“She asked if I was happy I had proven my point. I told her yes, and she threw up her hands and said, ‘The problem, Miss Smith, is that you and I are far too alike, and that means I can’t hardly dislike you.’ ”
All through this exchange, Mrs. Melcourt watched us, her head cocked to one side as though weighing how far up the social ladder this easy conversation with Lady Kinner should put me.
Now the lady inserted herself, saying, “Lady Kinner, it is such a shame that your niece was not able to come. It would have been a delight to have such an English rose at our little dance tonight.”
“Theresa was very sad to miss the occasion, but she does not return from Boston for another three weeks. She has been spending time with her maternal aunt,” Lady Kinner told me.
“Matthew will miss her. I know that he enjoyed her company greatly when they met last autumn,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
Whatever Lady Kinner thought of that, I was never to know, for Mrs. Melcourt received the signal that dinner was ready to be served, so she took the hand of the highest-ranking gentleman—Lady Kinner’s husband, Sir Terrance Kinner—and led the way to dinner.
All around me, gentlemen paired off with the ladies Mrs. Melcourt had no doubt discreetly informed them they would be escorting into dinner. I stood there, smoothing my skirts and feeling more than a little lost, when Matthew appeared at my side.
“Miss Smith, I believe I have the honor of taking you in,” he said, elbow outstretched to me.
I bit my lip and slipped my hand into the crook of his arm. “That is very kind of you, Mr. Goddard. Thank you.”
As we approached the dining room, I ventured, “I would have thought that, as the brother of our hostess, you would have been paired with a woman of greater repute. Perhaps Lady Kinner’s niece?”
He huffed a laugh. “Helen has been pushing Miss Theresa Orleon, a woman fifteen years my junior and with no more interest in me than I in her, for a full year now.”
“Is she not a good match?”
His hand covered mine just before we passed through the doors and into the view of all of the guests. “She is an excellent match, but I do not have the same ambitions as my sister.”
“Surely you’ve thought of marriage. It must be expected of you,” I said.
He slanted a look my way. “Surely you’ve thought of marriage. It would be expected of you.”
My mouth stayed firmly, resolutely shut.
He squeezed my hand. “I’m glad that Miss Orleon is not in attendance tonight. I would rather walk you in to dinner.”
I rolled this over in my mind as he guided me around the table to an empty chair and pulled it out. I looked up to thank him for his attention when I saw him grasp the carved wooden frame of the chair next to me. From the top of the table, Mrs. Melcourt frowned.
“Your sister seems displeased,” I said as I watched him sit.
He leaned in. “Earlier tonight, I persuaded one of the footmen to switch the place cards. I’m meant to be between the vicar’s wife and Mrs. Filsom.”
“Mr. Goddard,” I said in mock horror but could hardly keep the laugh from my lips.
“I promise you, Miss Smith, there is no one I would rather sit next to at the dinner than you.”
I want to write more, I do, but I think I shall need a day to think on everything that happened after dinner and see just how brave I am. For now I will put down my pen and say good night. Good morning. Good day.
SATURDAY, 18 MAY 1907
Highbury House
Clear skies
I have been studiously avoiding my diary, but I know that I must write down what happened after Mrs. Melcourt’s dinner if only so that one day I might look back at it and remember it was not a figment of my imagination.
After the final course was cleared and the ladies retired to the drawing room to allow the gentlemen time with their port, the guests who had been invited just for the dancing began to arrive. I am not a particularly distinguished dancer, so balls hold little interest to me. I would stay for an hour and then slip away, I promised myself as I was swept up in the crowd headed for the ballroom.
Yet even I couldn’t deny that when couples began to step into the swirling circle of the waltz, there was an undeniable romance in the air. From the safety of the dance floor’s edge, my foot tapped along to the music pouring from the violin. The tinkle of laughter danced over the top of the hubbub, and everyone seemed to sparkle under the electrified lights of the chandelier. Mrs. Melcourt had pulled off a triumph of a country ball.
Four dances in, I spotted the lady herself at the head of the room. Her husband stood next to her and, a few feet off, dancing with his arm around a woman in green, was Matthew. As soon as the music started, he had been waylaid by his sister and had spent the past twenty minutes dutifully taking out to the floor every young lady placed in front of him.
I closed my eyes, wondering whether this was a sign that I should melt away, collect my shawl, and walk back to the gardener’s cottage. I had tasks to complete in the morning. (It hardly seems possible to complete all of it by the end of the year.)
I turned on my slippered heel and made for one of the open doors leading from the ballroom to the veranda. I would retrieve my shawl the next morning when the residents of the house were still fast asleep. The music had stopped, and ladies and gentlemen were shuffling between partners.
I was out the door when a man’s voice stopped me.
“You’re not going, are you?”
I looked over my shoulder, squinting at the figure silhouetted against the light of the party. “Mr. Goddard?”
He stepped down from the threshold. “I liked it better when I was Matthew.”
I glanced around, fearful that someone might have heard. Luckily, we were quite alone, yet there were so many reasons we shouldn’t be. We were standing in the home of my employers. Moreover, I was a woman working and living alone. Only my status as a gentleman’s daughter and my irreproachable reputation allowed me that privilege.
And yet…
“You aren’t for bed yet,” he said.
“I cannot imagine that dancing with me holds much appeal for the gentlemen inside,” I said.
“I should like to dance with you.” He traced a finger down my bare arm and over my wrist. “Ever since supper I’ve been trying to make my way back to you. My sister seemed determined to occupy me.”
“I wonder why,” I said, brow lifted.
He held out his hand. “Come.”
I hesitated only a moment before allowing him to pull me out of the view of the ballroom’s tall windows, past the lime walk, and into the tea garden.
The gate closed behind us with a soft metallic click, but still he led me deeper into the garden.
“Matthew…”
“Just a little further,” he said.
We stopped in the lovers’ garden. I watched him turn a full circle, searching in the silvery light from the half-moon for something.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“Anyone else.” A smile tipped the edge of his lips. “It appears we’re alone.”
He slipped his hand up my arm to my shoulder and over my neck. He cupped my cheek tenderly. Then he kissed me, fully and deep. And I kissed him back.
Kissing him feels like turning my face up to the spring sun and luxuriating in the warmth spreading over my skin after months of winter. Kind and inquisitive and passionate—they feel fundamentally him. A revelation each time.