Ashley resisted the urge to squirm. “Yes. I wonder.”
Before the moment became too awkward, cousins came to ask Georgia to clarify a childhood memory. As Ashley debated what to do with herself, Mr. Westbrook appeared at her side, offering a glass of lemonade. “Did you enjoy it?” He took a sip from his own glass.
Ashley accepted the drink. “It’s lovely. Quite took Lady Templeton and Lady Bedford by surprise.”
Westbrook grinned. “Me as well.” He glanced around, confirming no one nearby seemed interested in their conversation, and lowered his voice. “Whatever you did to him, I like it.”
Ashley felt her cheeks heat. “I- I don’t know what you mean.”
“He’s singing again. Of his own volition. Before he moved out, when he was awake he’d walk around dropping bass notes like a mad gardener sowing seeds.” He smiled again. “Working on that piece with him last night was the most fun I’ve had in years.”
“Truly?” Ashley looked over her shoulder, but no one was by the cupboards now except Lord Templeton going through a music folder. She took a sip to conceal her disappointment.
“He had to leave,” Westbrook said, following her gaze. “Has a committee meeting. Said he felt obligated to attend today since he didn’t make it to the last one two weeks ago. The one he missed because of … his emergency in Surrey.”
* * *
That night Uncle Edward and Aunt Eunice escorted Ashley to a ball. According to the note Georgia sent over, she and her family would not be in attendance as they were still entertaining a houseful of relatives celebrating Clarissa’s wedding.
Sally and Maggie had assured Ashley that she was turned out in the first stare of fashion, wearing a taffeta and lace confection from Madame Chantel in sea green, topped with a sapphire blue silk shawl. Strands of seed pearls adorned her hair, and a pearl necklace circled her throat. She tried to project an aura of calm assurance without being arrogant, carefully following every rule of society. Not too bold, not too shy.
Yet she still sat out most of the dances with the wallflowers, spinsters, and chaperones. Lacking invitations, she watched the younger women like Miss Kenyon be invited onto the floor time after time. The only ball where Ashley had been in high demand as a dance partner was when her face had been disguised by a half-mask at the masquerade.
Her prospects were so dismal, she gladly accepted Lord Grantham’s invitation to waltz.
“Enjoying yourself, Miss Hamlin?” Without waiting for her response, he began to hum along with the musicians. Off-key.
It took all her training not to roll her eyes and to keep her expression polite, to give him a politely bland and appropriate reply. Even when he stepped on her toes. Twice.
To distract herself, she again replayed in her mind the conversation she’d had with Ravencroft, when he’d shocked her by saying she was an administrator rather than a teacher. She had considered it over and over, especially when perusing the Help Wanted advertisements. And the calendar, as the date of Uncle Edward and Aunt Eunice’s departure for Jamaica loomed ever closer. She fought off a growing sense of desperation at the lack of matrimonial or employment prospects.
Lord Grantham led her back to her seat where she sat out the next two songs. Too bad she couldn’t take the initiative and ask gentlemen to dance. At the assemblies in Torquay, when she wore the sash indicating she could dance the man’s part, she had become comfortable inviting girls from the academy to dance. If all the students had partners, she’d seek out a wallflower, someone tapping her toe in time with the music, so they both could have the pleasure of dancing.
Could she somehow take the initiative in her employment search? Beyond responding to advertisements someone else had placed?
* * *
“I wonder how we could summon the Bogeyman.”
Ashley froze. She had retreated to the ladies’ retiring room to repair the hem on her dress after realizing Lord Grantham had stepped on it. Still sitting on a stool in a curtained alcove, needle and hem in hand, she peeked around the velvet drape.
“I haven’t heard of him appearing to anyone since Amber Barrow-Smith.” Miss Kenyon stood before the mirror, fussing with a curl that had come undone.
Ashley didn’t recognize her companion, who held a comb and hair pins, handing them to Miss Kenyon as needed.
“My sister thinks our dancing master is going to marry her. While Mr. Giovanni is handsome and charming, he hasn’t a feather to fly with. He’s still wearing the same coat from last year. I recognize the brass buttons.” She handed Amber a pin. “I’ve tried to speak sense to her, but you know how silly and stubborn girls of only seventeen can be.”
Considering the speaker barely looked to be nineteen, Ashley held back a snort.
“And you think the Bogeyman would get through to her?” Miss Kenyon successfully pinned up one curl, only to watch another fall down. She grimaced at her reflection.
“He certainly made an impression with Miss Barrow-Smith.”
Ashley set the last stitch, bit the thread, and let her skirt down. She cleared her throat as she pushed back the curtain. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” she said as she stepped from the alcove.
“Miss Hamlin!” Miss Kenyon squeezed her hands in greeting. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Bettencourt.”
Greetings exchanged, Ashley asked the other two to help check her hem in the back. Once assured there was no further damage to her dress, Ashley slipped her tiny sewing kit into her reticule. “I have an idea that might help with your sister,” she began.
