Chapter one
Mr. Thornton watched his London hosts lead their partners to the dance floor. The straight black forms of the stronger sex stood in rigid contrast to the voluminous effusion of ruffles, lace, and ribbons of delicate colors that adorned the shapely figures of the fairer sex. Never were the lines of distinction between the great divide of humanity more apparent than on such occasions when men and women assumed the elegant costumes and postures designated for their particular roles, assigned to them from the aggregate social traditions of their progenitors since the days of their birth.
Crimson drapes covered the windows of the long ballroom, preventing the feebler light of man’s making from seeping out into the darkness that covered the city and providing a theatrical backdrop to the movements of all the human players captured within this gilded scene. Mirrored walls reflected glittering chandeliers and gold-embossed panels in the private ballroom of one of London’s elite families.
Left in solitude for a moment, Mr. Thornton slid a gloved finger under his stiff collar and tugged at the white cravatbinding his throat on this warm June evening. He expelled a silent sigh. It would be a relief to return to the privacy of his hotel room where he could dispense with the obtrusive layers of formal attire.
He felt certain that the cloth orders he had sought to secure were now in hand. The London business owners he had traveled to meet had been easily impressed with Marlborough Mills’ excellent reputation for quality and swiftness of filling orders. He had only to attend one last meeting on the morrow, where he suspected the contract that had been discussed that day in the smoky, dark-paneled rooms of the gentlemen’s club would be signed and handed into his personal care. It had been impossible to elude the invitation to this evening’s event; such events Mr. Thornton accounted as necessary to endure as part of his obligation to the social tradition his position required.
The Milton manufacturer was thus involved in the speculative calculations of his success when a stout-chested gentleman with a graying mustache and impeccable dress sidled up to him in specter-like silence.
“Pardon me, sir,” the officious stranger began with a reserve of caution, noting the startled swivel of the gentleman’s head in his direction, “But if I may suggest … there is a lady without a partner,” he relayed, pointing a pertinent gaze to a place some distance beyond them.
Mr. Thornton nodded in polite acquiescence, even as a twinge of dread belied the smile he proffered. “Of course,” he returned in an easy manner, although an uncommon sense of embarrassed annoyance rose up at the thought of being directed to attend to social dignities which he had inadvertently neglected.
It was of no consequence, he mused, shrugging off his resistance in order to square himself for the task at hand. He had countless times been obliged to dance with girls who couldonly by the most generous appraisal be considered comely, he reasoned as he turned his gaze in the direction indicated.
His eyes rested upon the solitary figure of a young lady in a pale gold gown. Standing near a Romanesque column with her back angled toward him, she appeared at first glance lost and forlorn by the humanity swirling around this glorified setting.
Unable to glimpse her face, he examined every detail of her bearing and appearance as he approached undetected. Her dress clung delicately to her shapely form from shoulder to waist and then draped in full resplendency to the floor as current fashion dictated. Yet there was a refined simplicity to her attire. A few well-placed silk rosettes and ribbons adorned her garment with far more effective grace and beauty than the exorbitant layers of flounces and dripping ornamentation that seemedde rigeurfor feminine presentation at such events and in which his sister, Fanny, exalted.
The skirts, too, of the woman before him were not contrived to the ridiculous circumference within which many of the ladies present navigated. He thought he liked this display of independent taste and smiled inwardly at the thought of his own abhorrence to the weak-mindedness of those who followed the caprice of fads and fancies.
But perhaps she could not afford the latest novelties. He entertained this sudden notion for a fleeting moment, for as he drew closer he observed the unmistakable dignity of her bearing. With her chin held slightly aloft and her bare shoulders squared in serene confidence, she seemed set apart from all she surveyed. There was no restless searching for company or telltale sign of anxiety in fidgeting. Heedless of her abandoned status, she was as still and composed as a statue. Glimpsing only a partial view of her unmoving profile, he had the strong impression that her mind dwelt on scenes beyond the boundaries of this assembly.
All this he gleaned in a matter of seconds, and it changed his demeanor so that, upon reaching her, the conviction of duty that had first impelled him had all but vanished and he felt his approach to be an intrusion upon her exalted private sphere.
“Forgive me…” he heard himself pronounce with a sincerity that he knew he had never expressed before in similar circumstances.
At his utterance, she whirled around.
Arrested by the clear intelligence that emanated from soft blue eyes, he could not speak. Nor was his incapacity alleviated in any regard as his eyes roved over the soft, pink lips that parted in surprise, the gentle curve of chin and nose, and the fine curls of chestnut-colored hair that fell at her temples and caressed the translucent skin of her cheeks. How she could have been left unattended he could not fathom.
“Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?” he spoke at last with a crease of his brow, all at once uncertain of her reply.
“With pleasure, sir,” she replied with practiced civility, deigning him a restrained a smile as her eyes flashed to catch the retiring figure whom she suspected had arranged this match.
Mr. Thornton noted her wariness as he took her gloved hand and led her to the dance floor. Black coattails and voluminous shapes of tarlatan and tulle spun in rhythmic mass as couples moved to the opening bars of a slow-paced waltz. The Milton manufacturer silently breathed a word of thanks for his mother’s insistence that he be proficient in all social graces that an English gentleman would possess.
He raised one hand and placed the other at the back of her slender waist. He could not help feeling a hint of satisfaction as she settled into compliant form against him, with her small hand in his and her arm perched gently upon his coat sleeve.
She followed his lead with alacrity and grace, but he felt the stiffened posture of her arms as a signal of her reluctance to have relinquished her preferred solitude to dance with a stranger.
“I believe I intruded upon your quiet reflections. Perhaps you wished to be elsewhere?” he suggested, half in jest.
“No. No, I….” Startled by his frank inquiry, she struggled for a polite response until she gleaned the amusement written upon his face. “Oh, dear… am I so readable?” she replied with a smile of her own as she felt the weight of formality drop from her with relief.
“I believe we are well matched in that regard. I confess that I am more comfortable with my books and papers than at such events,” he answered. Dimples appeared in her cheeks at his ready admission, and he thought he had never before seen a face so beautifully illumined.
“I’m also fond of books. They make very serviceable and quiet companions. I’m not at all as fond of the din and distraction of balls as my cousin is,” she admitted, conscious of the odd impulse to express herself freely to this stranger.
The curve of his mouth erupted into a wide grin as they spun in synchronized unison amid countless other couples. Margaret liked his smile and the way his eyes shone with earnest zeal. His expression, so unlike the affected mannerisms of most Londoners, bore an honest exuberance which was disarming in its resemblance to the innocent, wholly natural joy of children. She grasped his arm with more relaxed ease.
Mr. Thornton reveled in his fortune at having found such a dancing partner. Far beyond the pale of the common retinue of society-instructed females, this girl seemed to glow with a glory all her own. Self-assured and elegant in posture and manner, she could not be above twenty but manifested inherent maturity beyond her years.
What little they had spoken thus far had been pleasant. With some surprise, he realized that, far from being an arduous trial, conversation with her took no concentrated effort. With each moment he held her in his grasp, the questions filling his mind mounted. What manner of life did she have? How would her hair shine in the sunlight? What talents did she possess? What type of people did she live with? And who received her affectionate attention?
“You live here…in London?” he asked with little doubt of the answer, although he could not help but feel a pang of pity she should be situated so far from his world.
