The landlord murmured how very obliged he was to Mr Carswall, and how very obliged Sir George would be. He shot a sharp, sideways glance at me, which made it clear that he had assessed my position in Mr Carswall’s household with tolerable accuracy.
A squat and surly hall-boy took my bag and showed me to my room. I wondered if I would ever be able to find it again. Like many buildings in this city, Fendall House was a misleading place. To the front, all was neat, new, airy and spacious. Most of the establishment, however, lay to the rear and was an elderly warren of narrow staircases, small dark rooms, winding passages, low ceilings and creaking floorboards.
The tiny bedchamber to which I was shown, though indubitably a garret nestling under the tiles, had the dignity of its own staircase at the side of the house leading to an ill-lit lobby with its own door to the street. My dormer window looked across a dark little shrubbery to a fine modern wing built of redbrick to match the frontage.
We dined together in Mr Carswall’s parlour, and at an early hour because of the ball. Mrs Johnson was not yet come: she was to join our party after the ball, for Lady Ruispidge desired her attendance beforehand, and to return with the Carswalls and Mrs Lee to Fendall House afterwards.
Mr Carswall, Mrs Lee and Miss Carswall were already arrayed in their finery. Mrs Frant and I were required to admire those going to the ball, and when we had finished, those going to the ball admired each other. Mrs Frant looked wistful and said little. Around us, the house was in even more of a bustle than before, for other, lesser apartments had been let, and their occupants were also going to the ball. Though the parlour door was closed, we were constantly aware of hurrying footsteps, of slamming doors, shouted greetings and instructions.
When we had finished dinner, the time dragged. The only person who seemed content was Mrs Lee: she sat staring at the fire, her hands idle in her lap, an unopened book on the table beside her; she was well used to waiting upon the convenience of others. Mrs Frant sat sewing on the sofa, rarely speaking unless one of the Carswalls addressed her. I sat at the table with a copy of the previous week’s Gloucester Journal spread out before me.
Miss Carswall was never still for long – sometimes she would rush to the window to look down at the street; sometimes she would dart to the mirror; sometimes she would fly to Mrs Frant to hold a whispered conversation. There was a vitality about her that I had rarely seen at Monkshill-park. Society was meat and drink to her, and she fairly glowed with the prospect of nourishment. I could not suppress a pang at the knowledge that I was excluded.
There was a quality of happy anticipation about Miss Carswall’s fidgets. But Mr Carswall could not settle, either, and his restlessness was a darker matter. At first he tried with little success to engage Mrs Frant in conversation. There was a strain of gallantry in much of what he said, which could not but be offensive to the recipient. Then, still talking, he took out his watch and looked at the time. Ten minutes later he repeated the action. As the evening crept towards the hour of the ball, he fell silent; the level in the decanter sank and he consulted his watch with increasing frequency. Finally, he left the timepiece open in the palm of his hand all the time and stared at the dial with a look of strained fascination upon his face.
The arrival of the tea things at seven o’clock brought a moment’s relief. Here at last was something to do. With the best will in the world, though, we could not take tea for ever. Soon that uncomfortable silence descended upon the room once more, punctuated by brief spurts of speech. Even Miss Carswall fell silent.
“Half-past eight o’clock,” said Mr Carswall, reverting to a subject that had been touched upon many times that evening. “That would not be unreasonably early, I believe.”
“Papa,” cried Miss Carswall, “no one you would want to speak to would be there so early.”
“But should we not send for the coach? That will take a little time. We should want a place by the fire, after all.”
“The only people there would be tradesmen and their families,” his daughter replied tartly, for her upbringing had given her a finer notion of gentility than her sire. “They will still be tuning the fiddles! You may depend upon it, everyone else will dine much later and therefore come later.”
Carswall grumbled, Miss Carswall protested; but I knew from the way Miss Carswall’s feet were tapping on the carpet that secretly she longed to be in the Assembly Rooms. In the end she and her father compromised on nine o’clock and they sent for the coach.
The hands of Mr Carswall’s watch crept around the dial until the noises inside the house and in the street made it clear that the Carswalls would not suffer the ignominy of being the first people at the ball. A few minutes before the hour, Mrs Frant’s dress rustled as she rose to her feet. I pushed back my chair.
“Pray do not disturb yourself, Mr Shield.” She raised her voice, addressing the Carswalls and Mrs Lee: “I – that is, I find the excitement of the day has tired me out. You will forgive me if I retire?”
I held the door for her. As she passed me, no more than a few inches away, I felt the familiar pull, as iron filings to a powerful magnet. She looked up, and for an instant I thought – I hoped – that she had felt it too. Then she smiled up at me, wished me a quiet goodnight and slipped away.
“Poor Sophie,” Miss Carswall said, moving to the window, drawn by the sound of carriages arriving. “So mortifying not to be able to enjoy oneself – and the poor love will be in mourning for months and months.” She parted the folds of heavy curtains and peered into the street. “Oh!”
“What is it?” Carswall asked.
“It is snowing. Look – great big flakes like saucers.”
“There! What did I tell you? We should never have come.”
“You must not let it prey on your mind, Papa. Ten to one the snow won’t settle. Everyone says it is milder today. Besides, here we have warmth, food, society and comfortable beds. If the worst should come to the worst and we are snowed in, not that we shall be, it would at least be in agreeable circumstances.” She glanced outside again. “Look at the press of carriages! Oh – there is ours pulling up at the door! Would it not be heaven if we reached the Bell just after the Ruispidges? Then we might encounter them in the passage, and enter with them. It would look very well, would it not? It would seem as if we were come together.”
Mrs Lee suddenly emerged from her torpor. “My dear, you must wear your wrap when we go out in the passage at the Bell. The draughts are most dangerous. Oh, I do hope they have swept the floor properly this time – after the last ball, the hem of my dress was quite black with dust. And it was the passage to blame, I am sure of it.”
Miss Carswall stood on tiptoe and twirled, admiring herself in the mirror between the windows. “Thank heavens I bought this wrap. It sets off the colour of the dress to perfection.” In the brackets flanking the mirror the candle flames seemed to nod in agreement.
I murmured, “It matches your eyes, too, Miss Carswall, if I may say so.”
She looked at me, her face grave as a nun’s but her eyes sparkling. “You are too kind, sir,” she said softly.
“My gloves, my gloves,” cried Mr Carswall. “Who has taken them?”
“I believe I see them on the arm of your chair, sir,” I said.
“I hope there will still be a place by the fire,” croaked Mrs Lee. “If only we had not waited so long.”
At last the three of them were gone and I was alone. I listened to their voices and footsteps fading on the stairs and in the hall. The front door closed. Silence flowed into the parlour. I sat down at the table again and turned a page of the newspaper.
I tried to read. But the newspaper bored me. I was aware of noises outside the room – the hurrying of servants’ feet, the ebb and flow of carriages in the street below, raised voices,