She took his hand to help her alight. Then, still feeling weak and a little unsteady, she went indoors.
“Daughter…! There you are!” Her mother met her in the hallway, eyes wide. “I hoped you would be back early! The seamstress is here for the fitting of the gown we ordered a month ago!”
“Oh?” Hestony surprised herself by feeling a little bubble of excitement rise inside her. She knew it was because if the dress was finished, then she would wear it this evening. Since the ball in London, she hadn’t wished to wear her cream gown again. Somehow the meeting with Lord Osburne had unsettled her so much that she avoided it.
“Of course!” Hestony’s mother patted her hand fondly. “My beautiful daughter needs new things.”
Hestony was surprised by how that touched her heart. All the pent-up sorrow seemed to melt a little inside her. She swallowed hard, feeling shaky, and nodded.
“Thank you, Mama.”
“Of course, daughter.”
The gown was finished that afternoon – a fine one of white cotton with a thin pattern of blue flowers, the splendor of it was from the exact cut and the extravagant puff-sleeves, edged with lace. Hestony felt like a princess as she stood before the mirror, her hair bunched in ringlets.
“You look very pretty,” her mother said, and Hestony was surprised that her eyes shone, as if she was about to cry.
“Thank you, Mother,” Hestony whispered. “I feel pretty, too.”
“My, but you’ll turn heads.”
Hestony swallowed hard. She didn’t want to think her mother was putting pressure on her, to wed. She nodded. “I’ll try.”
“Good girl,” her mother said, and touched her arm. “Now, have fun!”
“I will.”
When she arrived, the torches were lit outside Westmore House, lighting up the entablature over the doors. Hestony took Mr. Emms’ hand and jumped down onto the gravel, staring up at the place, enchanted. With the marble entrance-way gleaming and the pale blue sky – dark like sapphire – behind the house, it projected an air of magic.
“Hestony!” Emilia greeted her at the door, taking her hands in her own. The grip of them was warm and soft, and Hestony smiled.
“Emilia. You look beautiful.” Her cousin was wearing the yellow brocade, with pearls at her ears and a matching collar of pearls at her slim neck.
“Thank you,” Emilia said softly. “You do, too.”
“Thank you.” Hestony blushed. She could see in the eyes of the gentleman ahead of her – the glow of them as he looked on her – the truth of those words. She did look pretty, even to her own eyes – her hair in curls and her ears adorned with two drops of pearls.
The ballroom had been partly closed off, giving an intimate space with marble floors, the molded ceiling soaring above them, graced with the light of fifty candles in delicate chandeliers. Hestony gazed up at them, hearing the murmur of twenty or thirty voices, and smelling the scents of perfume, pomade, and spice.
In the corner, a gentleman dressed in a fine red coat of velvet was talking in a low voice with half a dozen guests surrounding him. He must be the poet, Hestony guessed – from the rapturous expressions of the guests and the intense frown on his brow, she deduced they must be having an important discussion.
“… the use of the word ‘puce’ in the third line? Ah. I believe I was inspired by the lines by my rival poet – not that our rivalry is more than a mutual appreciation – Mr. Hall. He described his melancholy in terms of the purple of the heather. I turn that on its head…for me purple, or puce, is an expression of the hero’s exhilaration on returning to his homeland…”
Hestony tried to follow the discussion for a while, but she felt her head becoming fuzzy and politely left the crowd, heading to the refreshments, arranged by the double doors.
She’d eaten a good lunch, but only broth for dinner, and helped herself to some of Emilia’s famous sandwiches. They were especially delicious – a wonderful mix of cold ham and cheese. She handed her plate to a footman, who was discreetly collecting them, and went to the table again to get a glass of something to drink, then felt the soft breath of the outdoors on her cheek. The evening was cool and smelled of dew; Hestony felt herself drawn to it.
Leaving her cup propped up on the windowsill, out of sight, she slipped out past the curtain and into the garden.
“Ah. How lovely,” she murmured.
It was deliciously cool outside, and the wind ruffled the leaves, making them whisper. A light rain had fallen, and the wind stirred it from the leaves, dripping water onto her forehead. She shivered and smiled.
“Beautiful.”
Out here was her own world, where nobody could intrude. With the candlelight shining on the dew-wet grass, it was a place of subtle magic.
Hestony walked over the grass and a little down the path, knowing she shouldn’t, but unable to resist the temptation of straying far from the hot, stuffy ballroom. She tiptoed over the wet stone and towards the fountain.
After a moment or two, watching the water trickle over the stones, ripples lit to silver by starlight, she shivered. It was getting cold, and she had not retrieved her shawl. She tiptoed back down the path to the ballroom. As she did, she saw a shadow move.
“No!” She felt her knees lock with terror. She couldn’t move. It was him. The highwayman. She wanted to scream, to run. But her feet were rooted in place and all she could do was cry.
“Lady Hestony? Hestony!”
“My Lady!”
Hestony felt her mind rip as two voices called to her – one from the hedge, the other from the shadows by the wall. She felt herself wake up, and her first instinct was to run. She set off along the path, not even looking where she was going. It was the highwayman; she was sure of it. And he was coming for her.
“Lady Hestony!” a voice, strained and desperate, called behind her. Hestony recognized the voice, but her legs had a life of their own and they wanted to run even though a small part of her mind recognized Hal. Her skirt was clutched tightly in her hand and her chest burned, tears lining her face.
“My Lady?” A hand rested on her arm. Hestony whirled around, drawing in a breath to scream. When she looked up, she saw Hal’s face. His eyes were round with shock and sorrow.
“Mr. Ellington!” Hestony choked on a sob. “I…I’m so sorry. You must…think I’m very odd.”
She started crying in earnest as she spoke, everything becoming too much for her. He must think her an utter fool! How could she explain to him that when she saw the shadow, she thought…
“Hush, My Lady,” he whispered. His arms were around her and Hestony was too afraid to consider the inappropriateness of the gesture. She buried her face against his shoulder. She could smell cinnamon pomade, the scent of his hair. The smell felt safe and good.