feet. Fitz sank to the ground next to them. A squirrel ran right over the snoring dog, and he didn't move. Sonia took another card out of her reticule and handed it to the old man.
"I already got one, missy," he rasped.
"I know, and I already got your refusal. I am hoping you'll reconsider and accept this one." She proceeded to tell him why. He shook his head no. She teased and cajoled until he nodded yes, then she kissed his cheek and went home humming a waltz.
So much for the best-laid plans of mice and mongrels.
Chapter Ten
« ^ »
T onight I stand guard like Cerberus, watchdog of the underworld, I wish I had three heads like mighty Cerberus, to keep better vigil at the ball. Marston, the butler, defends the front entry against indignity, calling off the guests' names and honorifics with resonant cadences. I have been assigned the rear garden. I was told, "Fitz, you stay outside tonight." That is a lot of responsibility. I patrol the yard to make sure no intruders come over the walls. I watch the lantern-lighted paths to guarantee no young couples go beyond the line. I pace the balcony outside the ballroom to keep rakes from taking advantage of the darkness and a miss needing fresh air. Mostly I try to keep sight of Miss Sonia as she dances and strolls about, meeting this handsome youth, smiling at that likely lad, granting a quadrille to a paragon in puce satin.
I wish Muffy were here. She could imitate a wig and sit atop one of the footmen's heads and guard the refreshments. Tippy assures me there are always leftovers, but this is my first London ball. I admit I am nervous.
I am not apprehensive that Miss Sonia will not "take." She has been considered an Incomparable since the receiving line. From the drawing room window I hear Miss Sonia discussed in glowing terms, thank St. Francis. She is described as no niminy-piminy girl, but not too coming either. She has fresh charm, not airs and affectations. She is just right, and her dowry is nothing to sneeze at either. We are a success. I am worried, however, that she will be taken with the wrong man. Lady Atterbury says that the
crème de la crème of society is here tonight. What if its dregs arrive, too?
I wonder if he will come, this lord who would be a soldier. If he likes Miss Sonia, he will come, because he wants to be with her and because she asked. If he likes her, though, he won't come, lest he hurt her chances and disturb Lady Atterbury. More complications. Sometimes I think my life would be easier if they were like trout, the females laying their eggs in one place and the males coming there to leave a token of their affection before going about their own business.
Major Conover or not, tonight is a turning point. I can feel it in my belly. Maybe that's the wine I tasted with Ian earlier, just to make sure it hadn't turned. But Miss
Sonia's beau ideal might be here tonight. He might be kissing her fingertips this very minute, while I make fog-breath on the glass doors. Rats!
Still, I am curious about this diversion they call a ball, a toy, a plaything. I am trying to understand what they find so entertaining about cramming four hundred people in space for three, standing on line for hours to shake someone's hand, having their feet trod upon, their names vilified behind their backs, and their heads muddled with champagne. They gamble beyond their means, and they dance like performing bears.
At first the men are in groups on one side of the room, and the women on the other. Then some of the braver lads ask the most well-favored lasses for the set. Lady Atterbury and her friends go around forcing other gentlemen to take the floor, but some of them escape to the card room or the balcony to blow a cloud—incidentally obscuring my view. Some of the girls are therefore left without partners, so they take up positions around the perimeter and pretend they are just another flower arrangement.
When the music begins, the dancers all follow the same patterns
"I already got one, missy," he rasped.
"I know, and I already got your refusal. I am hoping you'll reconsider and accept this one." She proceeded to tell him why. He shook his head no. She teased and cajoled until he nodded yes, then she kissed his cheek and went home humming a waltz.
So much for the best-laid plans of mice and mongrels.
Chapter Ten
« ^ »
T onight I stand guard like Cerberus, watchdog of the underworld, I wish I had three heads like mighty Cerberus, to keep better vigil at the ball. Marston, the butler, defends the front entry against indignity, calling off the guests' names and honorifics with resonant cadences. I have been assigned the rear garden. I was told, "Fitz, you stay outside tonight." That is a lot of responsibility. I patrol the yard to make sure no intruders come over the walls. I watch the lantern-lighted paths to guarantee no young couples go beyond the line. I pace the balcony outside the ballroom to keep rakes from taking advantage of the darkness and a miss needing fresh air. Mostly I try to keep sight of Miss Sonia as she dances and strolls about, meeting this handsome youth, smiling at that likely lad, granting a quadrille to a paragon in puce satin.
I wish Muffy were here. She could imitate a wig and sit atop one of the footmen's heads and guard the refreshments. Tippy assures me there are always leftovers, but this is my first London ball. I admit I am nervous.
I am not apprehensive that Miss Sonia will not "take." She has been considered an Incomparable since the receiving line. From the drawing room window I hear Miss Sonia discussed in glowing terms, thank St. Francis. She is described as no niminy-piminy girl, but not too coming either. She has fresh charm, not airs and affectations. She is just right, and her dowry is nothing to sneeze at either. We are a success. I am worried, however, that she will be taken with the wrong man. Lady Atterbury says that the
crème de la crème of society is here tonight. What if its dregs arrive, too?
I wonder if he will come, this lord who would be a soldier. If he likes Miss Sonia, he will come, because he wants to be with her and because she asked. If he likes her, though, he won't come, lest he hurt her chances and disturb Lady Atterbury. More complications. Sometimes I think my life would be easier if they were like trout, the females laying their eggs in one place and the males coming there to leave a token of their affection before going about their own business.
Major Conover or not, tonight is a turning point. I can feel it in my belly. Maybe that's the wine I tasted with Ian earlier, just to make sure it hadn't turned. But Miss
Sonia's beau ideal might be here tonight. He might be kissing her fingertips this very minute, while I make fog-breath on the glass doors. Rats!
Still, I am curious about this diversion they call a ball, a toy, a plaything. I am trying to understand what they find so entertaining about cramming four hundred people in space for three, standing on line for hours to shake someone's hand, having their feet trod upon, their names vilified behind their backs, and their heads muddled with champagne. They gamble beyond their means, and they dance like performing bears.
At first the men are in groups on one side of the room, and the women on the other. Then some of the braver lads ask the most well-favored lasses for the set. Lady Atterbury and her friends go around forcing other gentlemen to take the floor, but some of them escape to the card room or the balcony to blow a cloud—incidentally obscuring my view. Some of the girls are therefore left without partners, so they take up positions around the perimeter and pretend they are just another flower arrangement.
When the music begins, the dancers all follow the same patterns
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