Page 51 of The Twelve Days of Christmas
To this answer, Bertram Sharpe appeared – if not entirely satisfied – then at least somewhat mollified.
Still, it was clear Maria’s words had set upon him a particular train of thought in regards to the suitability of a match between his sister and the Duke of Morley, and Maria felt then a spiteful surge of satisfaction that Cordelia Sharpe might be thwarted in her plans and Sir Robert shamed for treating the Pépin sisters so monstrously ill.
They both deserved it, after all.
‘Excellent!’ announced Mr Thorpe as the dance came to an end and Mr Denby’s lips lifted from the mouthpiece of his pipe.
‘I should like, if you do not mind, to run through the dance once more now the steps have been perfected. And then as our well-deserved reward we can partake of Mrs Denby’s excellent bowl of wassail, which I believe she has made available to us in the dining room? ’
To this the cook’s son nodded, and murmurs of appreciation were heard from the party, not least from Nigel Busgrove who hooked his thumbs over the lapels of his damask waistcoat of eye-watering mustard silk.
‘How splendid,’ said he, rosy-cheeked, evidently already chirping merry. ‘I do so like a decent spiced punch. It so perfectly encapsulates the festive spirit, do you not agree, Miss Falshaw?’
Maria caught Louisa’s eye across the line, and the sisters shared a look of half-amusement, half-relief.
Ever since the Busgroves had arrived at Wakely Hall, it had been clear to everyone that the son favoured Charlotte, and made more than a nuisance of himself in his pursuit.
But since Lord Heysten had arrived and appeared to take an interest in their elder sister (and it truly was astonishing that Charlotte had not entirely denounced him), the buffoonish young man transferred his attentions to that of poor Lucy, and though she was Louisa’s dearest friend, it could not be denied the relief on the Pépins’ part was most acute.
To be sure, the idea of Nigel Busgrove of all people becoming their brother-in-law …
well, it really was too much to be borne.
Lucy shyly murmured her agreement; the younger Mr Busgrove gave a simpering laugh, a laugh which was mercifully lost amid the claps of Mr Thorpe who turned once more to Mr Denby.
‘After the count of three, my good fellow. One, two …’
And so began the music once more, and the eleven ladies and eleven gentlemen their dancing.
This time, however, rather than gossip with her partner, Maria concentrated instead on her steps, and found so much pleasure in being guided about the ballroom floor by Bertram Sharpe that she let herself be lulled into the merry notes of Thompson’s ‘Ramble’.
The polite conversation that so often accompanied such country dances flittered and fizzed about Maria’s ears, and she closed her eyes with the enjoyment of it.
Oh, how wonderful it would all be, tomorrow evening, with thrice the number of couples bounding about Wakely’s ballroom floor!
Maria could imagine no felicity better than the excitable chatter, the lively orchestra, the swirls of heavy silks and fine muslins; the ballroom filled with candlelight, the atmosphere enlightened with the scent of fir and pine, and she and all of them having a high old time of it.
Truly, if Maria were put upon to chuse, she would say that her parents’ annual Twelfth Night Ball was her favourite ball of the entire year.
She sighed happily at all of these wondrous thoughts, only to then be pulled from her contented reverie by a snippet of conversation from the couple to her right as they passed below:
—You cheated? But how?
—Why, I paid the footman for the answers.
—For shame, sir!
—Do not think badly of me. I only wished to make a good impression!
Incensed, Maria turned her head to address the speaker of this last.
‘Why, Mr Busgrove,’ she fair hissed. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Upon such a fierce reprimand – standing so squat in the line – the man blinked rather owlishly.
‘Perhaps I should, Miss Pépin, but I assure you it was all in good spirits.’
‘Hardly! Our annual treasure hunt is a matter of pride in this household. You do not deserve the crown. In fact, I have a mind to declare so and it shall be taken from you, upon my word!’
At this Mr Busgrove pouted. ‘Would you be so very cruel as to shew me up, Miss Maria? Truly, I meant no harm. I only wished to impress—’
Here he cut himself off, and Maria knew precisely whose name he meant to say.
‘Believe me when I tell you, sir, that it takes an awful lot to impress my sister Charlotte. And cheating would have got you nowhere at all.’
Sir Victor Marshchild and his wife passed below then, Mr Sharpe reached to take her hand, and all eleven of the couples were obliged to perform the four changes of rights and lefts, after which Maria would have spoken more on the matter (after all, she would have won the golden egg hunt if it had not been for Nigel Busgrove’s deception), were it not for a cry of Oh!
and an almighty thump that echoed about the ballroom and caused Mr Denby to cease playing and thus the other couples to stop dancing.
There was a gasp, a sob; Maria turned to see her sister Rosalie collapsed upon the floor, clasping her knee.
‘Whatever happened?’ cried Viscountess Pépin, rushing to crouch beside Tarquin Sharpe who was attending Rosalie, while Rosalie, with tears running down her face, glared up at Cordelia Sharpe.
‘She tripped me, Maman !’ she cried, to which Miss Sharpe pressed an offended hand to her throat.
‘Me, Miss Rosalie?’ came the reply, all innocence, and Rosalie unsteadily drew herself up to point a shaking finger.
‘You did! She did! She did it deliberately!’
At this Cordelia trilled a laugh and looked at the Duke of Morley with such an air of camaraderie that Maria rather felt she would slap the condescending smile off her beautiful face there and then.
‘Why, I did no such thing,’ insisted Miss Sharpe. ‘I would not be so clumsy, would I, Sir Robert?’
‘Of course not,’ the duke demurred, a quirk about his lips. ‘You are the finest partner one might hope for. Perhaps it was you, Miss Rosalie, who tripped upon your skirts?’
Miss Sharpe openly smirked. Viscountess Pépin narrowed her eyes. Her daughter, bottom lip wobbling, stared up at the Duke of Morley, and though it must be said the youngest Pépin girl was as good-natured as the eldest, the expression on her face in that moment was one of pure hatred.
‘You cad,’ she declared. ‘You oaf !’
The ballroom filled with scandalised gasps. Rosalie, not appearing to care one bit of it, looked about the dancers and shook her head, her brown curls bobbing at her spotted chin.
‘I mean it, I swear I do! Sir Robert has treated me cruelly, and two weeks ago I never thought him capable of it. I thought,’ said she, her voice catching as she addressed the party, ‘when he would not speak to me these past few days that I must have done something to upset him, but now –’ and here she turned to the duke who looked thoroughly bored – ‘to accuse me of being clumsy, when it was so obviously Miss Sharpe at fault … Well, ’tis clear I was mistaken in you, Sir Robert. ’ Rosalie gulped. ‘ Maman was right!’
At this, Louisa frowned.
‘Right?’ she asked, and all eyes then went to Viscountess Pépin.
‘ Maman warned me,’ cried Rosalie. ‘She said Sir Robert was dishonourable and I did not believe her!’
The viscountess coloured. ‘My dear, now is not the time, nor the place.’
The Duke of Morley scoffed. ‘Well now, viscountess, I fear that was most uncharitable of you, blackening my character in such a way.’
‘I have the proof of my own eyes, your grace,’ the viscountess shot back, ‘as you well know. Would you care to explain to the company how, only the other day, I discovered you beneath the grand staircase with one of my maids?’
Again, there were scandalised murmurs, and Monsieur de Fortgibu – clearly more discreet than the rest – made a gentlemanly retreat from the room, upon which the Thorpes and Mr Denby (looking very thoughtful indeed) swiftly followed.
‘By Jove,’ interceded then Sir Gregory, wide-eyed. ‘Is this true, Morley?’
The duke looked stymied, as if he had not anticipated the rejoinder that so damned his character, as did poor Rosalie who whispered:
‘But Maman ! You said you observed a dalliance in Bath, not here.’
Viscountess Pépin sent her daughter a pitying look. ‘So I did, my dear, but it was only moments after you ran from the drawing room that I happened upon them.’
At this, Cordelia Sharpe laughed in disbelieving tones.
‘Come now, viscountess. A maid? Why, Sir Robert would not lower himself.’
Sir Victor Marshchild cleared his throat.
‘Are you calling Viscountess Pépin a liar, Miss Sharpe?’
‘I …’ She coloured. ‘Well, not a liar per se … more that she has clearly been mistaken.’
‘ Cordelia! ’ Mr Humphrey Sharpe hissed, and it must be said that all three of her brothers looked dreadfully embarrassed.
The viscountess shook her head at Miss Sharpe in admonishment.
‘I suppose you might believe such a thing. It seems the duke has filled your head with lies. I would feel sorry for you, Miss Cordelia, that you should be so deceived in him, if you had not treated my daughters with such cruelty.’
There was a pause in which Miss Sharpe laughed again, her gaze flitting nervously about the others, but this time her laugh was decidedly less strident, and its echoes fell flat and dull in the vast ballroom.
‘Why, my lady. I cannot understand what you mean.’