“It’s too hot,” Viola commented, bringing her attention to the present.
“It is,” Bernadette agreed. They were standing next to the refreshments table, and she reached over to accept a glass of cool lemonade from the footman working behind it. “Thank you,” she murmured politely.
“Of course, my lady.” The footman beamed. Footmen and other servants always seemed to notice Bernadette—she noticed them, too, where most others overlooked them too.
“I’m too hot,” Viola sighed, fanning herself with one hand. “I’m going to go and stand over there by the window. If there’s a breeze I might go outside.”
Bernadette glanced over to the window that Viola had indicated and shrank away from it nervously. Men in velvet jackets, their white hose tight over muscled calves, were standing there talking, their smiles bright and their voices loud. The sound of their banter and laughter made her soul shrink. Groups of people of all sorts, but particularly of young men her own age, terrified her. She never knew what to say or do when she was confronted with one, and she ended up stuttering and blushing and wishing she really was invisible after all.
“I’ll stay here,” she said quickly. “And see if the violinist notices how out-of-tune he’s becoming.”
Viola grinned. “I’ll be back to hear from you if he has.”
Viola walked easily towards the doors, drifting among the guests, smiling and laughing as she went. Within a few seconds, she was standing in the doorway with the young men, laughing. Bernadette looked away, feeling sad. Viola seemed to have some gift she lacked, but what gift that might be, she didn’t know.
Maybe I’m just plain,she thought sadly.
Her mother had said often enough that she needed to take special care with her appearance, being less showy—Mama's words—than other young ladies. Mama insisted on the newest, most fashionable gowns they could afford, saying that Bernadette needed them to “shed some light on her”. Her stomach twisted nauseously at the thought. If bright scarlet silk gowns were necessary to make someone look at her, she must truly be almost invisible.
She stepped back into the corner, watching the people dancing distantly, as if she was someone—a footman or a cleaner—watching the ball without being any part of it. As she stood there, the music of the waltz began to jar on her ears.
That violin is still out of tune,she thought, grinning a little desperately. Surely, the violinist couldn’t be so oblivious. As she grinned, Sir Ambrose—leaning on the wall, already more than a little sunk in brandy—spotted her.
No. Please, don’t let him see me.
She felt her stomach twist. Sir Ambrose sneaked onto Lady Cobham’s guest-list every year, primarily because he was a cousin of hers. He drank all the brandy and thereafter proceeded to talk to anyone who managed to catch his gaze. Especially her. For some reason, Sir Ambrose always managed to find her no matter how hard she hid.
“Sweet lady!” He greeted her warmly. His long, weary-looking face was wreathed in a huge grin.
“No...” Bernadette said aloud, but she couldn’t hide away from his enthusiastic greeting no matter how hard she tried. He came over and took her hand, shaking it with enthusiasm.
“My dear Miss Rothendale. How lovely! What a fine surprise.”
“Um...Sir Ambrose, I shall take to the dance floor presently...” she tried, but he lurched forward, beaming.
“Dance! A fine idea! Shall we waltz, dear lady?”
“Um...” Bernadette tried to think of something that wouldn’t upset him—after all, when he was less full of brandy, he was an affable, nice man. But nothing came into her mind, and the length of the pause was taken as agreement. He took her hand and led her to the dance floor. She felt too surprised to escape. The musicians were starting up a tune. He tilted his head, listening to it.
“A Polonaise, how delightful! I am quite adept at the dance, a refined and elegant choice even though it is not the waltz.”
“No...” Bernadette murmured, but his hand was in hers, his other hand by his side, as they stood side-by-side on the dance floor. Bernadette sent up a prayer in thanks for the fact that it was a Polonaise. At least he wasn’t standing as close to her as they would in a waltz.
The music started and they stepped forward. Bernadette tried to keep time with the music, but if Sir Ambrose could hear the music, it would be a miracle. He was stumbling about, and Bernadette bit her lip, almost amused by the wide-eyed shockon the faces of the other guests. They surely must all know him, she thought, a little angrily. They shouldn’t judge him—or her—so unkindly.
I need to get him to sit down.
She glanced about the room. On their left were some chairs. If she got him seated, perhaps someone would show him compassion and put him on the terrace where the cold breeze might do what nothing else could in cutting through the fumes in his brain.
“Over there! Sir Ambrose...let’s go there.” she called to him. The music was loud, the banter around them making it hard to hear.
“There...” he murmured drunkenly.
Bernadette bit her lip. Taking action, she stepped deliberately off the dance floor, tugging him off with her. She walked briskly to the chairs; cheeks red as people stared at them.
“Sit down, Sir Ambrose,” she murmured, positioning him near a chair. He stepped forward, lurching dangerously.
“A chair. A chair!” he half-yelled. The noise of conversing people and music was too loud, fortunately, for any but those nearest to hear them, and, in another miracle of the evening, one of those people was their host’s niece.
