A Wedding In Springtime

chapter Nine

Genie took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. The hot, stale air only made her head swim more. The crush of the ballroom and stifling air made her a little dizzy.

“You should not look so much at him when you dance,” chastised her aunt. “One would think you were encouraging his advances and nothing could be more fatal. Do not think your behavior has not been noted. Vicious women these mamas are. They will not think twice about ruining your reputation so they can push their own less favored daughter. You need to… good heavens, child, are you all right?”

In truth, Genie was light-headed and swaying. The swarm of colors and tiny lights of the numerous candles in hanging chandeliers all seemed to swirl together. “I am a little hot; the room is so crowded. Perhaps a little air?”

“Yes, go to the balcony. For heaven’s sake, do not faint where everyone can see you.”

“I will help. Come with me.” Penelope took her elbow and led her competently through the maze of people until they reached a double door that opened onto a small terrace balcony.

“Lean against the railing and take some of the night air. The coolness will do you good. I will fetch some lemonade for you,” said Penelope.

“Thank you,” murmured Genie, her senses revived in the cool air. She leaned against the balcony and closed her eyes. The night air functioned as an effective restorative and soon she was feeling back to herself. She was not prone to vapors or other such episodes that seemed to afflict some women. Once again, her troubles were the fault of Mr. Grant. She was not exactly sure what he had done to have such an ill effect on her, but she was certain he was to blame.

The evening was pleasant, with no moon, the only light shining through the door from the ballroom. The balcony opened onto a courtyard garden, popular for large homes in London. A few crickets started to chirp, and Genie immediately thought of home. She missed the happy sound of crickets chirping and the frogs singing. She leaned slightly over the edge and listened intently.

“Did anyone see you leave?” whispered a male voice.

Genie straighten and scanned her surroundings but saw no one.

“No, I do not believe so,” whispered a familiar woman’s voice in return.

Genie realized the voices were coming from the garden below. She did not wish to intrude, but if she moved, the inevitable swish of her skirts would announce her presence.

“How long do we have, my love?” asked the man.

“An hour, no longer. I told my mother I was going to dance for the next two sets. She was sitting down to play a hand or two of whist with friends, so I should not be missed. But more than that, I do not dare. I must return to her soon.”

“Must you? Let us leave this place. Run away with me,” said the man, his voice thick with emotion.

“You know I cannot.”

“I will not let him marry you. Marriage contract be damned. I will not allow it!”

“Hush, my darling. I swear to you, I will not marry him. How could I? You know it to be impossible.”

“I need you.”

There was silence and Genie guessed there was kissing occurring in the darkness of the garden.

“Are you sure you wish to do this?”

“I am sure. We have waited too long.”

“It cannot be undone.”

“I know it.”

“I care nothing for your fortune, you know that. I would give it all away. I would not compromise you.”

More silence. Genie once again felt flushed. What might it be like to kiss Grant? Images came unbidden to mind. What would it feel like? Soft? Wet? Genie had seen her brother kiss a neighbor girl, shortly before her father bought him a set of colors and shipped him off to the Continent to fight Napoleon. Genie had thought it looked rather disgusting at the time, but now she found herself becoming more open-minded to the entire kissing idea. In fact, she thought she might just want to try it for herself. The closest she had ever come was a peck on the cheek. She doubted it counted.

“I am yours, wholly and completely,” said the woman’s voice from below. “Now and forever, I wish to be with you. I want to do this. I need to do this. I chose to live my life with you, and after tonight, no other option will be possible. I chose you.”

“Here we are,” said Penelope, opening the doors to the balcony wide, casting light on the garden below. From below in the garden came a little gasp. Genie did not look down in the garden. She already knew who it was.

“I brought you some lemonade,” continued Penelope, oblivious to the scene below. “Sorry it took so long. It is quite the crush tonight.”

Genie motioned forward, and they left the balcony to go back into the ballroom. “Too cold,” explained Genie once they were safely back inside with the doors closed.

Penelope gave a furtive glance at the closed door. “I thought it felt nice after all this heat.”

“Are balls always this crowded?”

“The good ones,” answered Penelope, “at least in the eyes of the hostess. This is quite a crush for a girl’s debut into society. Lady Devine will be thrilled. Though I think it might have something to do with a certain nephew of hers who does not usually expose himself to the machinations of matchmaking mamas.”

“Matchmaking mamas? But I thought Mr. Grant was not considered a respectable man.”

“Respectable? Oh yes, he is certainly respectable. The trouble with Mr. Grant is that he is not safe.”

“I am not sure I understand. I thought he was a rake.”

“Yes, he is but not the bad kind.”

Genie sipped her lemonade, trying to make sense of this. “There are good kinds and bad?”

“Certainly. The bad kind will seduce young innocents and leave them ruined without caring two figs about them. Those kind are not invited to parties such as these nor would they be inclined to come. There are some men in society who believe women are only there to serve their needs, and if a girl is to give them attention, they feel no compunction in enjoying it at the moment and then disregarding the girl. They seduce the innocent, then have the audacity to blame the girl, even if she is frightfully young and he is much older and experienced, and he still won’t offer her his name because he is a vile, hateful creature.” Penelope spoke with such venom that Genie blinked.

Penelope gulped down her lemonade in a single swig. “Just for an example.”

“Yes, an example,” agreed Genie, not believing a word of it. At some point, Penelope must have come across the bad sort of rake. “But you said there was a good kind of rake?”

“Yes, yes, where was I? The good sort does not seduce young innocents. They avoid debutantes as a general course in life and instead associate with women of a different nature. I am speaking of professional courtesans and married women in society who feel free to have additional relationships beyond their husband.”

Genie almost dropped her lemonade. In a few short sentences, Penelope had shared more of the world than she had ever gotten from her mother or brothers. She had thought herself quite wise for having two elder brothers, but none had ever spoken of such things so blatantly.

“Forgive me, I have shocked you,” said Penelope in her direct manner.

“No, well, yes, a little.”

“Now you can see why I remain unmarried. I have a dreadful habit of speaking plainly when I should speak in euphemisms or better yet not speak at all. Yet, I think if a woman is going to enter the married state, she would do well to go into it with her eyes open and choose wisely.”

“Yes, I agree. Though I doubt I shall have to sort through the offers. But please explain to me why the good sort of rake is better than the bad sort.”

“The good sort would not intentionally ruin a girl. A mother can feel safe in that. The risk is more that the girl should become unwisely attached to him only to have her heart broken when an offer of marriage was not forthcoming. You must be wary of sending a girl into a decline. Yet the good sort of rake is also well established in society with pleasing manners and a healthy income. If such a man could be made to come to the altar, any mama would happily marry their daughter to him.”

“So Mr. Grant is the good sort of rake?”

“The best kind. His manners are pleasant, his actions kind, his wallet plump, and he is handsome too. He would make a very nice sort of husband, if he could ever be made to come up to scratch.”

“What would it take to do that?”

Penelope’s brow scrunched into a look of concern. “Please tell me you are not developing a tendre for Mr. Grant. We wish to help you be married, but you must understand, Mr. Grant is not the sort who is going to offer.”

“Yes, of course,” said Genie airily, as if it was of no concern. “I am still just trying to understand London society. It is quite different from home.”

Penelope’s face relaxed. “I completely understand. When my sisters and I first arrived in London, I was sure we had traveled to a foreign country. It took a while before I understood the rules and how to break them. Now let’s see if we can make some introductions for you to some eligible men.”

Penelope led Genie to where the Dowager Duchess of Marchford was playing whist with Lady Bremerton and some other friends. The game concluded with the dowager the winner. Flush with her victory, the dowager turned her considerable powers toward introducing Genie to the eligible males at the ball. Penelope somehow managed to wrangle the men to visit the dowager, who then made the introductions. Penelope and the duchess must have been working with the elusive Madame X, since they kept her busy introducing her to eligible bachelors, one after the next.

“Miss Talbot, may I present Mr. Blakely,” said the Dowager Duchess of Marchford.

Mr. Blakely bowed. Genie curtsied.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Mr. Blakely. In a dark suit of unremarkable tailoring, there was nothing about Mr. Blakely that initially either intrigued or repulsed Genie. He was a youngish man with brown hair cut in an average manner, had brown eyes, and was of average height and build.

“Have you been in London long?” asked Genie.

“No, not long. A fortnight perhaps.”

Genie nodded as if she was interested and then no longer knew what to say. She had met so many men, she was growing tired of polite conversation. “Are you enjoying the ball?”

“There do seem to be a lot of people present.”

“Yes, quite a crush, from what I understand,” said Genie. “The hostess should be very pleased.”

“I could not say.”

Genie waited to see what Mr. Blakely could say, but apparently that was more than she should have hoped for, so she continued the conversation. “As a newcomer to London, I have been most intrigued to see the sights. I hear the British Museum is fascinating.”

“I have never been.”

“The guidebook said it was highly recommended.” Which was more than she could say for the conversation.

“Thank you for that suggestion.”

“You are most welcome.”

And so their conversation dragged on, one of the most innocuous, dull conversations that had ever been uttered. Genie prided herself in making good conversation, but she found it difficult to determine his feelings on any topic. He seemed content to accept the most banal opinion on any subject. It was not that there was anything wrong with Mr. Blakely. His facial features were acceptable, common perhaps. In fact, there was nothing particularly remarkable about him.

And yet, he was a good potential husband. She could not identify any feature that was wrong with Mr. Blakely, and he certainly did not ask her impertinent questions or make her feel flushed and dizzy. A definite improvement, she must say.

“The next set is beginning,” said Penelope, rejoining them. “I do hope, Mr. Blakely, that you enjoy dancing as much as Miss Talbot.”

“I could not say,” answered Mr. Blakely, but he got the broad hint. “Shall we dance?” he asked Genie, though she did not detect any sliver of interest. Yet she was learning that in society, showing strong emotions was considered gauche. If a bland demeanor was fashionable, then Mr. Grant was correct—respectable people were dull.