prettiness were concealed. Back at Miss Lamont’s, Lottie hadn’t given a fig what Ruth wore, though her expression had always darkened if Ruth was complimented for her attractive vulpine features and her long, chestnut hair.
“I feel ridiculous,” said Ruth quietly. “Everyone else is wearing all those bright clothes and I look like a ghoul in comparison. I thought you said they would all be dressed for a garden party, not a real ball.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.” Lottie clung to her elbow, eyes dancing, red tresses piled high and coiled in a turquoise turban that matched her dress. She looked exceptional, more so because her companion did not. “In no time, you will be married and running your own house in Russell Square.”
“I can hardly believe it,” confessed Ruth, truthfully. “I haven’t seen Albert since we were children and now I am to spend the rest of my life with him.”
“Do not make me jealous.”
“What if we are not suited to one another?”
“It doesn’t matter – he’s rich.” And they both knew that Ruth was not. “He’s clearly besotted. He wrote to you, did he not?”
“Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Once.”
It had been a short, bashful note about their combined futures in a clumsy script. The other girls at the academy had squealed and clucked upon finding the letter and told Ruth how wonderful it would be, how lucky she was, and what a fine lady she would make.
I miss them, she thought. And, selfishly, she missed who she was to them: a leader, an anchor. She had always taken charge, always known what to do, always been the one to save the day.
But now I need saving…
Soon she’d have Albert – and soon, she reminded herself, life would be better. She’d find her feet again, she’d be happy again, she wouldn’t feel so lost, for he’d always find her. Isn’t that what love was about? And, more importantly, it was what Uncle Osbourne wanted.
“Father,” said Lottie, turning to the beady-eyed figure trailing behind them. “Can we go and see the animals? Gosh, can you hear them? How do the people in those far-off places tolerate them? Scales and claws – ghastly. I would have them all killed on sight. I bet they’re beastly to touch. Oh, and look! There are little canal boats. Now that is sweet. We must ride them, we must.”
“Not by yourselves,” replied Mr Griswell, bored and uninterested in all he surveyed. If he was not growing his finances and merchant business, he was not happy. The only time he ever seemed to show real emotion was when money was involved. At least Uncle Osbourne was not like that. Yes, he was reserved, strict and practical to a fault, but he was not as waspish or as spiteful as Lottie’s father seemed to be. Uncle Osbourne had reluctantly taken Ruth in, a skinny child, at five. He had never wanted children; he had never wanted a family. He only enjoyed his work. He thought people were too complicated and a child was an added difficulty he had never anticipated. But a poor relation – especially a young girl – in the workhouse would reflect poorly on his own status. Besides, he’d promised his brother to protect the child and it was, without a doubt, bad form to argue with a dying man. When Ruth arrived, her uncle put in place numerous rules about being quiet, about fitting in around his life, about being as unassuming as possible. Ruth was good at it, for she’d remembered all her mother had said to her in the last few days of her life: “Never be a burden, my darling.” And she never had.
What little money her father and mother had passed down to her went on her education, and it was a good education. She had made friends in the classroom and she had excelled. Beyond the academy, no one cared about how well she wrote in Latin or her knowledge about geography. No, to be a woman, one had to know the right way to wave a fan, to wear the latest dress, to flirt. Ruth’s face went red at the thought. Give her books, where other people did all the running around and courting: it was far easier to read about such matters than to experience them herself. Even if, at times, the prospect seemed…exciting.
She kept her gaze focused on the assembled guests, lest anyone approach her and expect her to be a real woman, to be like Lottie. “You should stop being so shy,” Lottie had always chided her, “You should be more like me.” But it wasn’t shyness, it was a constant fear, a knowledge that if she spoke up, if she tried, she’d do something wrong. And there was so, so much that could go wrong, especially at a large party such as this.
“I wish we were back at the academy,” she whispered to her friend.
Lottie only rolled her eyes. “You would.”
Mr Griswell ushered the two young women towards a small group who were stood a safe distance away from the performers. Flame conjurers gave the air a smoky smell, their bare feet skimming along the grass as they danced, shining with sweat, nerves like steel.
“There’s too many damned people here,” said the merchant, inclining his head towards Ruth’s uncle, Mr Osbourne, and a stout young man with them. The latter had lemon-coloured hair and an expression equally as sour.
“It isn’t decent. It’s no place for a woman, but I do not intend to stay long,” agreed Osbourne. “I have two gentlemen to pay respects to, then we go.” Business, as usual, was the order of the day.
“That’s him, that’s Albert Pembroke,” whispered Ruth, needlessly pointing to the younger man. “Do you think he will recognise me?”
Four steps away was her future husband. His belly pressed against his waistcoat and his blond whiskers stuck out from his round, ruddy cheeks. He wasn’t what one would call conventionally attractive – or attractive at all.
“He’s…he’s taller than when last I met him,” said Ruth tactfully.
“How old were you?”
“I was twelve; he was sixteen.”
Osbourne summoned his niece over with a wave as stiff as his appearance. “I had feared you would be late,” he said, guiding Ruth to stand before Albert, who gave a bashful bow. “It will not be long now, then we’ll be at the church, the deed done and everything as it should be.” The lines around Osbourne’s eyes grew deeper. “Ruth, is that a new gown?”
“It’s mine,” interrupted Lottie with a toothy smile. “Doesn’t it look lovely? I picked it out.”
Ruth’s uncle was a banker and firmly disapproved of lavish expenditure. His clients were fond of his frugal nature, as it made their own finances feel safe – as though someone who spent so wisely and dressed so poorly would never ill-treat their savings. Make do and mend was his work ethic and Ruth, as his ward, had adopted it too. Even at Miss Lamont’s Academy she had been the one to darn and mend garments for all the other girls – and allow herself to be taken advantage of.
Albert shuffled his feet and became exceedingly pink with Ruth’s approach. He went to speak, failed, and left Ruth to begin their stilted conversation. She didn’t, until Lottie nudged her sharply in the back, prompting her to gabble, “Are – are you well, sir?”
The young man puffed out his cheeks before nodding heavily, blowing air between thick lips. “I’d – yes – well, I am,” he stammered, before adding as an afterthought, “And you are well, I take it?”
“Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Quite.”
She
