Mr. Plum sighed. “Of course, Miss Forscythe. Miss Elderwood, would you care to join me for a dance?”
She looked to Mr. Plum, with the remnants of wine still staining his chin purple, and then to the dance floor. “A tendrille? I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with the steps.”
“It’s quite easy,” Venus said. “Just switch partners when the music changes. The gentlemen will do most of the work. You’ll do splendid. Now go on, the band is starting.”
Mr. Plum smiled sourly and then moved to the floor. Venus and Elswyth followed.
“I will say, Venus,” Elswyth whispered, “I am not overly fond of Mr. Plum.”
“Oh, yes, horrible, isn’t he? But he’s very rich and likely to die young, what with the way he drinks. It will make Lord Forrester very jealous, I assure you. And it’s a mixer dance, so you’ll pair with Lord Forrester eventually.Doat least try to look like you’re having fun.”
With that, Venus smiled and retreated to the edge of the ballroom, away from the dancers. Elswyth stepped before Mr. Plum, who took her hand in a moist grip. She suppressed a shiver.
The music began. The dance was more complex than she’d hoped. She went through the motions as best she could, and while Mr. Plum was hardly an athletic man, he had the confident dependability of a gentleman trained in dance. He made conversation, but Elswyth could hardly follow along. All of her attention was on her feet, keeping them carefully in position. The tendrille grew more lively, twisting the dancers around the room in fast-moving lines.
“As I was saying,” Mr. Plum said, “botany is a woman’s science, akin to gardening, or midwifery—”
He continued his lecture, and Elswyth continued focusing on her feet. The music quickened, and the first change was imminent. Elswyth hopped backward, away from Mr. Plum, and stumbledgracelessly. This elicited a small snicker from behind her. Lord Ashdown and Begonia Pritchett danced nearby, and Begonia covered her laughter with a hand.
Blood rushed into Elswyth’s face, but she managed to stay upright. She regained her footing, kept her chin high, and hoped the blush didn’t show through her makeup. Her next partner, she was pleased to find, was Lord Forrester. He stepped to meet her, swept her up in his arms, and soon they were dancing. He took her hand and his fingers slid between the ivy rings. His other hand rested lightly on her lower back.
“Miss Elderwood!” he said, smiling. “You look radiant tonight.”
“Lord Forrester,” Elswyth said. “I must say I am glad to see you again. Our first meeting was so brief, and I have so many questions about entomology. I just learned that in rainforest ecosystems, plants and insects create complicated webs of toxins and antitoxins, and I wanted an entomologist’s perspective—”
“Oh drat. Time to change!” Lord Forrester said. Suddenly, she was spinning away from him and landed firmly in another gentleman’s arms. Her dance partner changed several more times, but she never returned to Lord Forrester. The dance seemed to stretch on forever. She spun between gentlemen, her legs tiring, trying desperately not to trip again. Finally, she fell back into the arms of Mr. Plum.
“—and that’s the difference in the physiognomy of the Irish and the Italians. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Elswyth wasn’t listening. Instead, she looked longingly over at Lord Forrester, who was sweeping Hyacinth Thatcher gracefully across the dance floor. She mumbled assent, not really knowing what she was agreeing to. When she looked back to Mr. Plum,he’d taken his hand away from her waist and was scratching at his throat.
“Are you all right?” Elswyth asked.
“Hm? Yes, yes, just a scratch.” He stopped itching his neck and grabbed her hand again. When he did, his fingers were swollen and slick with sweat.
“Now, as I was saying before, about skull shape… My, that really does itch, the little bugger. I’m sorry, just a moment.”
Mr. Plum stopped dancing. Lord Ashdown and Begonia Pritchett almost collided with them, but he didn’t seem to notice. He undid his collar and scratched beneath it. Up close, Elswyth could see red blisters beginning to form, leaking yellowish pus.
“Erm—Mr. Plum. It appears you have a rash,” Elswyth said.
“Do I? Does it look bad?”
She looked at him. Red splotches sprouted on the sweat-soaked skin of his face.
“Perhaps I have overly exerted myself—I should like some water. Is it very warm in here?” Mr. Plum waved over a servant, and Elswyth looked around the room. The music had suddenly stopped, and all the other dancers had stopped with it. Lord Ashdown stood with Miss Pritchett and complained about something under his breath. He itched his neck furiously. Elswyth could see an angry rash spreading up toward his jaw. Begonia, too, itched her hand, where a similar rash had formed. Elswyth’s head turned. All around the dance floor, people stopped in place, scratching at their skin. Crimson pustules bloomed up the faces of the dancers, weeping yellowish liquid. All of them, it seemed, except for her.
The chatter began to rise. Begonia Pritchett let out a moan as she saw herself in the reflection of the greenhouse, her pretty facecovered in red blisters. She itched at them and pus leaked from the rash, staining her gloves.
“What is this? Who’s done this?” Begonia said, looking around the room.
From the outside of the dance floor, Drusilla Wilton pointed at Elswyth. “Look! She’s the only one who doesn’t have a rash!”
Elswyth watched as all the eyes in the room settled on her.
“You did this,” Begonia Pritchett said.
“What? No, I—”
