Page 24

V erity stepped gingerly from the Sinclair carriage, the olive-gold folds of her skirt clutched in her nervous fingers. The home of the Macraes was bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, while the light of hundreds of candles shone forth from every window and doorway.

The sheer expense of it was hard for Verity to fathom.

In the vicarage, they went to bed early rather than waste such a precious commodity as candles.

Even the dress she was wearing equaled the cost of her entire wardrobe in Fernbridge, not counting shoes or hats, of course.

Thanks to the quality of the material and its sophisticated style, she felt less self-conscious entering such a grand home.

Still, there was the matter of all the strangers. And the dancing.

Hope had done her best. But Verity had not taken to dancing.

She had discovered that, unlike her fingers, which were skilled in fine artistry, her feet were rather ungainly.

Or perhaps they were merely feet that would rather wade through a pond than follow the confusing patterns of a cotillion.

She had more than once nearly knocked Hope’s cap from her head when she had raised her arms and turned left instead of right.

Or was it right instead of left? Whatever the case may have been, she fully intended to be mysteriously unavailable when they danced the cotillion.

At least she would be spared the waltz. Her father had strong opinions about the intimate contact this shockingly modern dance allowed and would not have his unmarried daughter perform it. Thanks be for her old-fashioned papa!

“Now, don’t be worried,” Hope whispered as they stepped inside the warm foyer of the Macrae home. “There will be plenty of country reels where you will spend much of the time standing in conversation while you wait your turn to dance down the center with your partner.”

“Oh, good,” Verity replied weakly. She knew Hope was trying to lessen her fears, but conversation was little better than dancing, especially when it was with a stranger.

She was sure to speak too freely. Or, in holding her tongue for her mother’s sake, say too little.

It really wasn’t much of a choice—to be branded as odd or viewed as painfully shy.

“Are you sighing already?” Hope asked. “Don’t look at me so woefully! Come on, you are here to have fun. And meet people.”

And find a husband , Verity grumbled to herself.

She had no illusions as to the real purpose of these balls.

They were the ultimate convenience for the unwed—a crowd of potential matches, dressed to display beauty and wealth, such as they had.

Every conversation, every dance, every tilt of the fan was a step toward achieving one goal: to procure an engagement.

Everyone else who attended was really just a chaperone.

Perhaps that was why Hope looked forward to the night ahead. She had found an excellent match in Daniel Sinclair. Whether or not they danced and exchanged scintillating dialogue, they would return to their home satisfied and happy.

Verity, on the other hand, had no such assurance. The best she could hope for was to not make a fool of herself. But she had promised her mother she would try. And Hope was so excited on her behalf. At the very least, she should bear it bravely.

Verity resisted the urge to find a quiet corner behind some potted foliage. Instead, she clutched her fan and reticule tightly and followed Hope and her husband around the edge of the large ballroom toward a slightly less crowded spot.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair!” called a friendly voice. “How lovely to see you here!”

“Mrs. Trenton!” Hope turned to Verity. “I scarce need to introduce you, as you have known each other since childhood. Perhaps, though, you do not recognize each other, as it has been some years since your acquaintance. Mrs. Trenton, this is my sister, Miss Verity Lockhart. Verity, this lovely woman is Mrs. James Trenton. You knew her as Miss Cole.”

William’s sister.

Charlotte Trenton had been kind enough to send a note, acknowledging receipt of the butterfly and accompanying letter, and offering the assurance that William would be informed of both when next he visited.

He must have done so by now. Verity searched Mrs. Trenton’s face for any clue as to how he may have reacted.

“My dear Miss Lockhart.” The lady smiled warmly, reaching out and taking Verity’s hand in hers. “How you have bloomed! It amazes me that the gentlemen are not already lining up to ask for a dance. But then again, there seems to be no accounting for the whims of men.”

Was she making friendly chatter, or did a message lie hidden deeper among her words?

No doubt Mrs. Trenton was aware of the courtship that had stuttered to a halt before it had quite begun.

Was she offering a measure of understanding, even an apology of sorts for the fact that her brother had abandoned his effort so abruptly?

If so, Verity must set her straight at once.

After all, the lack of romantic progress between Mr. Cole and herself had been as much her own choice as his.

“I am only too grateful to be left to myself,” Verity hinted. “Gentlemen cannot be blamed for offering me a wide berth when I make no effort to be sought out.”

Mrs. Trenton cocked her head to the side. “I am of the humble opinion that a bud will open spontaneously to the warmth of the sun. No true gardener expects to pry open her heart. He would rather provide the environment in which she would offer it willingly.”

Perhaps Verity’s letter had said enough, for it seemed she and Mrs. Trenton understood each other.

It was a great relief. Not only was Hope’s friendship with Mrs. Trenton intact, but the lady seemed to comprehend Verity’s position as well.

For the first time since she’d stepped from the carriage, Verity was buoyed by optimism.

Perhaps there were others like Mrs. Trenton.

The evening had only just begun, and already, Verity had an ally.

In the form of Mr. Cole’s sister, no less!

Verity squeezed the hand that held hers. “You have not changed at all. Even though I was too young to mix often in your company, I always remember your kindness. It is good to know you again.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Sinclair must bring you to tea, and soon,” Mrs. Trenton replied. “My maternal cares prevent me from leaving the house as often as I’d like. Some company to look in on us would be very welcome.”

“You are the most dedicated of mothers,” said a voice behind them.

Verity whipped around to find a gentleman of very average proportions smiling pleasantly at Mrs. Trenton.

He looked about ten years older than Verity, the very first wrinkles appearing about the corners of his eyes.

He was neither tall nor particularly short.

His medium-brown hair appeared undecided as to whether it was straight or wavy.

Though ample in supply, it lay subdued upon his scalp while the ends twisted haphazardly at the nape of his neck.

His face did not boast refined cheekbones.

Nor did it lack structure. He was entirely mediocre in appearance, except for the sincerity of his smile, which lit up his features and gave them a sweetness that was very welcoming.

“Dr. Westbridge!” Mrs. Trenton cried with delight.

She pulled lightly on Verity’s hand, which she had not yet released, and guided her to more fully face the gentleman.

“Miss Lockhart, may I introduce Dr. Arthur Westbridge? He is our physician and was present at the births of Clarence, our firstborn, and Jane, our daughter. Dr. Westbridge, Miss Verity Lockhart of Fernbridge, a childhood friend. This is her first ball.”

Dr. Westbridge dipped his head to Verity, his smile widening to include his eyes, which twinkled cheerfully.

“What a pleasure, Miss Lockhart,” he said.

“You have chosen the best possible ball with which to begin your venture into society. The Macraes are a very good sort indeed. And their guests likewise.” His eye caught something and his speech hitched.

“Yes, ahem, well, with the possible exception of one or two personages who will insist upon attending without knowing how to behave.”

Verity tried to catch sight of whoever had caused him to alter his endorsement of the event, but the crowd was too dense to pick out the individuals.

“Nevertheless,” Dr. Westbridge continued, “I am confident your chaperone will know whom to keep from you.” He paused, as if pondering a private thought, then added, “Perhaps I may be considered worthy of a dance? One of the country dances, if you like. I am not proficient enough to offer you the cotillion. Your first experience of that dance should not be with a clumsy oaf like myself. But I can offer you a fair reel and some not-too-terrible discourse. Is this acceptable?”

Verity looked at her sister. Hope looked positively exultant. “I see no reason why you should not dance with Dr. Westbridge,” she said, raising her fan and giving an exaggerated wink behind it. “That is, after all, why you have come… To dance .”

Verity looked away before Hope could wink surreptitiously at her again. Honestly! Her sister was practically planning their nuptials already!

“I’m afraid,” Verity said to the gentleman, “my own contribution to the dance will be inferior.”

“Nonsense!” said Hope. “You are just nervous. Daniel and I shall take our places next to you and you may follow our steps when you falter. There are plenty of unmarried gentlemen here tonight, so I may be forgiven for stealing my own husband for a dance instead of lending him to the unmarried ladies.”

Dr. Westbridge shrugged. “It is not for me to push Miss Lockhart toward an activity that alarms her. Perhaps,” he said, addressing Verity, “when we next meet at a ball, you will feel more inclined.”