Doug swallowed hard. “You look perfect,” he said, keeping his eyes on her face with great effort.
“We hope you two are right, don’t we, Dougie,” Esther said, grinning down at her son.
All too soon, the evening ended, with Aunt Edna insisting Doug take Esther and little Dougie home in his trap and promising to send two more dresses as soon as she finished them, for “You can’t go to work in the same dress every day.”
When they reached the grubby building that housed Smalley’s jumble shop and Esther’s pathetic little room, Doug pulled the trap to a halt. Esther slid down, still holding the sleeping baby.
“Spare your leg, Sergeant Marsh. I can manage for myself,” she said.
“We’re back to ‘Sergeant Marsh’ again, I notice.” He couldn’t make out her features in the dim light, and he was left wondering about the difference between a bout of shyness versus any need she might have to put him in his place.
“It feels disrespectful to call you by your Christian name. It isn’t as if we are courting.” Her voice sounded breathless, and the pause made him wonder. “Are we?”
“Of course not.” His words came out in a rush. “I wouldn’t presume any such thing.”
Her head still tilted up, and he felt rather than saw her close study of his face.
“Good night, then. Thank you—for dinner, your help—for everything,” she said.
Before he could reply, she turned and went inside. He sat in front of the jumble shop until he saw a candle flicker in the upstairs window, and then he turned the little pony toward home. The ache in his leg matched the deeper one in his heart.
We aren’t courting. Of course, we aren’t. More’s the pity.
* * *
With the great Valentine’s Day Ball a mere two weeks away, the Marsh Candle Works dove into action, and so did its owner. A contract for eight hundred candles required long hours, attention to production, and encouragement for the workers. It did not require repeated visits to the Assembly Rooms to study the spectacular chandeliers. It most definitely did not require Douglas Marsh to check on the subscription manager every few days.
He stood looking across the echoing expanse of the ballroom toward the musician’s gallery where a small army of workers scrubbed and polished. He had to force himself to recall his ostensible purpose for being there, which had been to observe the chandeliers up close when they were lowered for cleaning. The Assembly Rooms’ prissy little manager minced over to greet him. The man had become downright fawning after Chadbourn’s visit. Doug’s dislike for him increased.
“Why didn’t you tell us you knew the earl?” Fowler oozed after a few bits of perfunctory courtesy.
“His lordship fought alongside the troops in the Peninsula,” Doug replied just as he had the last time Fowler asked.
The manager grimaced as if the thought of an earl actually getting down into the mud with the men somehow offended him. The smile that replaced his sour expression looked forced. “Will he be attending the Valentine’s Day Ball?” he asked, his words dripping with honey.
As if I know his social calendar… “He indicated he might not be in Bath for long,” Doug replied tersely.
As suddenly as Fowler had approached Doug, he bustled away, having received an answer to his burning question, if not the one he wanted.
Doug turned back into the broad corridor that passed through the vestibule. He glanced at the stand that held the subscription book and notices. The flowers of Society had flocked to Bath in greater numbers since mid-January as word of the Grand Ball spread, and everyone who mattered—in the eyes of the upper classes—took care to let the Assembly Rooms know it. Seeing no sign of Esther, he peeked into the first cloakroom.
Seated at a broad table and bent over her efforts, Esther didn’t notice him at the door. He watched her greedily. Entirely absorbed in her work, she folded square cards of ivory vellum into paper, sealed them, and addressed each with a fine quill. The coveted tickets to the Valentine’s Day Ball, once completed, went into a large basket next to her. Stacks of clean cards lined the table; a few crumpled papers—mistakes no doubt—lay in its far corner. She completed one and put a mark on the list to her left before reaching up for another. He admired the orderly manner in which she worked. He admired the curve of her neck and the line of her back as well.
“’Morning, Mr. Marsh.” A footman, whose name Doug didn’t remember, came through the room carrying dirty linens for the laundry. Esther turned at his words and looked back at Doug.
Something other than joy lurked in her expression; it pinned Doug to the spot.Sorrow? Worry?He stepped forward.
* * *
“Is something amiss, Mrs. Linder? I couldn’t help noticing you look distressed?”
What is Douglas Marsh doing here?Esther wondered.Did he come to check on me?She shook her head.Don’t be a ninny, Esther. He’s a busy man with a business to run and other people dependent on him.
“I am well, Sergeant Marsh. Merely surprised to see you today.” Esther pulled the corners of her mouth into a smile of greeting. She didn’t want to worry this good man who had done so much to help her with her problems already.
His gaze intensified, studying her as if he could sense the fear, but she knew that to be nonsense. When Lady Broadhurst’s eyes narrowed at her the day before, Esther’s heart had almost stopped. Then, the woman snapped, “You’re new! Where is Lydia?” Esther’s vague response that the woman left to care for her elderly mother drew a firm “Humph,” and nothing else. An encounter with the old battleax in the ladies’ withdrawing room at Pembrooks’ ball had left Esther shaking two years ago, but here in Bath, dressed as she was, the harridan didn’t appear to recognize Esther at all.
There had been others as well—people she had met at balls or musicales during her two seasons—not one seemed to recognize her. Better yet, most barely glanced at the meek little subscription secretary in a plain dress with her hair pulled back. Even that didn’t relieve her fear of discovery; it left her torn between hope, humiliation, and dread.
