drew the line.”
My mouth dropped open with genuine shock.
“Joke,” said Robert. “You really will believe anything, won’t you?”
“Can you blame me?” I protested, flustered. “My social life rarely extends to dress codes beyond ‘No sneakers, please.’ Anyway, we didn’t get to the men,” I went on, picking up my pace. “She was more concerned about the ladies.”
“Any new rules I should know about?”
“Cardigans. She’ll be applying cardigans to girls who turn up with exposed clavicles and visible tattoos. Your mother has been deputed to scour Rennick’s charity shops for appropriate cover-ups.”
“Janet would like to go back to the old days when girls were only allowed to wear black or white and tiaras,” said Robert.
“Why not?” I said. That sounded gorgeous, a ballroom full of monochrome and sparkle. “I don’t get to wear my tiara enough as it is. You’ll be in your kilt, I assume? I mean, I know you’re putting up a fight, but it
is
a kilt occasion.”
Robert made an
Ugh
noise, and motioned me off the main drive and onto the footpath that led down into the woodlands. “I’ll be wearing a pained bloody expression.”
“Is that that knife you stick down your sock?” I asked innocently.
“No, it’s—” He stopped, then tilted his head to check if I was serious.
“Joke,” I said. “Duh.”
Robert let out a little huff of acknowledgment. “The only thing I’ll be sticking down my sock is a tiny flask of brandy,” he said. “And that’s because the local shop’s out of cyanide capsules.”
“Oh,
stop
it,” I said. “It’s a
ball
! With champagne and a piper! What’s not to love? It’s like time travel!”
“Right,
now
I get it.” He paused to wag his head cynically at me. “You’re one of those weirdos who go around saying, ‘What would Jane Austen do?’ and picturing every man you meet in a wet blouse.”
“No!” My eyes boggled with the effort of denying it.
If I were being honest, modern life’s lack of breeches was a constant disappointment for me. There were too few opportunities for men to display the little touches of gallantry I lived for. Could you blame me for wanting to superimpose top hats and carriages on the limp, BlackBerry-twiddling specimens I met at the speed dating Alice ushered me to?
“You are,” he said heavily. “Oh,
God
.”
“No! It’s just that … I’ve never been to a ball,” I went on. “I’m imagining candles, and white gloves, everyone bowing to each other … But what’s a modern one like?”
“Exactly like that,” said Robert. “Give or take the odd tattoo. The men have to get trussed up in either formal dress—kilts with dress coats—or white tie and tails, if they’re English. Or red hunting jackets, if they ride with the local hunt.”
“Really?” I tried to suppress the flutter of excitement. “That’s so …”
I didn’t want to say
amazing
or
romantic
or any of the other words that bubbled to the forefront of my mind; there was nothing wrong with a romantic soul, but Robert clearly had me down as a deluded bonnet-junkie already. And yet I just couldn’t stop picturing myself in an Empire-line gown, curtsying modestly in front of the gold rococo mirror in the hall.
In my imagination, of course, my bosoms were not spilling out inappropriately, and I’d somehow acquired ringlets and balance.
“
So
… ?” Robert’s prompt cut through my shimmering vision, and I scrabbled for a word befitting a London antiques expert.
“So … historical. And”—I couldn’t stop myself—“magical.”
“That’s one way of putting it. The committee does its best to take any actual magic out of it. Is Gordon still bellyaching about the potential stab hazards of the pencils on the dance cards?”
I stole a sideways glance to check his expression, but his face was straight, concentrating on the uneven path ahead. We were striding along at a blood-warming pace, and I was sure from his
My mouth dropped open with genuine shock.
“Joke,” said Robert. “You really will believe anything, won’t you?”
“Can you blame me?” I protested, flustered. “My social life rarely extends to dress codes beyond ‘No sneakers, please.’ Anyway, we didn’t get to the men,” I went on, picking up my pace. “She was more concerned about the ladies.”
“Any new rules I should know about?”
“Cardigans. She’ll be applying cardigans to girls who turn up with exposed clavicles and visible tattoos. Your mother has been deputed to scour Rennick’s charity shops for appropriate cover-ups.”
“Janet would like to go back to the old days when girls were only allowed to wear black or white and tiaras,” said Robert.
“Why not?” I said. That sounded gorgeous, a ballroom full of monochrome and sparkle. “I don’t get to wear my tiara enough as it is. You’ll be in your kilt, I assume? I mean, I know you’re putting up a fight, but it
is
a kilt occasion.”
Robert made an
Ugh
noise, and motioned me off the main drive and onto the footpath that led down into the woodlands. “I’ll be wearing a pained bloody expression.”
“Is that that knife you stick down your sock?” I asked innocently.
“No, it’s—” He stopped, then tilted his head to check if I was serious.
“Joke,” I said. “Duh.”
Robert let out a little huff of acknowledgment. “The only thing I’ll be sticking down my sock is a tiny flask of brandy,” he said. “And that’s because the local shop’s out of cyanide capsules.”
“Oh,
stop
it,” I said. “It’s a
ball
! With champagne and a piper! What’s not to love? It’s like time travel!”
“Right,
now
I get it.” He paused to wag his head cynically at me. “You’re one of those weirdos who go around saying, ‘What would Jane Austen do?’ and picturing every man you meet in a wet blouse.”
“No!” My eyes boggled with the effort of denying it.
If I were being honest, modern life’s lack of breeches was a constant disappointment for me. There were too few opportunities for men to display the little touches of gallantry I lived for. Could you blame me for wanting to superimpose top hats and carriages on the limp, BlackBerry-twiddling specimens I met at the speed dating Alice ushered me to?
“You are,” he said heavily. “Oh,
God
.”
“No! It’s just that … I’ve never been to a ball,” I went on. “I’m imagining candles, and white gloves, everyone bowing to each other … But what’s a modern one like?”
“Exactly like that,” said Robert. “Give or take the odd tattoo. The men have to get trussed up in either formal dress—kilts with dress coats—or white tie and tails, if they’re English. Or red hunting jackets, if they ride with the local hunt.”
“Really?” I tried to suppress the flutter of excitement. “That’s so …”
I didn’t want to say
amazing
or
romantic
or any of the other words that bubbled to the forefront of my mind; there was nothing wrong with a romantic soul, but Robert clearly had me down as a deluded bonnet-junkie already. And yet I just couldn’t stop picturing myself in an Empire-line gown, curtsying modestly in front of the gold rococo mirror in the hall.
In my imagination, of course, my bosoms were not spilling out inappropriately, and I’d somehow acquired ringlets and balance.
“
So
… ?” Robert’s prompt cut through my shimmering vision, and I scrabbled for a word befitting a London antiques expert.
“So … historical. And”—I couldn’t stop myself—“magical.”
“That’s one way of putting it. The committee does its best to take any actual magic out of it. Is Gordon still bellyaching about the potential stab hazards of the pencils on the dance cards?”
I stole a sideways glance to check his expression, but his face was straight, concentrating on the uneven path ahead. We were striding along at a blood-warming pace, and I was sure from his
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