Page 11 of My Fair Lord

What an adventure the day had been. She’d been in England for under two weeks now and nothing had come close to the excitement of one morning in Liverpool! What a pity she was unlikely to meet him again.

ChapterFour

Ned didn’t know what strings Mr Halliwell had needed to pull, or the favours he had called in, but the man for whom he was working that evening had somehow managed to find Ned a position as a waiter at the ball. From the refreshment room where he stationed himself, Ned was in a perfect position to watch the guests entering the octagonal hall of the Wellington Rooms.

Naturally, being conscientious, he was alert for the arrival of Mr Halliwell’s wife and her two daughters and kept his eye fixed on the entrance. As such, he was able to observe Miss Wakechild entering in the company of a woman who was alike enough they must be sisters, and the man who was presumably her husband. The couple entered first, then Miss Wakechild followed them, walking on the arm of a man who must be her father.

He was good-looking, trim for his age, and walked with confidence. The sister was smiling widely but Miss Wakechild’s expression was similar to the one she had worn while she had stood in the street not looking at hats, and for a moment Ned was disappointed to think she was one of those women who delighted in finding everything dull. He looked again and noticed there was an added shadow of trepidation in her eyes and her shapely neck had a visible tension to it. The day before, she had looked merely bored stiff. Now she looked as if she wanted to run and hide. Mystifyingly, Ned felt a tug in his chest from heartstrings long grown rusty from unemployment.

The two women went into the ladies’ cloak room and the men into the gentlemen’s hat room before they all emerged a short while later and reunited. Divested of her cloak, Miss Wakechild was dressed in a gown of pine green, with full sleeves and a commotion of gathered skirts. Trimmings of lavender-coloured tuille tempered some of the vibrancy and the low plunging neckline was discreetly festooned with more tuille, but the effect was still eye-catching. It seemed a rather daring shade for a young, unmarried woman.

Ned assumed the dye manufacturer’s daughter was taking the opportunity to advertise her father’s merchandise and by extension her ample dowry just as much as she was displaying her ample décolletage. She wore the obligatory long white gloves with a single diamond bracelet on her slender wrist. Her hair was piled high and dressed with small purple and white flowers but Ned noticed a gold comb nestled in the red tresses. It sparkled with too many diamonds to be subtle and was a faux pas that she might not be aware of. One piece of jewellery was sufficient.

In comparison to the English girls wearing pastel shades or white, she stood out like a beacon. He wondered whether she was unaware of the impropriety or simply didn’t care. If she wanted to make a statement of wealth and availability, she was succeeding amply.

Ned’s weren’t the only eyes that fell on her, looked away, then back again for a further, closer look as she joined the receiving line to pay her respects to the Earl and Countess of Merseyside. Ned wondered if any of the party were aware that there were whispers that followed the glances. Her father seemed oblivious at least, gazing around the room with too much obvious interest.

Miss Wakechild reached the head of the line and dropped into a smooth curtsey. The old earl’s eyes followed her as she stood, but if she thought that she might find a husband there, she was mistaken. The eldest son was already married and the younger boy had shocked society by announcing an interest in Roman Catholicism and intending to take the cloth. Still, there were introductions aplenty to be made tonight. He had seen a list of the attendees and there were two viscounts and a handful of baronets, as well as members of what passed for high society in Liverpool. Miss Wakechild was bound to find a man she could captivate into marriage.

His attention was drawn to the door as Mrs Halliwell and her two daughters entered and Ned’s mind turned to work. It did occur to him that it was odd that Mr Halliwell would engage Ned to spy on his daughter rather than asking his wife for her observations and opinions, or even speaking to the girl herself. If Ned was ever induced to marry someone, he would need to be able to talk to his wife about his worries and plans.

Fortunately for Ned – and Mr Halliwell – Miss Halliwell preferred sitting on one of the sofas in the refreshment room and talking with an array of suitors to dancing, meaning that Ned was able to keep a close watch on her. Miss Wakechild didn’t enter the refreshments room but from where Ned stood, he could see across the octagonal atrium into the ballroom. He occasionally caught a glimpse of her over the next hour as she was introduced to various other guests, then dancing in the arms of various men – including, he noted with a slight taste of bitterness in his throat, Marius Van Hoon – and looking slightly more at ease than Ned liked to see.

His stomach jerked when he saw her dancing with Viscount Stretford, orStuffy, as the Honourable Robert Erskyn has been known in his youth because of the reputation he had for snoring when hay asthma was upon him. Ned drew further back into the room.

The pang in his stomach took him by surprise as she spun around in a whirl of green and lavender. Did Ned want to be in that throng, polkaing and waltzing in a dress coat and white cravat? Not really. They were not his people, that was not his life, and he was content with the role of onlooker.

All the same, he’d happily exchange places with Stretford or the Van Hoons for ten minutes to dance in the arms of Miss Wakechild.

* * *

Florence had no idea why she found parties exhausting. They should be enjoyable. They were supposed to be enjoyable, and by all accounts everyone else she knew found them so. They just made her anxious.

Perhaps it was knowing she was on show. Everything, from her clothing to her conduct and conversation to whom she danced with and how well, would be scrutinised. The man in whose arms she was currently being waltzed – quite well to give him credit – was a viscount, so she was painfully aware that her father would be watching from the side of the room, hoping she was captivating him with her feminine graces.

“I do admire redheads,” Lord Stretford said as he moved Florence around the dance floor. “There’s something so fiery in your nature. Boadicea, who fought the Romans and razed Chester to the ground, was a redhead, you know. Queen Elizabeth another. Their hair must have had something to do with it.”

He guffawed at his wit. Florence gritted her teeth and affected amusement. She had never felt less like the stereotype. Sadly, Viscount Stretford fulfilled every stereotype of the brainless heir who would have been nothing without his ancestors.

“Yes, I can well imagine Boadicea finally laid waste toColchesterafter one too many comments about her hair,” she said sweetly. She smiled up at him, batting her eyelashes to divert him away from the correction. He looked puzzled, then gave another loud chuckle and beamed at her.

“Americans are so refreshing. You must grant me the pleasure of accompanying me into the refreshment room. Mother will love to meet you.”

Florence had at least managed to persuade her father to allow her ten minutes respite after each three numbers she danced, so after the music died away, she declined the offer of meeting Lord Stretford’s mother and walked over to her father. Clayton was bowing deeply to a man of roughly his own age. The man walked away towards Florence so Clayton would have been oblivious to the slight smirk he wore, but it felt like a slap across the face to Florence.

“Who were you talking to, Daddy?” she asked.

“I have been conversing with Sir St-John Bransdale. I have discovered him to be a second cousin once removed of your mother. He’s a baronet.”

“Daddy, you’re practically bouncing up and down,” she whispered. “Why does that matter? Did he even know who you were?”

The excitement ebbed from Clayton’s face, causing Florence a pang of remorse.

“Well, he didn’t at first, until I appraised him of the nature of our connection.”

A sour taste filled Florence’s mouth. Presumably her father had been asking too many questions. That would explain the smirk on the baronet’s face. It was heartbreaking to see her father’s demonstrable excitement, but there was also a hint of contempt that she couldn’t quite quell at how easily impressed Clayton was, and how gauche he must seem.

“I’m sure your mother would have loved to know we had been making connections with her family,” Clayton continued, oblivious to her misgivings. “Do you think I should offer him my card and ask him to dine at the hotel with us?”