Keeping the Castle - By Patrice Kindl Page 0,9
will hold off until—”
C-r-rack! Boom!
The heavens opened and rain poured down upon us. Mama clasped my hand and we ran for the great stone staircase fronting the house. We could not wait for the footman to escort us with his sheltering umbrella, but burst unceremoniously through the doorway. We found ourselves under the critical gaze of Mrs. Westing and her butler, who were greeting guests in the front hall.
“How excessively wet you are,” remarked Mrs. Westing, regarding us through a lorgnette. “Withins, fetch something for the ladies to dry themselves with.”
“How kind,” said my mother. “As you can see, and hear—” the thunder boomed out again, “the tempest is upon us.”
Withins did not bestir himself, but snapped his fingers at a maid, who went to fetch us some dry cloths.
“How good it was of you to invite us!” continued my mother, attempting to salvage the situation. “And how wonderful to see a ball at Gudgeon Park again!”
When at length we were dismissed from Mrs. Westing’s presence by the arrival of the maid, we paused a moment to tidy ourselves, blotting the moisture adhering to our gowns and our persons and rearranging our hair. The great gilded mirrors in the hall assured us that, while still somewhat damp, we looked perfectly respectable. Indeed, as we made our formal entrance into the ballroom our eyes were bright and our color high. I smiled on my pretty mama, thinking that she might be my sister, so young did she look.
How glorious it all was! I had not been in the house for years, but my recollection was of a great deal of dust, old-fashioned furniture, and gloomy dark landscapes lining the walls. Now all was light gleaming on polished wood, rich fabrics, fine silver, and exquisite French wallpapers, which, given the embargo, must have been smuggled in. Spiky and inedible-looking pineapples, the first I had ever seen, formed the centerpiece of the main table in the dining room. I smelled flowers and heard the sound of laughter and low music.
Prudence and Charity had not waited for us, but had made their entrance unencumbered by their poor relations. As we moved to join them I could not help but cry, “Oh, delightful!” A handsome older woman seated nearby smiled and nodded at me and said, “It is, little sirène” (meaning mermaid, you know, and referring to my damp state).
Annoyed at this attention being paid to me by a distinguished-looking stranger, Prudence ordered in an undertone, “Hush. Do not speak until you are spoken to.”
“Remember you are the youngest, Althea,” said Charity, “and must not thrust yourself forward.”
“Oh, certainly,” I said composedly, my temper restored by the sight of the glittering scene before us. “What a handsome man,” I added.
“Be silent!” said Charity. “Where?”
“Will you hold your tongue, Althea? Everyone will hear,” whispered Prudence. “Oh, I see who you mean. He has a fine countenance, has he not?”
“He is coming this way.”
Indeed, a number of young men were coming this way from all corners of the room. I knew I was thought a beauty by Lesser Hoo standards, but I had not been certain that gentlemen accustomed to the great ladies of London and Bath would agree. Evidently, they did.
I once saw a demonstration of what happens when a large and powerful magnet is introduced into the presence of a great many iron filings. This situation rather reminded me of that: heads turned, bodies realigned, gentlemen stood up, excused themselves and began to drift slowly but inexorably in our direction. Some in the crowd, of course, were old acquaintances, but they also drifted towards our corner, except for Mr. Godalming, who pointedly turned his back on me. Alas, poor Mr. Godalming. Perhaps I had been rather rude to him, tho’ inadvertently. However, I soon lost sight of him in the throngs converging upon us.
Prudence and Charity closed ranks. They stood in front of me, blocking me from the view of the assembly and smiled on the young men queuing up for an introduction to our family. As Prudence pressed me back against the wall she made contact with my dress. “Ugh!” she protested. “You are quite horridly damp!” Still she pushed me ever further back until I feared a trampling. Taking one of my damp ringlets in my hand, I shook it vigorously so that a few droplets of cold rain water flew out and landed on the nape of her neck. She gasped and moved forward, and I breathed again.
The identity of the handsome