Crabtree Ball
“Idon’t understand it, Emily! It’s not as though I’m any different this year. I’m the same person I’ve always been. Heaven knows my dowry’s as small as it ever was.” Normally, Rhoda wasn’t one to question good fortune, but the past year had turned her into something of a skeptic.
For upon her wrist, attached to the string her mother had tied earlier, Miss Rhododendron Mossant possessed a full dance card for the first time in all of her ten and nine years. Not once since coming out two years ago had she ever had more than a third accounted for.
Tonight, a masculine name was scribbled onto every single line.
“Likely something to do with you garnering Lord St. John’s notice last year. If a marquess finds you interesting…” Her friend and fellow wallflower, Emily, scrunched her nose and twisted her lips into a wry grimace.
The gentlemen of theton, usually oblivious to her presence, had pounced upon Rhoda the moment she set foot in the ballroom, vying to place their names upon her card. Once they’d procured a set, a few even requested sets with Emily, although with less enthusiasm.
Rhoda had not gone out of her way to flirt or fawn. She hadn’t been nearly as friendly as she’d been in the past. So, why now? The question niggled at her as she bent down to adjust her slipper.
The supper dance was next to commence, and her feet already ached. She hadn’t prepared to partake in such vigorous exercise this evening. Nor had her life prepared her to be the belle of the ball.
“Miss Mossant.”
Rhoda peeked up to identify the owner of the polished boots that appeared before her. The voice sounded familiar, but she didn’t immediately recognize the rather fine-looking gentleman executing a stiff and formal bow.
As she sat upright again, a flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. Rhoda usually didn’t forget a handsome face. Blond hair, blue eyes, perhaps nearing the age of thirty. Ah, yes!
“Mr. White.” Mr. Justin White,the vicar. She stopped herself from gasping. She’d not met with him since the day Lord Harold died last summer at Priory Point, easily one of the worst days of her life.
Second only to the day she’d been informed of St. John’s tragic demise. She shivered as she pushed the thought aside.
“Please, sit down.” She indicated the chair Emily had vacated. Rhoda glanced around the room. Where had she gone?
Not much time presented itself for conversation as the next set was soon to begin. She’d promised this one to Flavion Nottingham, the Earl of Kensington, of all people. She could endure the vicar’s company until Kensington came to claim her. Mr. White was avicar, after all. One could not simplyignorea vicar.
He smiled grimly and lowered himself to the seat. “I trust you are doing well.” He cleared his throat. If he felt as uncomfortable as she, then why had he approached her?
Likely, he felt the need to inquire as to her spiritual health. The collar he wore set him quite apart from the other more ornately dressed gentlemen.
And as for the condition of her spiritual health?
She would have laughed, but if she were to begin laughing, it might turn to hysteria. And quite possibly, she’d be unable to stop.
She wasn’t sure her soul would ever bewellagain. Not since that weekend Harold had fallen off the cliff. And less than a fortnight later, when a river of mud and rain had swept the steep narrow road near Priory Point into the sea, along with the Prescotts’ ducal carriage. St. John, his father, and uncle had all been riding inside.
“I am well. And you, Mr. White?” She studied him from beneath her lashes. He’d been witness to Harold’s death that day, too. The men were all cousins, from what she remembered. Mr. White had nearly jumped into the sea to rescue poor Harold. He’d remained hopeful longer than anyone else. Even longer than Harold’s own brother.
Mr. White’s persistence might have had something to do with his faith.
“It has been a trying winter,” the vicar answered. “But with springtime always comes hope.” He spoke sincerely. No mockery in his words whatsoever.
Hope was something she’d given up on. The greater a person’s hope, the more pain one experienced when disappointment set in. No springtime for her, just one long, endless winter.
“Is it presumptuous of me to hope I might claim a set with you?”
Her heart fluttered ever so weakly. This handsome, kind, wholesome man showing interest in her… Laughable, really. She smothered any pleasure she’d normally have enjoyed upon his request.
Likely whatever had come over the rest of them affected him as well.
“I’m afraid, sir, they have all been spoken for.” When his eyebrows rose in surprise, she held out her wrist. She could hardly believe it herself. “I’m not fibbing, Mr. White! I wouldn’t lie to a vicar!”
He shook his head, not bothering to examine the card. Instead, he stared down at his hands, clasped together at the space between his knees. His blond hair, longer than was fashionable, fell forward, hiding his profile from her gaze.
“I am to be disappointed, then.” He spoke as though mocking himself but then sent her a sideways glance.
