Mr. Woodsworth matched her enthusiasm, and his steps grew less forced and more natural. He was just as good a dancer as Mr. Fairchild when he relaxed and allowed the music and his dance partner to have some control. As the dance neared its ending, he placed both of her hands on his shoulders and lifted her by the waist into the air. A bubble of laughter escaped her lips once again. He raised her as if she weighed nothing, his arms flexing under his jacket. She surveyed the ballroom from her lofty position. This was a movement her dance instructor hadn’t thought to teach her.
The ballroom was awash in color and movement. Couples turned about as the music flowed around them. Mr. Woodsworth’s arms bent. He lowered her while still executing a turn. It was a perfect moment until she noticed Lord Bryant’s focused gaze from across the room.
Her feet touched the ground and so did her spirits. Mr. Woodsworth was still smiling. His heartbreakingly beautiful smile. “One more dance,” he said. “Will you dance one more dance with me?”
Her heart sank. She couldn’t. Lord Bryant may not know who she was, but he had most definitely taken an interest in her. If he asked her for a dance, there would be no more disguise. “I can’t.”
Mr. Woodsworth didn’t protest. He didn’t ask any questions. He only nodded as if being turned down by a lady wasn’t a surprise or unlikely. But his smile was gone.
He wrapped her hand once again around his arm. He was stiff again, carrying himself like the soldier he must have been raised to become. “I’ll call for the carriage.”
“Thank you.” If only she could explain. She wanted to keep that smile on his face. But the moment Mr. Woodsworth found out who she truly was, she would be in a carriage headed home.
He shook his head. “Thank you, Miss Smith, for all you have done tonight. I’m sure it was enough to make the Morgans take note.”
The Morgans. That was why he’d smiled and raised her in the air. He was putting on a show for the Morgans. The ballroom no longer felt energetic and colorful; instead it was crowded and gaudy. By the time they reached Mrs. Jorgensen, her stomach had turned sour. Mr. Woodsworth left her by his sister and, true to his word, went to call for the carriage.
The evening had been a success.
Chapter 9
Patience eyed the fireplace in front of her. No heat emanated from this one. The room hadn’t been used in over a week. It was clean, as was everything in the house—Mrs. Bates was the most thorough housekeeper she had ever met—and empty. Patience had only started fires from banked coals before, and frankly, she had been quite proud of herself for doing that.
It had been three days since the ball, and she still hadn’t heard from Mr. Woodsworth about helping him again. She assumed he would still need her, since Mrs. Jorgensen had asked her to help in the nursery every day since then. Whenever she was alone with Harry and Augusta, the children seemed to come alive. She wished they would do the same when their mother was around. But just like this cold, dead fire, she had no idea how to ignite the children when Mrs. Jorgensen was around.
She carried the bucket of coal. First things first: the coal needed to go in the grate. She slipped on her work gloves and picked up some of the larger pieces of coal. She filled the grate completely, not sure what to do next. If there were live coals underneath, she could stir them about with the poker, and maybe the new coals would smoke and finally flame. She picked up the poker and stabbed at the coals, fully knowing it would do nothing, but wouldn’t that have been nice? Sure enough, the coals only settled more snugly in the grate. She would have to get a candle and see if the flame could ignite them.
The door behind her creaked, and she dropped the poker, feeling foolish. The last thing she needed was for Mrs. Bates to see that she was hoping to light a fire by poking it with a metal rod.
“Patience, I have been—”
Oh dear. It was Mr. Woodsworth. He eyed the dropped poker. “What are you doing?”
“I’m just starting the fire. Mrs. Bates wanted the music room heated so your sister could have a small concert with her children tonight.”
“But there aren’t any live coals in this fire.”
“Not yet.” She picked up the poker and placed it back on the rack next to the fireplace. “I just need to start it.”
“But you have laid the coals out bare. What is going to ignite them?”
“I thought perhaps a candle?”
He glanced back and forth between her and the fireplace. “You thought a candle?”
“No, I thought perhaps a candle.” Patience had no excuse. She had no idea what she was doing, and it was already abundantly clear that Mr. Woodsworth knew that as well as she did. “What would you use?”
“Well, I suppose a candle would work eventually, but not very well without some kindling and wood under the coal.”
“Kindling!” Of course! She knew about kindling. How had she forgotten? Usually wood and kindling were kept just to the left of the fireplace. She turned back to the fireplace. Sure enough, there was a basket with a few narrow blocks of wood, and underneath was a drawer that she assumed would hold some kind of kindling. She rubbed her hand down the side of her face. How could she have forgotten?
She rushed over to the basket and pulled out kindling and wood, then turned in triumph to Mr. Woodsworth. “Here is the kindling and the wood.” Oh, how she wished she could tell him she was just about to grab them, but it wasn’t true.
Mr. Woodsworth was looking at her oddly. His brows were furrowed, and he cocked his head from one side to the other. This was the kindling, wasn’t it? She hadn’t done anything else wrong, had she?
“Your face . . .”
“What is wrong with my face?” Patience lifted a hand to wipe whatever was distressing Mr. Woodsworth but stopped when she saw the condition of her gloves. They were very black and covered in coal dust. “I’ve got coal all over it, haven’t I?”
He tucked his lips inside his mouth and nodded. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was about to laugh. Not knowing what else to do, she dropped her soiled gloves in the bucket of coal and removed the already-ruined, red-stained cap off the top of her head. Trying to keep herself from blushing, she quickly rubbed her face with the cap. Black streaks soon joined the red blotches, but she knew there was no way the dust on her face would be completely removed without a washbasin.
She expected to see Mr. Woodsworth still silently laughing at her, but when she pulled the cap away from her face his mouth was expressionless, his eyes glued to her hair.
“Oh no, have I done something to my hair as well? Is it covered in dust or grime?”
“What?” he said. “No, it is just so curly and, well, crimson, at least in the light. I don’t think I have ever seen hair like it. How do you manage to keep it that curly?”