“Well, that’s as it should be, eh? Eh? The unpleasant work is always done by the slaves. That’s what they are there for. That’s what they are there for, I always say. And thank God for that.”
God had little to do with it, but this sense of divine right had been a common refrain through the evening. Jane was beginning to suspect that it was the real reason that Nkiruka did not want to attend. Still, though, this was a charity ball, and Jane did not want to create a scene with one of the patrons. It really was too bad that boors were universal. “I must compliment Mrs. Ransford on her work.”
“Very kind, I am sure.” Mrs. Ransford beamed with delight. “Though I did miss Mrs. Pridmore’s help this past week. I wish you could have waited until after the ball to fire him, Sir David. I do wish that.”
Vincent made an indifferent noise that simply acknowledged that she had spoken.
Mr. Ransford gave a belly laugh. “He hardly had a choice, my dear. The state of the things … I hear your production is already double Pridmore’s, and with a reduction in your slaves at that. How are you managing that? I’ve got to know. Seems we wear out more leather than you trying to get our production where it should be.”
“I am paying them.”
With a roar of laughter, Mr. Ransford mimed punching Vincent on the shoulder. “That’s rich. Well, I’m surprised you kept Pridmore as long as you did. It was a credit to the memory of your father, dear man. Although Pridmore is now saying the most shocking things in town. Only proves that you were right—quite right, if you ask me. Quite right.”
“What sort of things has he said?”
“Trying to convince people your father is alive. Deuced foolishness. But then, drink will do that to a man.” He shook his head and looked at his own punch cup. “Deuced foolishness.”
“How astonishing,” Jane managed. “The subject of drink reminds me to ask you for the recipe for your punch, Mrs. Ransford. I have not tasted its like in England, and should be glad to have it when we next host in London.”
As she hoped, Mrs. Ransford caught the phrase ‘in London’ and leaped upon the topic, moving them safely away from Mr. Pridmore. “You are not going back to England soon, I hope?”
“Not until after my confinement, but not too long after. My parents would never forgive me if they could not see their grandchild.” They were safe for some minutes, then, because the subject of children could take over any conversation.
Vincent stood beside her, silent except when compelled by etiquette to speak. He bore the Ransfords’ conversation for some minutes, then abruptly put his hand on Jane’s back. He said nothing, but Jane recognised this as a silent plea to find an avenue of escape.
Jane gave a sorrowful smile. “As pleasant as this is, Mrs. Ransford, you and I should probably circulate amongst the guests and continue our work for the charity.”
“Oh, bless me. You are right. Come along, Mr. Ransford! Come along!” She turned from them, hauling Mr. Ransford in her wake. “Sir Thomas! So pleased to…” Her effusions faded into the general bustle of music and dance.
At Jane’s side, Vincent let out an audible sigh. “It is not a good sign that I am thinking of the opening nights at Carlton House with sentimental regret.”
“Yes, well, having the Prince Regent to distract attention is an unexpected benefit.” Jane tucked her hand under his arm. “If I may suggest … the columns to either side of the musicians are for show only. You could safely stand within the glamour and no one would be the wiser.”
“Is there room for two?”
“Two, yes.” She looked down at her stomach. “Three, though, may be another matter.”
“Hm…” He rested his hand upon hers. “We may need another solution, then.”
“My dear Sir David, whatever did you have in mind?”
His lips compressed ever so slightly, and the skin at the corners of his eyes just hinted at a smile. “A discussion of the rigours of glamour, of course.”
“I see.”
“With a possible exploration of breathing patterns and ways to avoid overheating.”
“That would be—oh! Mrs. Whitten.” Jane’s face must be as red as a poppy.
Elegant as always, Mrs. Whitten wore a round dress of translucent India silk, trimmed at the hem with a fortune of beads reminiscent of frosted leaves. Over the dress was an elegant quadrille robe, fastened on the left side and edged with still more silver beads. With her white gloves and shoes, the whole was exactly calculated to work in harmony with the ice palace motif.
She had with her an elderly gentleman in a black coat of an older style, with a mane of silver hair brushed smoothly back from his face. “Lady Vincent, Sir David. Would you allow me to present my dear friend Dr. Hartnell? It is his school for the poor that we are hoping to fund for another year.”
“A pleasure, sir.” Jane gave him the deep curtsy his age and gravity merited.