“No, I am sure—”
“It was so kind of her to come out with the shawl for me, so very kind. So very timely… just at the right time, and I’m so very grateful…” Another gulp of wine. “I like your mother very much.”
“So do—”
“Yes, a lovely lady, quite lovely, and so very kind. How thoughtful of her to rush out like that when…” An even larger gulp of wine. “…when she must fear the night air so much on her own account. So very brave!”
She raised the glass to her lips again, but Bertram reached out and took it from her, setting it down on the table beside them. “You might wish to drink a shade more slowly, Miss Franklyn.”
She giggled and put one hand over her mouth, but her eyes were laughing up at him. Then, abruptly, her mood changed. Settling her hands demurely in her lap, she said more soberly, “I am very sorry, Bertram. Whatever must you think of me? I have been babbling, have I not?”
“I like your babbling. Do you realise that your accent develops more than a hint of your Newcastle origins when you are excited?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh,praydo not say so to Mama! The hours she has spent teaching me to speak properly - you would not believe it. I was not a very apt pupil, and I still struggle to talk correctly, as you have observed.”
“I find it rather charming,” he said. “You may take another sip of wine now — just a small one, mind.”
“You are very kind — kinder than I deserve,” she said in a subdued voice, taking a tiny sip and carefully setting the glass down again.
“Are you quite well, Miss Franklyn?” he said teasingly. “This meek tone is not at all what I have come to expect from you.”
“No. You think me mannerless, I dare say,” she said. “Brash. Bumptious. Thoroughly obnoxious.”
“Full of energy,” he said. “Enthusiastic. Animated, and let me tell you, that is a great deal better than being spiritless and drooping, like so many fashionable young ladies.”
“Oh.” She looked up at him with a hint of a smile. “Then you do not hate me?”
“Hate you? Heavens, no! Why on earth should I?”
“Because I almost— Well, never mind. But you dislike me?”
“Not at all.”
She lowered her voice and leaned towards him. “Then are you going to be so obliging as to offer for me?”
He lowered his voice too. “I am not, Miss Franklyn. Sorry as I am to disappoint you, marriage has no part to play in my future.”
“What a pity,” she said in her normal voice, “when we get along so admirably, too.” But then she laughed. “Nevertheless, I do not yet despair of changing your mind on the subject. Shall we have that dance now?”
He laughed, too, and held out his hand to her. It was impossible to be cross with such a good-humoured girl for very long.
When Bertram had finally abandoned Bea and was looking about for his next partner, he saw Miss Parish sitting quietly in a corner, watching the newly formed set avidly. She was a cousin to the Cathcarts, and recently orphaned.
“Well, Miss Parish,” he said, taking the seat beside her, “what do you think of the dancing so far? Are we not an energetic lot?”
“Oh, yes,” she said in her soft voice, blushing fiercely.
“Who do you think is the best dancer?”
“I… I cannot say.”
“Very diplomatic. I would say my cousin Olivia is the most graceful of the ladies, but for the gentlemen, and it pains me to say so, the palm must go to Mr Franklyn. I never saw a man of his age dance so well. He quite outshines the rest of us.” He paused, but when she said nothing, he went on, “I know you are still in black gloves for your father, but in a setting such as this, amongst friends, it would not be improper for you to dance, surely? May I have the honour?”
“Oh… no, no! Indeed, no.” Then, after a long pause she whispered, “Thank you.”
“Then I shall stay and enjoy your company, Miss Parish.”
“No, no, you must not… look there, Aveline… Miss Cathcart…”
