger for the first time in almost twenty years when the Earl of Riverdale came to Withington at her invitation. Was it possible that was only three months ago? How could she possibly have come from that to this in so short a time? And why was she doing this ? It was everything she had been quite adamant she would never do.

She had moved a few paces into the ballroom while all the others—her own family group, Avery and Anna, Cousin Louise and Jessica, Cousins Mildred and Thomas, the dowager countess and Cousin Matilda—were clustered outside, talking while they awaited the appearance of the first guests. Why was she doing it? No one had pressured her. Indeed, no one had even suggested a ball in her honor—they had all respected her desire for privacy. Even Alexander had not been suggesting it that afternoon in the carriage. Was it her mother, then? Had her mother goaded her into doing something beyond her wildest imaginings? Had seeing her again and listening to her made Wren believe that the only way to be free of her past was to open wide the door of her childhood prison and step out into the widest of wide worlds? Was a ton ball the most blatant way it could be done? And would she then be free? Was she now free?

She supposed not. But miracles did not always come in a single flash of time. Sometimes they came with every step forward one took when every instinct urged two steps back. Sometimes they came with the simple courage to say no longer, no more. She raised one hand to touch the side of her bare, unveiled face and felt the stirrings of panic. And so she took one step farther into the room.

An arm came through her own on her right side, and almost simultaneously another arm linked itself through hers on the left.

“I wonder,” Anna said, “if you are feeling the sort of paralyzing terror I was feeling in this very room last year, Wren. I daresay you are, though you look as cool and poised as you always look.”

“It is a good thing we wear our skirts long,” Wren said. “You cannot see my shaking knees.”

“If it is any consolation to you,” Anna said, “I will add that my first ball here will always be one of my most treasured memories.”

“You were right about the colors, Wren, though I was dubious,” Elizabeth said. “Your gown is perfect. As Mama said before we left home, you look like a piece of both springtime and summer.”

“And I was right about Alexander, Lizzie,” Wren said. “He did recognize the reference to daffodils without having to be told.”

And then, long before she was quite ready—but would she ever be?—the guests began to arrive and it was time to form the receiving line while the uniformed majordomo stepped into place beyond the ballroom doors to announce the guests as they came to the top of the stairs. Anna and Avery stood inside the doors, Wren and Alexander next to them, Elizabeth and her mother beyond them.

And Wren stood there, smiling and inclining her head, shaking hands, even presenting her cheek for the occasional kiss for a whole hour while close to three hundred of the crème de la crème of society filed past and greeted her and took a good look at her. She made no attempt to hide the left side of her face. She behaved as though there were no damage there at all. There were several lingering looks, a few raised eyebrows, one raised lorgnette, and two open grimaces. That was all. Everyone else greeted her with smiles and polite remarks. Several were even warm in their greetings. The raised lorgnette, Wren realized only after it had passed into the ballroom with its owner, belonged to the older of the two ladies who had been walking by the Serpentine with Alexander on the day of her own arrival in London.