Now Mr. Gilley stood with his daughter and a dozen or so young ladies of her age, all of whom were laughing at a witty comment he’d made. Fans were out, covering mouths, and then, all at once, fluttering like a cloud of startled butterflies. Several of these young ladies, Lucy knew, had secret fancies for Mr. Gilley—a safe diversion, since Mrs. Gilley, while less social, was very much alive. For her part, Lucy had considered fancying the gentleman once or twice, if only as a means to relieve her boredom, but she could never quite summon the will. Mr. Gilley enjoyed the attentions of young ladies too much, and that ruined the effect.
Seeing her approach, he bowed deeply to her. “It is Miss Derrick,” he said. “I had hoped to have the pleasure of greeting you here tonight. I should not have come out otherwise, for fear of catching cold. The weather is not yet sufficiently warm for me to feel entirely comfortable.” According to local lore, Mr. Gilley had been deeply affected when, as a youth, he’d witnessed his older brother wake one morning with a slight cold and then die before noon. He now avoided cold weather, damp weather, and even cloudy days whenever he could. “An old man such as myself must take precautions.”
Several of the young ladies protested that he was not so very old at all, and he raised his hand, waving away their objections, though it was impossible not to see how he relished them. That Lucy did not protest was not lost on him. He studied her very closely and attempted a different approach. “Certainly you are a sight worth making a man risk his health for, even a very old man such as myself.”
Lucy wore a gown of ivory with gold French work in the front. It was not her best gown, for she had not wished to wear her best for this occasion, but she believed it did her no great disservice. Certainly the way Mr. Gilley looked at her suggested as much.
“We have the most wonderful news,” said Norah, attempting to reestablish herself at the center of things. “One of the undersecretaries of the navy has died!”
“I congratulate you,” said Lucy, who did not see how this could be good news, but she knew an opportunity for irony when one came along.
The other ladies giggled, and Norah affected appearing cross. “You goose. My father is to take his place. We are to remove to London within the month.”
This truly was a reason for Norah to rejoice. Lucy had never been to London, had never been presented at court—which Norah had, of course—and a removal to London was what all country girls dreamed of. Now Mr. Gilley had received the patronage that he had long sought, and he was elevating his daughter along with him.
As was natural for any young lady, Lucy resented Norah’s good fortune, but she knew it was small of her, and she knew what was proper. She hugged Norah and wished her joy and told her what her friend most wanted to hear—that she, Lucy, was green with envy.
“You will visit us, of course,” said Mr. Gilley with the magnanimity befitting the station he would soon inhabit. “The city air is thick with coal in the winter months, and that is very dangerous to the lungs, but in life we must take risks if we wish to experience pleasures.”
“Of course,” said Sarah Nolin, one of the other girls. “We all must visit.”
Mr. Gilley turned his full attention to Lucy, gazing at her with those incongruously youthful eyes. “I know Norah would welcome your company most particularly, Miss Derrick. Now, ladies, I know better than to impose myself upon you at any length. You will excuse me as I shall go sit nearer to the fire to warm my lungs.”
When he was gone, Lucy hugged Norah once more. “You must be so happy. Of course we must miss you terribly, but you will not care for us any longer. You will have balls and routs and assemblies and all the company of very fine people.”
“Must I not also congratulate you? I have heard that soon you are to be called by another name.”
All the young ladies gathered around Lucy, eager for her answer. They pressed in, like pampered dogs surrounding a generous master with table scraps at the ready.
“I cannot understand your meaning,” said Lucy. Her marriage to Mr. Olson was too painful a subject for her to feign joy, and so she chose to be coy rather than confirm or deny the report.
“Oh, come,” said Norah. “We would never be so evasive with you, Lucy. Are you to marry Mr. Olson or no?”
Lucy did not want to say. The words would taste too bitter, so she only laughed and said, “You know better than to believe idle gossip.”
“So then, he is yet available, and any of us may dance with him if we choose? He is not terribly handsome, of course, but he is available, and they say soon to be rich. In Nottingham, that must be good enough.” As Norah spoke she twisted her mouth into an attitude that was no doubt meant to seem ironic, but appeared to Lucy to be wanton. It was the sort of expression that led Uncle Lowell to call Norah that girl who will, in time enough, turn whore.
“You may do as you like,” said Lucy, “though for a young lady about to remove to London, I should think Mr. Olson now too provincial for your tastes.”
“London is weeks away,” answered Norah, “and I should like to be diverted now. However, I would not trample upon what is yours.”
“If you can win his favor, even if only for a month, I shall not resent it.”
“I think she is being too clever,” said another lady, Miss Bastenville. “She wants him for herself, but will not say, lest she be disappointed.”
Lucy did not answer, for at that moment Mr. Olson himself walked into the room, and was immediately remarked by every unmarried woman there. Though his suit was unfashionable by London standards, it answered in Nottingham, and it was well cut and flattering to his squat form. He walked with a confidence that bordered upon grace, and he even bowed with a courtly air at the ladies he passed. As he did so, his eyes cast about here and there, searching the room, and Lucy knew he searched for her.
She felt cold, animal panic spread through her. She would not marry him. She would be a governess, or a serving woman. She would be like those characters in the novels who chose to do what is right and noble rather than what is expedient, and it was not because she was righteous, but because she now understood the easy thing is not easy at all. It is horrid.
She had been carrying Miss Crawford’s tiny book of talismans with her everywhere she went—tonight she had left it in her pelisse—and now, Lucy thought, was the time for her to make the attempt. It occurred to her that she might make Mr. Olson fall in love with Norah, but she quickly dismissed the notion. Miss Crawford’s words had affected her, and forcing two people to think themselves in love seemed to Lucy a cruel thing. Besides, that spell required hair and personal effects from both people, and obtaining these was not practicable. No, Lucy realized which charm she must use now. It would not solve her troubles forever, but if it worked, it would relieve her from the discomfort of dancing with Mr. Olson tonight. After this, she could throw herself on Miss Crawford’s mercy, beg that lady for some means by which she could save herself from both frying pan and fire.
She saw Mr. Olson look her way, and Lucy felt her legs turn weak. Their eyes met, so she understood she was committing herself now to a path from which there could be no retreat. So be it. This was her life, and she would live it her way. If she had to choose between Mr. Olson and Miss Crawford, there could be but one decision. Lucy turned and fled.
First she went to the card room, from which she sent one of the attendants to fetch her pelisse. While she waited, she found a pen, a little bottle of ink, and a fresh piece of paper. This task was made more difficult because she needed to avoid Mrs. Quince, but that lady was much engaged in a card came, and by keeping to her back, Lucy managed to escape her notice.