He winced, then said, “Remember Farrah’s, as your mother said. Does that help? Like a soothing balm?”
She rolled her eyes, but lost her flash of temper at his excellent recollection. Besides, Charlotte’s quick grab had saved her enduring a scene of ignominy. Otherwise, Beatrice would undoubtedly be head-over-heels with a tear in her new gown, or worse, her petticoats on display.
“Let’s go upstairs, shall we?” she asked civilly. She’d been thrilled when Mr. Carson insisted he would pick them up, and when her mother said she had no interest in going — “only to be the old mare among the wide-eyed fillies” — Beatrice had accepted his offer.
“They gave me a pencil,” she heard him exclaim behind them as they mounted the stairs.
“Left or right?” Charlotte asked as they reached the landing.
Beatrice didn’t think there was a correct answer, nor that it mattered, but Mr. Carson said, “Right, of course.”
“Why do you say ‘of course’?” Charlotte asked, even as she cooperated and went up the right side.
“Because if you’re right-handed, as most of us are, then you will want to grip the rail with your right hand.”
“Very practical,” Beatrice said, and they proceeded to climb the next staircase that put them at the front of the house again. Taking a left, they strolled along the gallery able to look down on all those still entering or up at the domed ceiling with a much closer view than they’d had previously.
“Why, I can see little moons and stars painted on the ceiling. Isn’t that clever?”
“For goodness sake, Charlotte, don’t dawdle,” Beatrice teased, “or Mr. Carson will run you down.”
The ballroom was much like Amity’s except far larger, and across the hall, a secondary reception room was open with doors at either end.
“I think we can dance from one room directly into the next,” Charlotte said with awe, her voice dropped to a low tone.
“Why are you whispering?” Beatrice asked.
“Because it’s so opulent, so very grand. It seems like we’re going to spend the evening at St. Paul’s.”
They entered the ballroom, and floor managers greeted them immediately. Despite there being no crush of people as at Sandrall Hall, even so, this ball would be better staffed than any public one.
When Mr. Carson asked one of the managers where the earl was, expecting him to be wandering about greeting his guests, the man gave a shallow bow.
“I have been informed his lordship will attend some part of this evening.” Then he turned heel and walked away to see to another guest.
“I don’t understand,” Mr. Carson said . “It’s the earl’s ball, but he may or may not be here?”
Beatrice was as in the dark as he was. However, Charlotte, as usual, knew more about high society from reading the gossip rags.
“It’s more a Clarendon House ball than it is this particular earl’s event. He is continuing a tradition started by his father, but apart from him providing the venue and grounds and lending it his name, the ball is run by others, and the price we paid for admission will cover the cost of the musicians and the food. Look around you,” Charlotte said, and they did so, taking in the expansive room with an impressive line of chandeliers down its center and twelve curtained floor-to-ceiling windows along the length. A group of musicians nearly the size of an orchestra was set up at one end, and the ballroom still seemed spacious.
“One couldn’t expect the Earl of Clarendon to host in the way Amity and the duke did for their more intimate affair,” Charlotte concluded.
Beatrice stared at her sister. “You know so much more than I give you credit for, dear one.”
Charlotte grinned, and it reminded Beatrice of a cat who’d eaten the canary. Her little sister might be insufferable for the rest of the evening. Right away, Charlotte said, “Let’s get a table on the opposite side, away from the doors, so we can see more.” And she strode across the parquet as if she owned the place.
“There shall be no living with her now,” Beatrice mused.
Mr. Carson escorted them to a table and wrote his name on each of their cards before dashing off to secure his place with others.
“It is more fun when he’s with us,” Charlotte said, reading Beatrice’s mind a little too closely.
“He’s hardlywithus, in any case,” she protested. And then she could think no more of her American friend as the introductions and the new faces began to make the rounds.
Within twenty minutes, Beatrice’s card was nearly full.
“Miss Rare-Foure,” an unfamiliar gentleman greeted her. She glanced around for a floor manager, but none was to be seen. “Please, don’t be alarmed. I apologize for my forwardness, but I missed dancing with you at the Duke of Pelham’s ball, and I didn’t want that to happen again.”
