Salting the Wound (4 page)

‘I’ve always thought that it was a good way of finding out what’s going on. I hate it when I’m left out of things.’

People thought that she and Charlotte were alike, and they were to a certain extent. But her own hair was darker, her face less oval and her mouth differently shaped and a fraction wider. Too, she was finer boned and smaller than her sister. Their natures were different too. Charlotte was intense, and she worried about things, whereas Marianne knew she was more accepting of people and events. She didn’t see the sense in fretting about something that had already happened, because it couldn’t be changed. She’d rather make the best of it with good grace.

She finished creating Charlotte’s remaining ringlet, then tugged on it. ‘There, now it’s my turn.’

They swapped positions.

Seth was waiting for them downstairs, made not at all impatient by the fact that they were late, but talking amiably to two other men. Snatches of music drifted across from the hall. His gaze went to Charlotte first and he smiled as he stepped forward and offered her his arm. ‘You look lovely.’

‘Thank you, Seth,’ and she sounded slightly flustered. Then their eyes met and Charlotte gave a breathless little laugh.

‘Marianne, you too. I’ll be the most envied man here tonight. Put me down for the military polka. You’re the only woman I’ve met who can gallop as fast as I can.’

‘Must you, Seth, it will make Marianne all hot and bothered.’

‘But it’s such fun, so it’s worth it. You’ll never know how much we suffered to create this effect. Charlotte nearly burned my ear off with the tongs. Oh . . .’ she whispered. ‘Do look at Mr Miller, he’s absolutely round, as though he’s swallowed a cushion.’

‘Shush, Marianne. Somebody might hear you,’ but Charlotte laughed anyway.

A few minutes later they were part of the crowd of merrymakers. Marianne saw Lucian heading towards them in the crush. She smiled, pretending not to see him, then began to speak to Charlotte. She turned when he tapped her on the shoulder, looking surprised. ‘Why, Lucian, how wonderful to see you again after all this time.’

‘Miss Honeyman. May I compliment you on your appearance?’

‘You may. Have you forgotten my first name then?’ she said with a smile.

The smile he returned was pleasant. She noticed that he’d grown a golden brown moustache to match his hair. Even though they were the latest fashion for men, Marianne thought they looked silly on most men, like furry spring caterpillars. Eyes of a light ice blue gazed into hers. ‘How could I forget your name, when we grew up together? But we’re adults now, and must observe convention.’

She groaned. ‘Must we? How exceedingly tedious being grown up is.’

‘One gets used to it. May I have the pleasure of the next waltz?’

‘Certainly, Mr Beresford.’

‘In the meantime perhaps you’d take a turn with me around the floor.’

She took his arm and they threaded through the throng, talking politely together like a couple of strangers.

‘I thought I saw an osprey on the heath yesterday,’ she told him.

‘Isn’t it a little late in the year for osprey?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. They usually migrate through in September and October. Perhaps it was injured and is wintering here to recover before the flock flies back through in the spring. It could have been a Merlin, I suppose, though it looked like a bigger bird altogether. How are your medical studies progressing?’

‘I’ve graduated. After Christmas I’ll be a fully trained physician and working for my father.’

‘Already? Goodness, Lucian, it seems like yesterday that you went away to medical school. How very exciting . . . congratulations.’

The music began and they went out on to the floor. Lucian was light on his feet, and he was a good dancer. She followed his lead and allowed him to guide her through the other dancers without mishap.

Lucian kissed her hand when it ended, his moustache tickling her wrist. She felt dizzy with delight when he wrote on her dance card, ‘the Lancers’.

The Lancers? It was obvious that Lucian had been taking dancing lessons, as had she and Charlotte. At Seth’s insistence they’d been instructed in the steps of the various dances at the academy run by Alicia Bottomly and her sister Hattie. Because of their father’s excesses, it was a part of their education they’d missed out on.

Alicia and Hattie had become ballerinas to earn a living. They were both upright, graceful and elegant, and far superior in their manner than anyone else in town. They went to London twice a year to learn the latest dances and bring them back. How fortunate that they’d just brought back the Lancers, which was a relatively new dance – and one more intricate and pretty than the normal quadrille.

There was a whiff of scandal about the sisters that titillated the society ladies of Poole. It was said the sisters had aristocratic blood on the wrong side of the blanket, and had been married off to twin brothers in their youth – minor peers who’d lost their fortunes at the gaming tables and their lives in a duel.

As well as the dancing academy, they ran a salon where writers and artists gathered for conversation once a week. For a shilling one could gain admittance and hear the latest poetry recited – and because everyone knew that such intellectuals were poverty-stricken and needed to earn a fee, the event was always well patronized.

Marianne’s card was soon full and she was kept dancing until supper was announced. Goodness, her feet ached, and she hadn’t even danced the polka with Seth yet.

She tried to gaze over the crush to find Seth and her sister. The room was warm and she spread her fan.

‘If you’re looking for your sister and her husband, Miss Honeyman, they’re over by the door talking to the Wilmotts. I’d escort you over, but I don’t think my presence would be welcome.’

At first Marianne thought it was Nick’s voice, but when she turned it was to find it was his uncle, Erasmus Thornton. She gazed at him over her fan. He was a handsome, neat-looking man with greying brown hair and steady brown eyes. They were not as dark and as liquid as Nick’s.

So this was the man her mother had been in love with, she thought, unable to recall being so close to him before. She smiled at him, liking the hint of danger in their encounter. Charlotte would be furious if she saw them together. ‘Captain Thornton senior, I didn’t expect to see you here.’

He gave a bit of a grin. ‘Neither did I, but my sister Daisy wanted to attend. It’s Christmas, after all, and she rarely gets the chance unless Nick or myself is home to escort her. She’s off catching up on the gossip.’

Cautiously, she asked him, ‘How is Nick?’

‘Keeping busy.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Would you risk going into supper with me, Miss Honeyman?’

She giggled nervously at the thought of what Charlotte would say, but her sister seemed to be fully occupied. ‘Thank you, Captain, that’s most kind of you.’

He looked surprised for a moment, then his grin became a slow smile. ‘I’ll be damned, I didn’t expect an affirmative answer.’

‘Why not? There’s no quarrel between us.’

‘No, there isn’t, unless you seek to make one. You’re very much like your mother, you know,’ he said as they began to thread their way through the crush of people into the relatively empty supper room.

‘So I’ve been told. But I’m not her, Captain Thornton. Remember that.’

He gazed at her for a moment, a pulse twitching in his jaw. If her words had angered him, he didn’t show it, but simply nodded. ‘Warning noted. Sit here. I’ll fetch us a plate and some punch. Or would you prefer lemonade?’

‘Thank you, I would. Punch makes me light-headed, and lemonade quenches the thirst better.’

They sat and chatted, talking of trivial things. He was a man with a taciturn persuasion and Marianne could see he was bored with her chatter. Desperate to draw him out and lead him round to what she wanted to know, she said, ‘Do you waltz? I have a free dance now.’

‘Well now . . . could be that I remember how to waltz, though it’s been a long time. You know that you’ll get a lecture from your sister when she learns I’ve been talking to you, let alone dancing with you.’

‘Would my mother have disapproved, Captain Thornton?’

His smile came, lightening his eyes to reveal a glimpse of something hidden behind them . . . a precious memory perhaps. Unexpectedly, he touched her face and said softly, ‘I reckon she wouldn’t have, at that.’

‘Then that’s good enough for me.’

When he smiled and offered her his arm she took it. He was nimble of foot and she enjoyed dancing with him. The people twirled around them in a colourful blur. Faces she knew. The Bottomly sisters, Seth, and her sister looking horrified. She wanted to giggle when she saw Daisy Thornton, her eyes as round as saucers with astonishment. She was wearing a drab grey gown that made her look older than she was.

Seth appeared at her elbow with Charlotte in tow. ‘Our dance next, I think Marianne.’ He nodded to Erasmus. ‘Captain Thornton.’

‘Colonel Hardy, Mrs Hardy.’

Charlotte turned her back on him, a deliberate snub.

‘Thank you, Captain Thornton. I enjoyed our dance,’ Marianne said.

‘It was my pleasure, Miss Honeyman.’ He turned and walked away.

She and Seth danced the polka with plenty of dash and verve. It was fun, and so was Seth, who twirled her around, marched her about and tossed her into the air with confidence. The music was noisy and the laughter noisier.

Shortly afterwards, Lucian claimed her for the Lancers. A buzz of excitement went up as the couples formed their sets. People hung back, even though there was a caller for those new to the dance.

Lucian smiled at her when the music started and the caller said, ‘First lady and gentleman turn in centre . . . partners cross over . . . dancing couple to rejoin partner and lead back to place . . .’

Soon they were all dancing in union. ‘Basket right . . . basket left . . . promenade . . .’

When they finished the set she was returned to Charlotte, who drew her across to where a pink draped and fringed curtain concealed a rather ugly square window. Rather crushingly, she said, ‘You’re making a show of yourself, Marianne.’

‘For dancing the Lancers with Lucian?’

‘You know exactly what I mean.’

‘The polka?’ She smiled. ‘Seth was very dashing and energetic. You know, I’m sure Seth would rather have danced it with you.’

‘Oh, do shut up, Marianne. You’re deliberately setting out to provoke me. You know very well I’m talking about Erasmus Thornton.’

‘All I did was to take supper with him, and dance one dance. He’s awfully difficult to talk to, you know. But when he answers it’s straight to the point. He’s quite sweet really. He came to the ball so his sister could socialize.’

‘Daisy Thornton is such a sad creature. That gown she’s wearing is dreadful, and she looks like a grey owl.’

‘Don’t be so cruel. I don’t suppose she needs an extensive wardrobe, since she mostly keeps house for her brother and Nick. Several men danced with her apart from her brother. The reverend and Lucian’s father, to name two. She dances very gracefully, I thought, especially when she danced the Viennese waltz with the reverend. Even the Bottomly sisters beamed at that.’

Charlotte signed heavily. ‘Stop trying to change the subject. You know how I feel about Erasmus Thornton. You’re not to dance with him again.’

Up until then Marianne had been enjoying herself enormously. ‘Nobody is asking you to dance with him, or even talk to him. But the way you turned your back on him was the height of rudeness. Oh . . . don’t be so stuffy, Charlotte. Your quarrels are not my quarrels, and I shall dance with whomever I want to. And if you throw one of your sulks I shall pretend I don’t know you.’

‘Marianne,’ Charlotte said faintly as she began to walk away.

She turned back. Her sister’s face was pale and her forehead was dewed with perspiration. She was at her side in an instant. ‘What is it, Char?’

‘I feel a little faint.’

A woman obligingly gave up her seat and Marianne began to fan her sister’s face. The woman went off to alert Seth, who came back with a plate of supper for her and a drink. He looked concerned. ‘You should have eaten some supper,’ and he beckoned Dr Beresford senior over.

‘I’m sorry, I forgot. I was too busy talking.’

Lucian’s father declared the episode to be no more serious than a faint. He had drunk more than his fair share of punch so he was quite jolly and he whispered, ‘You young ladies shouldn’t lace your corsets so tight. You haven’t got a little surprise for your husband under that bodice, have you, Mrs Hardy?’ To which question the blood ran into Charlotte’s face and she nearly fainted away all over again.

In a short while Charlotte had recovered, and although she’d assured them that it was just a faint and she was perfectly all right, Marianne spent most of the remainder of the evening in her sister’s company, just in case it happened again. Seth didn’t dance any more, but spent time talking to his fellow clay producers.

Marianne saw Lucian dancing with many other women. How they simpered when he looked at them. He was so correct, keeping them at exactly the right distance. When he’d lifted her up at the end of the Lancers and set her lightly back on her feet their bodies hadn’t even touched. She smiled, wondering if she’d looked just as simpering. Probably.

The reverend went past with Daisy Thornton. Was that how she’d end up herself, a lonely spinster who supervised her nieces and nephews and lived on her family’s generosity? Would she be trotted out now and again at an occasional social occasion, wearing a gown that had long since died, and be called an old grey owl behind her back by some young woman who’d forgotten how to be kind? She sighed at the prospect. Perhaps Lucian would ask her to marry him, even though she was poor. They’d always been friends, and since he’d become a man she’d felt a strong yearning inside her to be more than friends.

She voiced her thoughts. ‘Will I end up an old maid, Charlotte?’

‘You’re too pretty to become a spinster. When I have children I want them to have cousins so they can grow up and play together.

When Lucian caught her eyes and smiled at her, Marianne’s happiness nearly bubbled over. The next moment she murmured as a black dog of doubt leaped against her chest, ‘What if he doesn’t ask me?’