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“Miss Montrose.”
A warm tingle runs through my body at the sound of his voice. He’s standing right behind me and I don’t have time to prepare myself. I had wanted to be across the room, to watch him first before deciding what I’d say. I had crafted a few neutral sentences but now that he’s right here they all fly from my head.
“You look...” His clear eyes are burning through me and I feel as naked as a rose in January, and every bit as exposed. I know how I must look to him in my lip rouge, the dress showing too much of my skin thanks to Catherine’s adjustments. He clears his throat, as if coming back to himself. “You look much recovered.”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s referring to the day at the pond when I nearly fainted from a mixture of heat, anger and jealousy. Has it really been weeks since I saw him last? “Yes, thank you.” I struggle to keep my voice impassive, reserved. It comes out muddled and fast, half my mind determined to snub him because of his preference for Catherine, but the other half of me is shamefully excited by the prospect of being close to him. Just his familiar scent unearths that comfortable, safe feeling deep inside me again. I tighten my grip on my glass, willing myself to keep my guard up.
“I’m glad to see it. I’ve been worried about you since that day at the pond. And of course I was glad when Catherine let us know that Emeline had been found safe.”
The punch glass sweats in my hand and I don’t know where to look. He’s being polite, but he’s already looking around the room, gesturing with cup in hand and making strained small talk about the various guests. He says something about Mr. Pierce and I snap back to attention.
“Pity he couldn’t come, but his mother took a turn for the worse so he’s gone back to Boston to attend her.”
“Oh, how sad.” I stare at the amber liquid in my glass, swirling it gently side to side.
“I understand these scares are something of a regular occurrence when it comes to his mother,” he says. “All the same, August thought it best not to leave it to chance.” He glances around the ballroom, now filled with guests itching for the music to start. “He asked me to send Catherine his particular regards, but...is your sister unwell, Miss Montrose?”
“Er, yes,” I say, scrambling to think something up. “She has a headache.” It’s a flimsy excuse, but I can’t tell him that she’s throwing a tantrum because Mr. Pierce didn’t come.
Perhaps Mr. Barrett was relieved when he found out his friend wasn’t coming, knowing that Catherine would turn her attention back to him. I haven’t forgotten the notes I’ve seen Catherine passing to Joe to deliver, and I haven’t forgotten the white rose in Mr. Barrett’s buttonhole.
My ears are pounding and I don’t want to be here. No, that’s not true. I want to be near him. I’m painfully aware of him, the dark fabric of his waistcoat, of his gestures, the way his eyes wander over the room before settling deeply on mine. I wonder what his hands would feel like, wrapped around my waist the way Cyrus’s were, and I sway ever so slightly. I need to get away. There’s no use torturing myself with what will never be mine.
He must have read my mind. “Well, I’ve monopolized your time long enough. No doubt you must welcome all your guests.” His voice is clipped and I know I’m being terribly rude, standing there mute and staring just past his shoulder.
“Yes, of course.” But I don’t move away. I don’t know any of the people gathered here save for a couple of familiar faces from Mother’s calls. They might as well be miles away; the only other person in the room is him.
Mr. Barrett doesn’t move either. People flow around us, a lady’s hair feather brushing my bare shoulder, sending a shiver down my spine. “Miss Montrose...” He looks uncomfortable, turning his glass in his fingers over and over, looking everywhere but at me. “I feel I must explain about—”
Just then a matronly woman glides up and puts a doughy gloved arm through Mr. Barrett’s and the little bubble around us shatters. Her mouth is already moving before she’s even come to rest.
“Mr. Barrett! You wicked man.” She’s dripping in jewels, her face plastered with makeup. She looks like one of those actors who perform Shakespeare at the Federal Street Theatre in Boston, and speaks just as loudly. “We’ve hardly seen anything of you at Oakridge these past months and the girls have been asking after you, especially Abigail.” She gestures to a tall, slender girl across the room watching the exchange from beneath heavy lashes, which she drops with a shy smile when Mr. Barrett looks at her. “I remember how you loved our Abby’s boiled mutton last time, and you announced that you would take up residence at our house indefinitely if only to have her mutton every day. Now don’t tell me you don’t remember that! Abby certainly does and she will hardly leave me alone asking when you’ll be by.”
Color rises to Mr. Barrett’s cheek but he takes the woman’s hand and lifts it to his lips in a polite gesture. “Mrs. Tidewell, nothing would give me more pleasure.”
I shift my gaze swiftly away, having been caught in that unpleasant role of unintentional eavesdropper. Now would be my chance to escape, but the ample Mrs. Tidewell is blocking my exit.
“You must join us for supper one of these nights. Now I won’t take no for an answer,” Mrs. Tidewell scolds with a playful rap of her closed fan upon his arm.
Mr. Barrett catches my eye and quickly looks away, embarrassed. His jaw tightens, but Mrs. Tidewell is blissfully unaware of his discomfort. “Yes, of course. Time has gotten away from me lately what with the mill and—”
“Oh, you men and your work.” Mrs. Tidewell leans in toward me conspiratorially, for some reason deciding to include me in the conversation. Her breath smells like onions, and I wonder if it’s from Abby’s boiled mutton. “Whenever you want something from them it’s work work work, but put a pretty girl in front of them and they forget about it all soon enough, eh? And my Abby’s the prettiest in New Oldbury.” She turns back to him. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Barrett?”
I don’t know if she’s staking a claim, or merely clueless as to the effect of her words. Mortified, I open my mouth, but Mr. Barrett swoops in before I can say something I’ll regret.
“Certainly, madam. New Oldbury is lucky to boast so many lovely young ladies, Miss Montrose of course being the latest arrival.”
When my eyes fly to meet his, there’s a glint of amusement in them, but also something questioning. My body flushes hot. He’s just being polite, gentlemanly. His words mean no more than the kiss he gave Mrs. Tidewell’s hand.
Mrs. Tidewell lets her gaze run over me, making little effort to mask her thoughts. “Yes, I’m sure,” she says, her tone frosty.
She’s moved out of my way, her grip tightening on Mr. Barrett’s arm, and I seize my chance. “I should go...greet the other guests,” I mumble.
“Miss Montrose...” He moves to catch my arm, but Mrs. Tidewell holds him fast and I slip by him.
The fiddle is tuning up and couples begin taking the floor. Father has some local businessman cornered as he talks his ear off about the rising price of cotton, the poor man looking longingly at the dance floor. Mother nurses a cup of punch amid a clump of women chattering on about some provincial scandal involving a runaway farmhand.
A wave of melancholy washes over me and takes root in the pit of my stomach. It doesn’t matter that I knew that Mr. Barrett wasn’t interested in me and was hoping that Catherine would be here, I had still built up fantasies of us swirling together on the dance floor. And even if he wasn’t in love with my sister there are still a bevy of country girls who would love to be Mrs. Barrett, not least among them the lovely Miss Tidewell. I hope he chokes on her stupid mutton. I sigh. No, I don’t really hope that. For a moment Cyrus’s proposition doesn’t seem so ridiculous, so insulting.