“Perhaps you need to sit down then, Mr. Poot,” she said as they parted again to skip around the edge of the group.
“Indeed, let us slip aside a moment,” he said as they joined hands, and he pulled her swiftly behind a potted palm and the heavy swag of curtains onto a small balcony. That the balcony overlooked the rather smelly stable yard of the inn, and that Beatrice was quick to withdraw her hand and to shrink back towards the ballroom, did not seem to offer any impediment to Mr. Poot.
“I must beg the indulgence of a few moments of conversation with you,” he said. “Won’t you sit down?” He indicated a small wrought-iron chair in the window, and she eyed it with suspicion.
“Thank you, Mr. Poot,” she said. “But just for a moment. I am promised to Mr. Kent for the next waltz.”
“I think they are offering a violin interlude,” said Mr. Poot, peering beyond the curtain. “We shall not be interrupted.”
“Perhaps some lemonade?” she asked, hoping to send him away so she might make her escape from his company.
“I will gladly provide you lemonade, or anything your heart may desire,” said Mr. Poot. “Only give me one moment to speak what I can no longer hide.” So saying, he dropped to one knee and placed a hand on his heart.
“Good heavens, no, Mr. Poot,” she said, her voice coming as an anxious squeak of horror. “I beg you.”
“It is I who must beg you, Miss Nash,” he said. “I had prepared to make the most rational of cases for the joining of two people in mutual advantage; but in the face of your beauty today, both as stately England and tonight, as a figure of grace in the ballroom, I find I am swept away.”
“It cannot be, Mr. Poot,” she said, doing her best to rise and make a polite withdrawal. But he grabbed her hand in both of his and she sat down abruptly. “I do not look for a declaration,” she added.
“I know it may come as a surprise, as you have long given up your dreams of matrimony for a lonely spinsterhood,” he said. “But you have captured my attention and my heart, Miss Nash. I ask you to become mine and make our fortunes one in the world.”
“Whose fortune exactly?” she said, and could not keep a sharp note from her voice as she recovered her composure.
“Your trusts, while I do not yet know their full extent, are no more than an agreeable boost to our common cause,” he said. “A gentleman’s independence will allow me to pursue the law and thereby provide you with the comfortable life and, dare I say, enviable social position of being a solicitor’s wife.” He looked to the ceiling in contemplation and added, “Perhaps in time, a judge’s wife; perhaps a mayoress, like my aunt?”
“Ah, to be just like your aunt,” said Beatrice. “That is quite the temptation.”
“You make a gentle jest, I know,” he said. “But only think how marriage to me will render you free of your trustees.”
“You would control my portion instead,” she said.
“Have I not already proved myself your friend and advocate?” he said. “Did I not approve this very dress and pay you two pounds from my own pocket?”
“You made me an advance from your own funds?” she asked, horrified. He made a gesture of airy dismissal.
“I do not regard it as a debt,” he said. “Though your trustees have yet to reimburse me, I did not mean you to hear of it, I assure you. It was a pleasure to carry the obligation privately next to my heart.” For a moment they both contemplated the enormity of his actions. Beatrice felt anger rise in her with an intensity of feeling she had not experienced since the awful moment of her father’s death. Such strong emotion was likely to produce tears, and she was determined not to give Mr. Poot the satisfaction. She yanked away her hand from his and rose from the chair, paying no attention to his proximity. Mr. Poot was forced to scuttle backwards lest his face be buried in her skirts as she towered over him.
“I decline your offer and ask you never to repeat it,” she said, allowing a hint of her fury into her clipped tone. “Please get out of my way.”
“There is no need to be so rude,” he said, scrambling to his feet, his face ugly with disappointment. “I think I have made you the most respectable offer you are likely to receive and you could at least provide some explanation of why a woman like you should be so quick to turn it down.”
“Mr. Poot—” she began. She was planning to lecture him on exactly why he was owed no explanation, but a rousing mazurka had begun in the ballroom and she caught a glimpse of Lucy Ramsey, skipping by and twirling under Hugh’s arm, her ostrich fan sweeping in an elaborate circle. Her previous disappointment and her current rage seemed to die away in a long sigh. How foolish, she thought, to waste her anger on either the impossible or the absurd. When she turned back to him, it was with a resigned smile on her face. “I will give you an explanation, Mr. Poot,” she continued, drawing on a corner of her dance card and tearing off the piece to hand to him. “I must follow the fashionable lead of Sir Alex Ramsey’s daughter, Miss Lucy Ramsey.”
“What are you giving me?” he asked, looking puzzled at her scribbled drawing.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Poot, I am such a bad artist,” she said, visibly engaged in looking for friends in the ballroom. “That is my pitiful representation of a feather. Please be assured that I would never accuse you of cowardice, sir, but I understand the white feather is the only suitable response to give to any suitor not wearing the uniform. Now if you’ll excuse me, I see Miss Devon is looking for me.”
—
“It is so nice to sit and watch the young people dance, is it not?” said Miss Devon, when Beatrice had sat down. The Misses Porter, who had brought their knitting, nodded in agreement. “I am too old for it myself, and I would not put myself forward when there are so many young ladies, but it is a pleasure to see all the amusement and to have a little supper, no?” she added. Having so lately both inflicted and suffered romantic rejection, Beatrice did not quite know how to respond. A sudden glimpse of her future, sitting by the wall with a dowdy posy of feathers on her head, nodding along to the music while others danced, made her blanch. She had long maintained no interest in marriage, but perhaps she had not properly considered the full implications of the spinster life.
When an extra waltz was announced and Lucy went onto the dance floor on the arm of a captain with a large moustache, Beatrice kept her eyes on the floor and hoped that by winding a ball of wool for the Misses Porter she might discourage any gentlemen from importuning her. But Hugh’s shoes arrived on the polished boards, and when she looked up, he smiled and offered his hand.
As she surrendered to the delight of sweeping around the room, her dress swinging about her like a bell, she turned her face to his and both of them were soon laughing as she gave him a brief and comic version of Mr. Poot’s declaration.
“Daniel will insist we challenge him to a duel,” said Hugh. “But I think I can get Harry Wheaton to thrash the bounder instead.”
“No, no, you are sworn to secrecy,” she said. “I do not wish to humiliate the man; I only thought I would die if I could not tell someone.”
“Why does everyone burden me with their secrets?” asked Hugh. “It’s an unfair slur on my character to always be considered dependable.”