Chapter Twenty
Gwen
As she stands squished between Albie and Bobby, listening to Meredith prattle on about their upcoming wedding reception, Gwen considers choking on her remaining profiterole.
The Johnson ball is in full, boisterous swing. What seems like a thousand candles twinkle overhead, sparkling against the jewels that dapple every floral arrangement and hanging garland. The room is a swirl of pastels and fans, dancers twirling on the floor. Servers with hors d’oeuvres meander through the crowds milling on either side of the expansive dance space.
It’s a massive spectacle, though nothing compared to the upcoming Yokely ball. At least at the Yokely estate she can disappear off into their gardens. Here she’s trapped on the edge of the floor, unable to escape the talk of weddings and engagements. She’s been desperately trying to slip away, but Albie keeps hold of her elbow, and Bobby’s pressed tight on her other side. She thinks Father may have something to do with it and both resents and appreciates his forethought.
If she were able to get away, she’d be stealing multiple bottles of wine and getting drunk in the servant’s corridor. And while it wouldn’t be good for her image, she’d much prefer it. Because of course, now that she’s suffered two hours, the true excitement of the ball has just entered, and it feels like her stomach is a piece of lead fighting to sink to her toes.
Beth, looking as glorious and beautiful as Gwen has ever seen her, descends the massive staircase down to the ballroom on the arm of her equally glowing fiancé, Lord Montson, and Gwen just wants to die.
“I need the lavatory,” Gwen mutters, trying to pull away from Albie.
“Meredith can go with you when she’s done with her aunt,” Albie says, holding fast to her arm.
“I can use the—”
“The very last thing you want to do is flee the room when the Ashmonds enter. Your father would never forgive you. Aren’t the two of you playing cool with the Demerovens?”
Gwen glares up at Albie. “It’s none of your business.”
“He told me to look after you—that includes keeping you from making a spectacle of yourself,” Albie says, angling his body away from the commotion of Beth and Montson’s entrance to meet her eyes, face serious. “You should be happy for her.”
“Right,” Gwen says tightly. “The pride and joy of the season. I should sing her praises and send thanks up to the gods of love?”
“It might not hurt to put some good energy out into the world,” Albie says with a little shrug.
“Just because you’re coupled up doesn’t mean the rest of the world needs to be all about roses and ceremonies,” Gwen says, hearing the bite in her voice, but unable to protect Albie from her misplaced anger. It has to go somewhere. “Two months ago you would have been teasing her with me. Montson’s a drip.”
“He’s a good lad,” Albie says seriously. “Jealousy isn’t a becoming color on you, Gwennie.”
She curls her free hand over his on her arm and pinches him. Albie grunts and releases her. “I’m not jealous.”
“Right. Clearly. My mistake,” Albie says, rubbing at the back of his hand. “Mere, Gwen could use the lavatory, would you go with her? Don’t want her falling in with the wrong crowd.”
Meredith nods, giving Gwen a bright smile. Gwen sighs, allowing Meredith to take her arm and lead her away and down the corridor off the dance hall. She wonders what Albie has told her of the Havenforts’ “falling out” with the Demerovens. Wonders whether Meredith has had cause to speak with Beth since she got engaged.
Gwen hasn’t been to a social event since they heard. Father let her sulk for one day, and then they spent the following afternoon fencing, taking out their mutual anger in sword fighting and footwork. But Meredith and Albie have been to four teas in the past two days.
“So what’s got you in a knot?” Meredith asks as they come to the lavatory chamber.
It smells sickeningly of lavender and Gwen swallows against the nausea that’s been roiling in her stomach all night. She wants to simply push into the water closet, continue her ruse. But Meredith’s giving her quite a look, and for all that they’ve really only ever been society friends, she is about to be family.
“Beth’s mother and my father rather . . . fell out of sorts. And the Ashmonds are violently opposed to the MCA. We haven’t spoken in the past few days, that’s all.”
Meredith frowns. “That’s a shame. She’s such a lovely girl. Though I will say, for the belle of the ball, she’s been downright dour since the engagement. Even Lady Ashmond’s noticed. I heard her reprimanding Lady Demeroven about Beth’s demeanor.”
Gwen leans back against the wood-paneled wall, sucking on her cheek. It seems neither of them is a very good actress. “I’m sure she’s fine. It’s an adjustment, is all. Lots of responsibility coming her way,” she pushes out, trying hard to sound casual and disinterested.
“The planning is brutal,” Meredith agrees, shrugging a little as she leans back into the wall as well. “I can only imagine it’s ten times worse for a marriage to an Ashmond.”
“Probably,” Gwen agrees, taking a deep breath to push down the rise of bile that comes with the thought of Beth in a white dress beside Montson. “How are you holding up?” she asks, forcing herself to meet Meredith’s eyes.
She could use the distraction, and despite how much Albie’s on her nerves, she likes Meredith, and she should be making more of an effort. She can’t quite manage excitement, but she can pretend at interest, at least.
“I’m excited,” Meredith says, smiling. “And exhausted. But I love Albie so I know it will all be worth it. I feel very lucky.”
Gwen considers her, pleased by the honesty in her voice. It’s clear to look at Meredith and Albie that they do actually love each other. A rare, fatefully lucky match, indeed. She and Beth could be just like Albie and Meredith if the world were different.
“Albie’s the lucky one,” Gwen says as brightly as she can manage. “You’re doing him a kindness.”
Meredith snorts and reaches out to slap her side. Her hand hits Gwen’s hoop and her whole skirt shudders. They both laugh.
“He’s a wonderful man.”
“Yeah, he is,” Gwen agrees. “A brat, but a wonderful man, and I’m sure he’ll be a good husband. He’s always looked out for me, even if I pretend it’s the other way around.” Meredith beams at her. “Please never tell him I said that.”
“Oh, I’ll pick my moment someday,” Meredith says, waving off her frown. “I’ll use it for good, promise. One day when he’s very angry at you, I’ll tell him you actually love him very much and he’s your most favorite cousin. It will be fun to watch his head explode.”
Gwen gives Meredith a slow once-over. “You suit each other.”
“I know,” Meredith says with a little grin. “Now we just need to find you a good man.”
Gwen pushes off from the wall. She won’t be roped into any matchmaking this late in the game. She’s failed another season in the eyes of the ton; no need to add insult to injury. No one will ever know that she, too, found a love match. So let them all think she’s a failure.
“I’d rather support you and Albie,” Gwen says, adjusting her skirt and picking at imaginary lint.
“Oh, but you must have someone to dance with for the reception,” Meredith says quickly.
Gwen starts back for the ballroom, striding up the corridor. Meredith scurries behind her, trying to catch up.
“I’m sure Bobby would dance with me,” Gwen says over her shoulder.
“Bobby’s actually—”
Gwen stumbles, arms pinwheeling as she collides with another body. She manages to stay standing, turning to give the inconsiderate blighter what for, only to find a horrified Beth staring back at her and gripping at her waist.
“I’m so sorry,” Beth says.
She’s even prettier up close. Her cheeks are flushed and eyes a little wild, whisps of hair falling from her intricate braided updo. Her off-white gown only highlights her dark hair and lashes. Gwen lurches backward and out of her hold, unsteady.
“Miss Demeroven, lovely to see you,” Meredith says as she steps up next to Gwen.
“And you as well,” Beth replies quickly, curtsying. “Lady Gwen.”
Gwen manages to nod, but it feels like her head is disconnected from her body. Her tongue feels too big for her mouth. And it makes her angry.
She shouldn’t have to feel like this, not when Beth’s chosen someone else. Not when Beth and her mother tossed the Havenforts aside like trash in the face of some money.
And protection, and stability.
Gwen finally unglues her tongue. “I’m surprised to see you without your fiancé.”
Meredith winces beside her. Beth meets her gaze. Gwen forces herself to keep their eye contact, even though the subtle hurt in Beth’s eyes makes her want to shrink back.
“I was looking for the lavatory. We were stuck in traffic on the way here.”
“Of course, it’s just down there,” Meredith says kindly, pointing down the hall while she takes Gwen’s arm. “Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Beth says softly, her hands twisting together, that giant engagement ring glinting in the gaslight.
“Your mother must be overjoyed.”
“She is,” Beth says, smiling at Meredith, though Gwen can tell it’s forced. “And congratulations to you. I don’t know if I’ve said. Mr. Mason’s a lucky man.”
Meredith grins. “I know.”
They stand for a moment in stilted silence. Maybe Meredith expects Gwen to offer some pleasant congratulations of her own, but she can’t. It’s either keep her mouth shut or say something truly horrible, and she’s already done enough. Anyone could walk by. Meredith doesn’t deserve the scandal.
“I should . . .” Beth says, nodding toward the lavatory.
“Of course,” Meredith says, pulling Gwen rather roughly aside so Beth can shuffle past, all of their skirts bumping awkwardly in the narrow hall. “Have a good evening.”
“You too,” Beth says, smiling at her before cutting her eyes to Gwen’s.
“Don’t trip” is what falls out of her mouth, and she winces as Beth’s eyes dim.
“Thanks,” she mumbles before hurrying off.
“Honestly, it’s like you were raised in a barn,” Meredith mutters, yanking on Gwen’s arm to steer her back to the ballroom.
Gwen lets herself be dragged along, feeling utterly awful. It’s not Beth’s fault. It’s not Gwen’s fault. It’s horrible circumstance and society and their stupid parents—but she needs someone to be angry with or she has nowhere for all the hatred in her heart to go. If she doesn’t do something soon, it’s going to eat through everything and she’ll be weeping at the side of the ballroom.
“Drink.” She blinks and finds Meredith pressing a glass of champagne into her hand. “And for goodness’ sake, try and look less like your puppy has been strangled.”
Gwen swallows around a snort, coughing as the champagne hits the back of her throat and fizzes up to her nose. “Excuse me?”
“Whatever’s going on between you and Miss Demeroven, you need to buck up. You’re attracting attention,” Meredith says firmly, all that bubbly gentleness gone from her voice. “Bobby’s going to ask you to dance in a few minutes, and then we’ll get you another drink, and you won’t have to do anything but look vacant, all right?”
Albie appears at Meredith’s side and Gwen deflates. “Yes, all right.”
“And then you’re going to eat something, and then you can have another drink,” Albie says quietly, leaning in to meet her eyes. “It’ll be fine, Gwennie. Try and enjoy yourself.”
“You enjoy yourself,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes as he laughs and Bobby appears at her elbow.
“Bottoms up,” he says, swigging back his own glass of champagne.
He’s becoming a handsome kid. There’s the shadow of a full beard on his face and he’s coming into his cheekbones. He’s still a bit gangly and awkward, but he’s far more confident tonight than he was at the start of the season. Seen a few things, flirted with a few women; he’s growing up.
“You’re not terrible at this,” she decides thirty minutes later as they sway through their fourth dance.
“You’re horrid,” Bobby says without remorse. “But Albie says you’re sad, so I’ll let it slide.”
Gwen glances back at Albie and Meredith, twirling slowly a few couples away. He wouldn’t have told Bobby why she’s sad—not the real reason. She’s not entirely sure Albie really understands, though she thinks he might. He told her once the boys at Eton sometimes snuck off to the bushes and didn’t seem as repulsed as most people would.
What anyone does in the privacy of a bedroom, or shrubbery, should be their business she thinks. Even so, she’s not sure she wants this gawky young man to know she’s been rolling in the sheets with Miss Demeroven, the belle of the ball being spun around now by Lord Ashmond. She keeps wincing, like he’s stepping on her toes.
Gwen yearns to go save her—pull her away like she did months ago at the first ball—play the dashing stranger. But Beth isn’t hers to save anymore, and her toes will just have to get used to being stepped upon. She’s in for a life of it.
“I could use another drink, couldn’t you?” Gwen asks.
Bobby glances over at Albie, who’s thoroughly wrapped up in Meredith, gazing soppily into her eyes. Disgusting, the two of them. Bobby looks back at her and gives her a sneaky grin.
“I’m thinking something harder than champagne.”
“You’re on, little Mason.”
Bobby takes her hand to lead her off the floor and over to the drinks station. And though Meredith and Albie seem intent on keeping her demure and acceptable to the ton, Bobby has no such hesitations. He grabs a bottle of scotch and two glasses and leads her over to one of the small tables by the large narrow windows that look out on the lawn.
And there they stay, knocking back swigs and giggling, exchanging courting horror stories. It seems Bobby is as miserable as she is, and she wonders why she’s never bothered to give him the time of day before. She loves Albie, but he’s no longer her partner in misery. He’s a success, now. Worse, he’s Meredith’s. Won’t have time for her for much longer at all.
Bobby will have to make a fitting substitute.
“I’d rather recite the whole Bible in Latin than attend another tea,” he says, hiccoughing a bit.
Gwen snorts. “I’d rather prick myself with a hundred embroidery needles than sit through another picnic.”
“I’d rather run over hot coals than promenade,” he counters.
She grins. “I’d rather wear eight petticoats than watch another cricket match.”
“Really? I enjoy the sporting events at least. Will you be at Ascot?”
“Of course,” Gwen says, raising a hand to wipe her sweating brow. “You’ll attend with Albie, won’t you? Father’s got us all tickets for the main stands.”
“Excellent,” Bobby says, his cheeks dangerously red. “Albie says you’re a betting woman.”
“You want to wager, Mason? Because we can wager. I’ve a dowry no one’s using.”
Bobby laughs a little too loudly, attracting stares from the back half of the room. Gwen shrugs and takes another swallow, enjoying the burn of the alcohol against the back of her throat and the warmth spreading up her chest. Who cares what the mothers think. She’s relaxed for the first time all evening.
“There you are!” Father exclaims loudly, stepping up to their table, his own cheeks rather red, smile broad and friendly, glass empty. “Bobby, how are you?”
Bobby blinks up at him. Even though Bobby’s lanky, he’s got nothing on Father’s height, and especially when inebriated and lilting, Father makes quite an impression.
“I’m well, sir,” he says as Father reaches for the bottle and pours himself a sample. “And yourself?”
“That’s good,” Father says after he swigs back the swallow. “And I’m well. Glorious, in fact. I just had a large return on a recent investment. Gwennie, how would you like to own one of the Ascot horses?”
Gwen stares up at him. “Really?”
“Why not?” he says, grinning down at her. “We’ve money and opportunity and the whole of the ton to impress. We’ll make our picks tomorrow and then cheer the jockey on next week, what do you say?”
“I say that deserves a toast,” Bobby says, gamely refilling all of their glasses.
“The fastest one?” she asks Father.
“The fastest one,” he assures her, his hand falling to her shoulder as he sways in place. “To your good health and a happy marriage, Bobby,” he adds.
Bobby laughs and they sloppily clink glasses. “And to your good fortune,” Bobby says, pouring another round.
“To your growth spurt last summer,” Gwen declares, reaching out to grab the bottle only to send it toppling to the ground in a spectacular crash. She jumps at the sound and manages to knock into the vase at her back, sending that sprawling as well.
“Damn,” Father exclaims, loud enough to attract the half of the room that didn’t turn at the sound of shattering glass.
“And that’s enough for the three of you,” Albie says, stepping up to block them from view. He plucks the glasses from their hands and slams them none-too-gently onto the table. “I think it’s time the two of you headed home, and Bobby, you can see yourself out.”
“It’s early yet,” Father argues, his voice bouncing around them.
Albie steps in close, completely blocking Gwen from view. She’s never seen his face like that—dark and brooding and just a bit intimidating. It’s not a word she’s ever associated with him.
“You are making a spectacle of yourself and your daughter,” Albie says, his voice low and hard.
“Nonsense, I—”
“I would hate for you to end such a triumphant night as the ton gossip. Gwen has enough against her this season without your behavior playing in. Now, I’ll escort you and your daughter out.”
Father locks eyes with Albie, pulling up to his full height. “I am your uncle, young man—”
“And you’ve taught me better than this,” Albie cuts him off. “Now come on, both of you,” he says, reaching out to tug Gwen up.
She stumbles, the whole room tilting beneath her feet. She’s drunker than she thought. Everything’s hazy and spinny.
“Grab onto your father. Bobby, you get her other side, discreetly,” Albie hisses.
As an awkward group, they skirt the side of the ballroom, moving slowly. Heads turn as they pass, mothers gawp, fathers shake their heads. She can see the other girls tittering, but she hardly cares. And drunk as she is, it isn’t until they’re nearly at the grand entrance that she thinks to try and look for Beth.
But turning her head makes the sloshing, swaying room worse and it’s all she can do to keep moving, Father and Bobby holding her up as Albie escorts them up the stairs. When they reach the top and step into the foyer, Gwen groans, feeling her stomach swirling.
“Do you realize what a spectacle you just made of us?” Father demands as Albie ushers them outside and raises his hand to hail one of the waiting coaches.
Albie turns to meet Father’s eyes head on. “No more of a scandal than you loudly boasting about your bets and your bribes. Half the room is against the MCA—you know that. And you getting drunk and sloppy, rubbing it in their faces, won’t make you any more beloved. Your methods are just short of shady.”
Gwen lists into Bobby. Her mouth is dry and stale, her stomach sour, and her legs feel unsteady. She’s never seen Father look quite so indignant or drunk before, now that she thinks of it. His hair is a mess and his cravat is askew. What goes on in the parlors during these dances?
“You have no right,” her father says around a hiccough.
Albie’s look hardens further just as the carriage pulls up to their side. “I’d hate to see you become my father, sir. It’s hard enough with one in the family, don’t you think? For Gwen’s sake?”
Father glowers but doesn’t argue. Instead, she’s roughly passed up and into the carriage, Father vaulting unsteadily in after her. Albie shuts the door with a sharp bang. They both wince. Albie taps the side of the carriage, setting them off at a lurching rumble that’s destined to steal what little she ate for dinner.
Did she eat? She should have.
She could have eaten Beth. She looked like a flouncy dessert.
“Albie’s grown a pair, hasn’t he?” Father asks, sitting at an angle in his seat as Gwen clutches at her head. “How much did you drink?”
“Too much,” Gwen moans, her shoulders curling as bile rises up her throat.
She slams her hand against the top of the carriage and they have just enough time to stop and for Father to throw open the door before she’s on the carriage floor, vomiting onto the street. She hopes they’re far enough away from the Johnson estate for only the coach hands to see her.
“Gwennie,” Father sighs, sinking to one knee to rub her back as she heaves.
Sadness, and whisky, and self-loathing spatter onto the cobblestones beneath the carriage. Some triumphant evening.