was becoming harder to wrap her arms around his waistcoat, she thought with a smile. He’d always been shaped like a barrel, but now he was like a barrel about to burst. ‘I thought you went up to Manchester, to the factory.’
Her father squeezed back. ‘I put off the trip north until next week. Your mama has persuaded me to stay in London and come to this dance tomorrow night.’
‘Ball,’ her mother put in from the chaise longue.
Her father winked at her mother. ‘Aye, we’ll have a ball, my beautiful Adeline.’
‘Reginald.’ Her mother pursed her lips, but her cheeks flushed pink.
‘So, do you have the most beautiful gowns money can buy?’ Her father beamed. ‘I want my girls to look fine.’
The final touches had been put on her own gown that morning at the dressmaker’s in Bond Street. Even such a gown didn’t alleviate the sinking in Violet’s stomach. If only her parents weren’t so eager. Still, she’d have to make the best of it.
‘My dress is beautiful,’ she replied. ‘White lace with a violet sash.’
‘The best Belgian lace,’ her mother added.
‘The best.’ Her father rubbed his hands together delightedly. ‘That’s right. Nothing else for the Coombes. The best.’
Violet picked up her needle and smiled at him. Not for all the lace in Belgium would she have told her father just how much she dreaded the ball.
Only the thought of what she planned to do there spurred her on.
‘To alien ears, I did not speak to these’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson: ‘Love and Duty’ (1842)
‘What’s wrong with these fellows, not asking my daughter to dance? Can’t they see the prettiest girl in the room?’
Across the small table Violet squeezed her father’s hand. Through her white kid gloves his hand was damp and hot.
From his evening coat he pulled a spotted handkerchief and wiped his brow. ‘Upon my soul, it’s stifling in here. Perhaps it’s a good thing not to be dancing, Violet, out in that crush.’
Violet stared into the ballroom. Across the polished floor couples swirled, the men in black and white, the women in a rainbow of silks, taffetas, satins and lace. On a raised platform at the other end of the room the orchestra played a waltz by Strauss, one Violet had practised during her dancing lessons. Music and chatter filled the air, along with the tinkle of laughter and champagne glasses.
The three of them sat alone on fragile gilt chairs in a small curtained alcove off the dance floor. The red-velvet curtains were open wide, unlike some of the other alcoves, inviting visitors to their table. So far, no one had approached. Her dance card, lying on the linen tablecloth, remained empty.
Her mother blinked rapidly. ‘I thought Violet would have plenty of partners. It was so fortunate for us to receive an invitation.’
‘It’s quite all right, Mama,’ Violet said stoutly. ‘I don’t care to dance. Not tonight, in any case.’
She stilled her foot beneath the skirt of her voluminous ball gown. In truth, she loved to dance and her slippers had been waltzing under her petticoats ever since she arrived.
Her cheeks were warm. She sipped some champagne. It was the heat of the ballroom, she told herself. She refused to be humiliated by their obvious lack of welcome at the ball.
Biting her lip, she glanced down at her gown with a frown. Perhaps it suited her ill. It had more frills and furbelows than she would have liked—her mama had insisted on them—but they’d been to the best dressmaker in London, so it was perfectly cut. The sleeves were short, leaving her forearms bare to her gloves, the bodice dipped down to reveal the skin of her décolletage, but not in a vulgar way, her train draped beautifully and the violet sash emphasised the tininess of her waist. Her brown hair had been dressed by her mother’s new French maid in a flattering style, swept up at the back into a high chignon.
In the glass above the mantel in the drawing room she’d seen her reflection before they left for the ball, her eyes cornflower bright and her cheeks rosy with unexpected excitement. Her chin, the same strong chin as her papa’s, a feature that meant that she would never be considered a classical beauty, was slightly pink, too.
‘You’re a belle, Violet, just like your mama,’ her father said proudly when she spun a pirouette, narrowly avoiding a porcelain trinket box crashing to the floor. Her first ball. Surely every girl longed to attend a ball. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as dreadful as she expected.
It was, possibly, worse. Her trepidation about the ball had been justified. No one spoke to them. They weren’t being cut, exactly, for they hadn’t been formally introduced into society. But they were certainly not welcomed with open arms, or even an extended hand. One of the young ladies who had chatted with her at their horse-riding lessons in Hyde Park behaved as though Violet was invisible when she gave her a small wave across the room.
She didn’t mind for herself, she told herself firmly. But she did mind for her father, with his high hopes, who’d beamed as they climbed into their new carriage drawn by four horses, and for her mother, too.
Upon their arrival, where she’d taken the opportunity to scan the entry hall, she’d stood near some disapproving Dowagers and overheard a snide, whispered conversation.
‘The Coombes have come to London for the Season to try for a match for the daughter,’ one of the Dowagers whispered. ‘They don’t seem to be having much luck.’
‘Even with all those chocolates,’ the other woman had tittered.
‘My dear, no wonder. Have you spied the mother? Covered in feathers and weighed down with so many diamonds she rivals the chandeliers.’
Violet had turned hot with indignation. Why shouldn’t her mama wear as many diamonds as she wanted to? They were newly cut gems, not the old, rose-cut kind that glinted in the dull unpolished settings slung around most of the other ladies’ necks, but her mama loved her diamonds and her papa had been so pleased to be able to give them to her. Her parents had faced some hard times in the early days, before the chocolate business became a success.
Now, her mother picked up her huge ostrich fan. It was too big, by the unkind Dowagers’ standards, but who were they to judge her beloved mama?
‘What should we do?’ her mama whispered from behind the feathers. ‘Should we go home?’
‘Certainly not!’ Violet and her father spoke at the same time.
‘Let’s sit it out,’ her father said.
Her mother’s lip quivered.
‘I’ll take you for a turn on the floor, Adeline, cheer you up.’ He glanced at Violet.
‘We can’t leave Violet sitting alone,’ her mother protested.
