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She toke me by the hand and led me a daunce.

The day of the children’s ball arrived at last. Sarah sat before the looking glass in the green bedroom while Frances curled her hair.

It was agreed Sarah’s would be dressed first because she could be trusted not to romp about in her excitement, and Maria’s last, knowing even then it might be in disarray by the time they arrived at Perryfield.

But though Sarah might be outwardly calm, inwardly all was in uproar. How soon after the ball would Mr. Langworthy depart? Would he ask her to dance, even with Mrs. Dere’s surplus girls invited?

Surely, surely he would. At least once. They were friends now, after all. She had seen him twice since their talk, but the first time only in passing in the street and neither time alone, and though he had smiled at her and addressed her generally, it had not been enough.

It had been nothing.

She had found herself imagining how she might seek him out, draw him apart, but she was ashamed of these schemes and too timid to try them.

But if he did not speak to her tonight—she must make the attempt. She could not let him go away without another word.

That determination led, as always, to its corollary: what precisely would she say? What was there, indeed, still to be said? She had already apologized. She had already thanked him. She had already offered friendship. The only thing which remained was the thing which could never be said.

That she had come to like him. To care for him.

In spite of herself, and in spite of him, and in spite of all.

Could she ask if they might correspond, when he went away?

No—no—absolutely not. But Mrs. Barstow might ask it with impunity.

She might ask him, as a sort of surrogate son, to write to her, and Sarah would have to content herself with hearing about him secondhand and entreating her mother-in-law to add a line from her or to send her compliments.

Alas.

It would be better than nothing , she scolded herself. You will forget him—or certainly you ought to forget him. Because after he marries his Mary Pence it would be sinful to continue to think of him .

And so on and so on.

“There,” declared Frances, setting down the iron and clasping her hands in satisfaction. “I have outdone myself, and you will be the belle of the ball.”

Sarah grinned. “Yes. There to put all the nine-year-old would-be belles in their place. Let Mrs. Chauncey’s granddaughter beware! But thank you for your efforts, dearest, even though no one will be looking at me.”

“Oh?” asked Frances archly. “I can think of one person who might be looking.”

Feeling her face heat, Sarah said as evenly as she could, “What nonsense you talk.”

But she was reassured the next moment when Frances cackled and held up her hands to wave beside her cheeks in the accepted sign for the whiskered curate.

“Silly girl,” Sarah chided, too relieved to be annoyed. “All right, then. I am ready to charm Dr. Rearden.”

She would do, she supposed. Her smooth light-brown hair shining.

The dark blue of her gown emphasizing her eyes and luminous skin.

Briefly she wondered what Mary Pence had looked like.

“Dainty” she could understand, but what of “spritely” and “mischievous”?

Her brain could make no more of it than Harry Barbary in a dress, which was hardly likely.

It being a children’s ball, it began in the afternoon, with the Perryfield coach coming first for the Barstows.

“Charming, charming,” beamed Lord Dere as Wood announced them.

“How well you all look.” The baron and his niece were as elegant and proper as if it had been a regular ball, and Peter was altogether another boy with pomade in his hair, pale blue gloves, and a silver brocade waistcoat.

Awestruck, Maria took in the hothouse greenery and the blaze of candles reflecting from every polished surface.

She had kept herself neat for the occasion, not allowing the dog Poppet or cat Outlaw to sit upon her and regretfully telling Bash she could not gambol about with him, and now she was rewarded. She looked ready to cry with delight.

Frances, who at eighteen had attended an assembly or two as well as the previous year’s Greenwood Ball, bore the wonders with equanimity, however, being far more interested in Mrs. Dere’s servant woes.

“Where are they?” she demanded of the hostess.

“Never say you have already dismissed Blodgett and Wrigley!”

Mrs. Dere’s lovely features twisted in a grimace.

“They are here still and managed to carry the food to the little parlor without mishap, but I prefer they have as few dealings with the guests as possible. Therefore I have told the creeping Blodgett to remain by the refreshments throughout, refilling the trays and taking away the used dishes. And as for Wrigley, here he comes. He will be Wood’s lieutenant, heaven help us.

Let us hope the boy can stir the fire and replace candles without burning down the house. ”

The footboy’s first duty was to carry away their cloaks and wraps. (He dropped Sarah’s and trod upon it. Mrs. Dere patted the back of her hair and pretended not to see.)

Before they could do more than admire the variety and placement of the decorations, Wood reappeared to announce the arrival of the Chaunceys and Lanes, or rather Mrs. Chauncey and her two granddaughters, ages ten and eight, who looked so like each other they might have been twins, and the Lanes with a great-nephew and granddaughter both Gordy’s age.

The children all made the polite greetings expected of them, trying to hide their stares of curiosity.

“Here we are,” said the baron with a welcoming smile, “now only waiting for the party from the rectory. Come, Miss Amelia and Miss Kate, Master Harold and Miss Anna, was it? Tell us which dances you have been learning and if you have any favorites…”

“Lord Dere’s coach,” Langworthy heard the maid Polly announce.

He waited for the Tommies to pound down the stairs in their usual manner, but this time his ear caught only Tommy Wardour, who paused halfway to leap the final few steps.

The older Tom Ellis trod carefully, no doubt aware of his finery.

In this household of men, only the boys had accepted Polly’s offer to spruce them up; Dr. Rearden was too shy of female assistance and Langworthy too used to fending for himself.

Every other day of his life he had shaven, run a comb through his hair, brushed his teeth, and then rested on his oars, so to speak, satisfied with the person he presented to the world. Why it should be any different on this day disturbed him.

But the fact was, not only did he find himself spending more time than he was wont on his appearance, but now that the children’s ball was upon him, the artificial end date he had set for his stay in Iffley, he found himself not wanting to go.

And yet nothing could be more important to his career or his future at this point.

Why should Mrs. Sebastian Barstow say her first friendly words to him, and suddenly his plans were in disarray? Should it not rather confirm them, as a sign that his work in Iffley was complete?

“Don’t be a fool,” he muttered to his reflection, raising a fist to rub at a streak Harry Barbary’s ministrations had left. “What would you do? Stay, delay, idle about at another’s expense? Lose the good opinion you have gained?”

No. The ball was upon him. And a day or two hence he would pack his trunk and go.

Reaching for his gloves, he went to join the others.

As Frances Barstow had recently said, the one reliable way to ensure one looked directly at a certain person was to be told not to look at that certain person.

If Sarah Barstow and Horace Langworthy doubted the truth of such a declaration, they would have had to concede it on this occasion.

For each had instructed himself not to look at the other in any significant fashion (if at all), yet each found himself doing precisely that, from the moment the rectory party arrived at Perryfield.

Though Sarah’s glance lasted the merest eyeblink, it was enough to make her color rise.

She wondered how she had never before noticed what a trim, good-looking man Mr. Langworthy was, from his burnished hair to his defined jaw and lean, vigorous person.

As for Horace Langworthy, though his glance equaled Sarah’s in brevity, a shiver ran his length.

Had he really once thought her nothing remarkable?

“You are all welcome to Perryfield,” said Mrs. Markham Dere graciously when the whole company stood in her drawing room.

“Now that we have gathered, as your mistress of ceremonies I have a few announcements. Firstly, Mrs. Chauncey has kindly offered to provide our music this evening.” (They broke into polite applause as the lady took her seat at the pianoforte.) “Secondly,” she continued, “Mr. Langworthy is not the only expert in mathematics! For I have done some calculations myself. You will see we have enough for nine couples, which means we may do a few longways dances for three couples, perhaps one or two round dances for three-couple sets, and mix in a few for as many as will, so the children may practice progression. Moreover, that we need not fuss over choosing partners each time, I have taken the liberty of drawing up a diagram, that for each dance you may see whom you have been assigned.”

With a flourish she indicated a sheet of paper which had been propped upon a music stand, and though every child wanted to rush over and inspect it, they hung back until Peter led the way, followed at once by Gordon and Tommy Wardour.

The adults must disguise their anticipation, but they were soon enlightened by Peter taking it up and reading it out.