Box Hall was square with a sprung floor of long planks, more an intimate ballroom than a hall. The room was on the manor’s north side, sun-brightened by dormer windows, and the windows overlooked the hills and a ragged ravine. A pair of glass doors opened to a long, shallow terrace. Half the floor had small tables and upholstered seating like a salon, suited for the two dozen guests who would attend. The rest was sparsely filled. A grand pianoforte stood imposingly, and I recognized the cherrywood case of Mr. Knightley’s violin on a table.
The chairs had been subtly spaced to indicate the royal seats. Eight or nine members of the court entourage were milling. They had indeed opened the terrace doors, and the room was cool.
“Miss Woodhouse,” called one of them, Mr. Howell, who seemed to manage royal gatherings and entertainments. His bony face was perched above a ruffled sky-blue silk coat. He swirled his long-nailed fingers, beckoning me to their group.
I was not fond of the royal entourage. The prince, and even the young princess, had gravitas and thoughtfulness, even if they were sometimes lost in decorum or boredom, but the courtiers were downright dull, saying nothing worth hearing and admiring without intelligence. They were all jewels and cosmetics and rude rumors, the staples of London society.
But declining Mr. Howell’s invitation would be rude as well, so I joined them, flanked on the other side by a remote royal cousin, one of the few bound wyves at court. She wore a pleated apple-green bodice trimmed with gauze. Themembers of court had brought maids and dressers, which had a selfish benefit for me: there was not one loose thread, stray hair, or crooked tie.
Conversation pattered among fortunes and rumored courtships and smug allusions to gambling debts. The sole mention of the war was shushed. A white-powdered, bewigged baronet announced he would perform a pantomime for the entertainment, then asked suggestions for his theme. I was invited to join him and smilingly declined while wondering what time it was. Afternoon entertainments usually started promptly.
At last, Mr. Knightley and Miss Darcy arrived, and expectations rose as A’s were struck and strings tuned. Satisfied, Mr. Knightley set his violin aside and joined our group. His greetings with the court were casual; we had all mingled during the trip from London. Mr. Knightley’s deepest bow was for me, and I curtsied carefully. Perhaps this was his apology for misbehaving at Mr. Darcy’s lesson.
I had dwelled on my behavior as well, and decided it was not my best. He had been trying to help.
The next influx of guests provided everyone except Mr. and Mrs. Darcy and the royal family. Harriet arrived radiant and slightly rumpled from her tour to Lambton, wearing the green velvet gown she had worn at our frightening visit to Mr. Tinsdale’s rally on the Thames. She greeted everyone very properly, but the responses disturbed me. The courtiers flicked too many glances and lifted too many eyebrows.
Harriet, though, was so happy that she held every eye. Amid that attention, she said, “I have had the most wonderful day.”
“Indeed?” inquired Mr. Howell, with a bony half-smile.
“Oh yes! The Lambton school is so charming and modern. The headmistress complimented my explanation of a story. She will recommend me for the Martin School. Is that not wonderful?”
Together, the courtiers’ noses lifted an inch. Rouged lips twitched in amusement. One said, “Quite.”
I felt myself heat with embarrassment. I had warned her about discussing the school. Clearly, she had forgotten.
Harriet continued with supreme confidence, “Teaching is not a position in His Majesty’s court, but it is important. If I improve the understanding of a single child, I should feel tremendous accomplishment.”
“Well, modest expectations are best,” the courtier said with a rude wink to the circle.
“I assure you, sir, my expectations are not modest,” Harriet replied. “You will see what I accomplish.”
Some of the courtiers were openly chuckling. It was time for a rescue, and the bolder, the better.
“Harriet is such a dear,” I said. “I have explained that professional teaching is common, but she cannot master her impulse to be charitable.”
The courtiers hummed and nodded. To my right, Mr. Knightley’s head snapped around to stare at me. And at last, Harriet’s confident smile thinned. Perhaps she realized these horrid people were mocking her.
Still, the reaction of the court proved my point. Vindicated, I continued, “Charity is wonderful, but a setting like a school suggests a person is comfortable there. When a path to genteel society has been offered, one is obligated—”
Mr. Knightley’s foot landed on my toe so hard that I winced. I gave him a hurt look.
“There!” the baronet told Harriet. “You must accept the advice of your better.”
“I have heard her advice before,” Harriet pronounced carefully, but to me, not to him. Her chin was set. She was angry.
Mr. Howell gave a fleeting laugh. “With a sponsor such as Miss Woodhouse, I am certain doors to suitable society can be opened.” He gave me a courtly bow, fluttering his hand.
Harriet’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Mr. Howell’s words had kindled an uncertain sensation in my breast. I tried to remember what exactly I had said…
Loudly, Harriet said, “Miss Woodhouse is not mysponsor.”
“Oh.” Mr. Howell turned to me, screwing up his outlined eyes in curiosity. Every gaze followed. “What, then?”
She is my sister. The words hung, shy of my lips.
Ever since our meeting with Mr. Debrett, I had been pondering when to announce our relationship. There was no rush, as his next publication was months away. And Harriet had not pressed me to hurry. Not once.
