Page 49 of The Cornish Mermaid

Kit turned back from the window, hoping no one would notice his discomfiture. “We’d better not keep my mother waiting.” To his relief, no one argued with his decision and he was able to lead the way from the room, the others following behind.

Chapter Twenty-One

Morvoren

The day of the ball came around far sooner than Morvoren had expected. The Cornwall of Nanpean Cove felt far away, and her old world had receded into a distant memory, almost as though it were nothing but a half-remembered dream. This, even though it was in truth her past, was the world she inhabited now.

They’d spent the last few days at dancing practice every afternoon, and she’d improved enormously, at last being able to claim that instead of two left feet, she had a left and a right—most of the time. She’d also stopped causing chaos by forgetting which way she was meant to go at vital moments. Although, there being only the four of them and some chairs to take the place of the other dancers, this was no guarantee that she wouldn’t go to pieces on a real dance floor populated by real people who might do unexpected things.

“You can just walk the dance steps if you’re not sure of them on the night,” Kit said by way of consolation, after she’d trodden on his foot for the umpteenth time. “A lot of people do that, you know.”

His cheery mood persisted, and Morvoren had found herself looking forward to their afternoons all morning long, even when out riding first thing with Ysella, and definitely when she was sitting reading aloud while Lady Ormonde and a reluctant Ysella sewed. “I wish she’d let me read aloud instead of having to sew for that dratted baby,” Ysella hissed when her mother’s attention was elsewhere.

The new gowns arrived on the day before the ball, packed in tissue in large, flat boxes and delivered by a boy driving a small governess cart. The promised baskets of food were loaded onto this cart and dispatched back with the boy with strict instructions that they were to go to the three little seamstress’s families, and not the Misses Sedgewick’s shop. Ysella and Morvoren, who’d overseen the packing of the baskets themselves, also gave the boy the large package of sweetmeats and two bunches of hothouse flowers for the girls’ employers.

“Don’t forget to tell the girls’ families that if they are in need of any further assistance they only have to ask,” Morvoren said, deciding boldness was a good move. After all, Kit seemed predisposed to help those in need and had acquiesced to her earlier idea.

At the last minute, Ysella surprised Morvoren by bringing out three of her old china dolls, all beautifully clad in the silk gowns of a bygone era, and adding them to the baskets. “For their little sisters, who they are bound to have, that they may have as much joy from playing with them as I have had.” She beamed. “These two I inherited from Derwa and Meliora, but this one, Agnes, was mine from new. Time for them all to have new homes now I’m a woman grown.”

They spent the day of the ball quietly at home. “No riding or dancing practice for you girls today,” Lady Ormonde decreed. “And a nap in the afternoon because balls can go on until dawn, even in the country. Can’t have you hiding yawns behind your fans. That wouldn’t be at all attractive to young gentlemen.”

Morvoren had to press her lips together to prevent herself passing comment on this last remark.

Dinner at six was a simple affair, and as soon as it was over, everyone retired to their rooms to take their time over preparing for the ball.

“No need to rush,” Ysella said as the girls parted in the corridor. “I doubt anything much will begin until after ten.”

“Don’t forget that Denby is ten miles distant,” her mother, who had paused at her own bedroom door, put in. “It will take us over an hour to get there so we’ll need to leave before nine. I shall expect you girls downstairs and ready to depart in good time.”

“Yes, Mama,” Ysella said with fake contrition.

Morvoren had better manners. “I won’t be late, Lady Ormonde.”

Kit poked his head out of his bedroom door. “I’ve no idea what you girls get up to in your rooms, but you’d better stop talking and get on with it. Because if you’re not ready in time, then I shall leave without you.” But he was laughing.

“Kit, you wouldn’t!” Ysella exclaimed, but she was laughing as well.

Morvoren took a last glance at Kit, whose hair had somehow become tousled, and retreated inside her own room. If she had to look at him much longer, her heart was going to burst with longing. Would the ball be as fun as the dancing practice had been? She doubted it. What she really wanted to do was dance in his arms, with no one else around. A waltz, for sure, with all its lack of respectability. To feel his hands on her waist, to have him hold her close against his strong body and to rest her cheek against his. For his breath to mingle with hers, his lips to move to meet hers, and for him to press his hips against hers…

No. That was never going to happen. She could long for it as much as she wanted, but she was an interloper from another world, and he was a desperate smuggler with no interest in her.

Although that wasn’t strictly true. Was it? But if he felt the way she suspected, why had he not acted on his feelings? Because she was a nobody, of course, and his mother wouldn’t approve. That was why. In Lady Ormonde’s eyes, her position was little better than Sam’s. A bit of a charity case and not marriage material.

Loveday had hung the new gown on the outside of the wardrobe in its tissue paper covering and Morvoren’s eyes kept going back to it as Loveday dressed her hair. “Sit still, Miss Morvoren, or it’ll never come out the way Martha showed me,” Loveday reprimanded. “I see you a-lookin’ at your dress and it won’t be goin’ nowhere. Just let me get your hair pinned up and we can get it down.”

Somehow, despite Morvoren’s restless fidgeting, Loveday managed to draw up a bun on the back of her mistress’s head and tease out a fine display of ringlets around her face. Then she set a couple of pretty, sparkling combs in Morvoren’s hair and stood back to admire the effect with a harumph of satisfaction.

Morvoren peered into the small looking glass on her dressing table. “I look like someone out of a book.” A Jane Austen book, of course.

“You look pretty as a picture,” Loveday said. “And if I says so as shouldn’t, it’s thanks to how I done your hair.”

Morvoren smiled. “Quite definitely it’s thanks to your hairdressing skills that I shall look presentable this evening. Thank you very much for that, Loveday.”

Loveday picked up a small jar. “And now for a touch of makeup.”

Makeup? So far Morvoren had seen no hint that makeup was a thing in 1811. But she was wrong. With practiced fingers, Loveday carefully applied some cold cream, a touch of liquid rouge to her cheeks and lips, and darkened her carefully plucked eyebrows, with of all things, a clove she burnt in the candle flame. Fascinating. Not that afterwards Morvoren could even tell she had makeup on, although her lips did look a little redder than before. Subtle.

Next, a full-length petticoat went on over her slip and stays. The Misses Sedgewick had sent, among a lot of other fancy things, a brand new one for under the ball gown, of finest muslin. Feeling like the belle of the ball already, Morvoren rolled her white silk stockings up her legs and secured them with fetching new blue garters—not that anyone was likely to see them—and slipped her feet into the blue silk slippers that had come with her gown.