ConneXions
Chapter 3
by
Dee
Under the pretense of adjusting her glove, Marie scanned the room from beneath lowered lashes once again. Still no sign of him, though in the seething mass of people, it was difficult to be sure. The Richmond's Ball, Jean had assured her, was the true beginning of the Season, and absolutely anyone who was even remotely anyone was there. Marie certainly believed it. The hall, which she had originally thought impossibly immense, was full of chatter and gaiety, bright gowns and feathers, handsome young bucks in the latest fashions.
She sighed, and turned her attention back to the conversation taking place amongst her companions. Mrs Summers - no, Jean, she had insisted Marie call her that - was dressed in a most becoming blue, and Mr Summers looked so very dashing and handsome in his evening dress that Marie had, for one brief moment, been envious of her mother's friend. Sir Charles was present as well, had declared, indeed, that he would not for anything miss this grand event. The old man was looking more alert and pleased with the world than Marie had seen him since her arrival.
Mr Summers had seen her adjusting her glove, apparently, for when she looked to him, he was smiling at her. "Do not be anxious about your appearance, Miss Rogue. You look beautiful."
She blushed faintly. The compliment was delightful, but it was the formality - Miss Rogue, instead of Marie - that made her feel as if perhaps she belonged in this gathering. Yes, she was Miss Rogue, a young lady of fashion.
"My goodness," Sir Charles said suddenly. "Who is that young lady talking with Colonel Fitzwilliam?"
Marie looked along with the others, and although she did not know the Colonel, she had no trouble picking out the young lady in question. She was stunning. Not pretty, Marie thought, and she was not being spiteful in that discrimination. For with her smooth, cocoa-dark complexion this young lady would never be conventionally pretty. She was, however, exotically beautiful, especially wearing a pristine white gown in such a stark comparison. Heads turned almost without the knowledge of their owners to watch her as she stood conversing. She was speaking animatedly; her posture was good, her manners exemplary.
"Ah yes," Jean said, her tone considering. "That must be Miss Ororo Munroe. Lady Highbury was telling me about her this Thursday past. It seems she has just arrived in London from Cairo, of all places. By all accounts she is considered one of the jewels of society there, and her loss has been much bemoaned. An orphan, she is reported to be, but rather call her an Heiress; Lady Highbury declares that her fortune is no less than thirty thousand pounds. She has no family to speak of - her father was apparently a speculator, of all things, and her mother declared an African princess. Still, with a fortune, and an education, which she apparently has had, and her very evident charms... well, at the very least she will be the talk of the Season."
Marie suddenly felt almost dowdy in the pale yellow gown she had been so proud of at the beginning of the night. She smoothed her skirt self-consciously. Miss Munroe's glorious dark hair was dressed more elegantly than her own chestnut locks, Marie was certain, and her figure more pleasing. Marie had no fortune, less education surely, and her family was just as unsuitable and not as exciting. It did not matter to Marie that her rival was some few significant years older than her; here and now, Miss Rogue was the lesser creature, and it made all her insecurities resurface.
A hand gripped hers. She looked up into Sir Charles' sparkling eyes, somewhat startled. "Do not be anxious, my dear," he said, quietly but reassuringly. "You are still one of the prettiest young ladies here, and have drawn some attention of your own."
Looking in the direction he seemed to indicate, Marie caught a young man - not so fashionably dressed as some, perhaps - staring at her; he turned away quickly with a faint blush. Jean also looked, and sniffed a little dismissively. "Robert Drake. A nice enough young man, to be sure, Marie, but I think we can do a little better for you than that." She turned back to their companions just in time to see the much-discussed Miss Munroe being ushered towards them by an imposing lady of middle years. "Lady Highbury!" Jean declared. "How wonderful to see you! And how elegant your gown is. Such lace!" They embraced, and Lady Highbury stepped back and held out a hand to Miss Munroe.
"My dear Mrs Summers, I simply couldn't have Miss Munroe miss out on meeting you. Mrs Summers is one of the most respected ladies in London, I told her, and you simply must make her acquaintance."
Miss Munroe smiled - making her even more stunning - and curtsied. "She told me all that, Ma'am," she admitted, her voice ever so slightly accented. "And I could not be more pleased to meet you."
"Nor I you," Jean replied with a warm smile and a curtsey of her own. "Please allow me to present my husband," Scott bowed in turn, all gentleman, "and my uncle, Sir Charles Xavier." The old man inclined his head from his chair, and Jean turned to Marie. "And this is my dear friend and guest, Miss Marie Rogue. This is her first Season."
Marie blushed slightly as she curtsied to Miss Munroe. Must her relative inexperience be advertised so publicly? When she straightened, her rival was smiling at her so warmly that she could find no reason not to smile back.
"A fellow novice! Oh, how reassured I am," the older of the two stated, and held out her hand. "Miss Rogue, please tell me we will be friends. I shall not be nearly so afraid of the many and varied horrors of London if I have a fellow adventurer by my side."
Feeling quite taken aback, Marie clasped her new-found friend's hand. She hardly knew what to say. "I do not imagine I shall be of any great use to you, but I should be glad to name you a friend." And she found it was true; she certainly had no wish to be Miss Munroe's rival, for such a contest, she was sure, would be quickly and surely decided, and not in her own favour.
Jean and Lady Highbury laughed, the former declaring: "There are no horrors of London, Miss Munroe, have you not heard? Only splendours and wonders."
"That is not true," a new voice interrupted. "Much as I hate to speak against Mrs Summers, there are pitfalls and traps aplenty for the unwary and foolish. However, I am sure there are none such in the present company." And there was Captain Logan, resplendent in his full military regalia, silver buckles and red coat. Despite all this polish, however, there was still that air about him that was wildness unchecked. Marie felt her hand fall limp from Miss Munroe's, but she managed to refrain from gaping openly.
"Captain Logan," Jean said, smiling brightly. "How good it is to see you again. Allow me to introduce you to Lady Highbury and Miss Munroe." Turning to the two ladies, she continued. "This wonderful gentleman performed a wonderful service for us, ensuring Miss Rogue's safety on her journey to London." A tactful glossing-over of the facts, and the ladies both smiled kindly upon the Captain, who bowed again, seeming a little disconcerted at the public praise.
"I assure you," he said, "that it was no less than any other man of honour would have done."
Marie found her voice, somehow, and said: "A service I am most grateful for nonetheless."
He looked at her, and she drew a quick breath under that dark gaze. "Then perhaps I may claim the first dance," he said, as the music began, and the crowd began to move. He offered his arm.
Marie thought she should break apart. Or at least wake up. "I would be delighted," she said, placing her hand upon his. With a final, brilliant smile to her companions, she allowed Logan to lead her to the floor.
The Captain could not be said to be an excellent dancer, but he followed the steps with a sort of fluid grace Marie could place no other word to than 'animal'. It was as untamed as the rest of him, seeming a little out of place in the staid movements of the dance they participated in. Marie felt a blush colour her cheeks a little, as she was sure every eye in the room was on her partner and, by proxy, on herself. Her colour high, her confidence soaring, Miss Rogue in truth made a beautiful picture, and more than one young man was secretly smitten, turning to his neighbour to discover the name of this vision.
Returning, flushed and happy upon the arm of Captain Logan, to her companions, Marie bestowed such smiles that her conquest over some of the young men was well and truly assured. The Summers party, with Miss Munroe still, but without Lady Highbury, were discussing that most common of subjects - France and its general. Marie felt a small loss as Logan released her arm, but noted with surprise that it was Miss Munroe who was holding forth vehemently.
"I make no apologies for him," the young lady declared, apparently in reply to some remark of Scott's. "The man is a rogue, a deplorable villain, but he is also a genius, a man of daring and cunning. He is bold enough to attempt strategies only spoken of before, and he has the skill to bring them off. How else do you explain his victories, his masterful destruction of Austria and Prussia?"
Mr Summers seemed quite taken aback, Sir Charles only marginally less so, and Jean was wide-eyed. Such views! They would never be expressed by an Englishman, and here they were in the mouth and mind of a young lady. It was unthinkable. Marie wondered about the education Miss Munroe had received, that it covered such matters as Napoleon, and strategy.
"Miss Monroe, you are an uncommonly well-informed young lady." The compliment, and a bow, from Captain Logan, answered by a demure curtsey. "And I agree with you entirely. The Corsican, deplorable as he is in general, should be applauded for his genius in the particulars. He does what Frederick the Great aspired to."
Mr Summers and his English aplomb were routed. Retreat was the only option, the opportunity provided in the beginning of the next dance. "Come, we are at a ball. Miss Rogue, would you do me the honour?"
As they swept off towards the floor, Marie saw Logan offer his arm to Jean, with words she did not hear. The refusal in Jean's countenance was unmistakable, though, and Logan now turned to Miss Munroe, the pair soon following.
Left alone with her uncle, Mrs Summers watched the dancers with a smile on her face. She enjoyed balls for the spectacle alone since she was, as she'd told Captain Logan, an old married woman with little inclination to dance. Occasionally she took to the floor on her husband's arm, but not too often.
It was precisely because she was not dancing now that she was able to observe the late arrival of a party. They paused in the doorway to survey the room. There was a distinguished man of advanced years, plus two other, younger men, one tall, broad-shouldered and blond, the other shorter and dark. The latter leaned to whisper something into the ear of the only woman in the party, who was sleek and darkly pretty, clutching to the arm of the tall blond man. Whatever her companion whispered must have amused her, for she laughed, one small hand covering her mouth.
"Erik!" Charles gasped, and when Jean turned to him he was quite pale. He recovered his composure quickly, however, and responded to his niece's unspoken question. "Mr Erik Lehnsherr. We were acquaintances, friends even, once. But that was years ago. I do not know who his companions are, but I believe we will soon enough. They are coming this way."
So they were, and Jean smoothed her dress, noting that the small, dark woman's gown was the height of fashion, straight from Paris, without a doubt. The two sides bowed to each other, a moment of solemn, silent courtesy, broken by the man Charles had named Erik, even taller and more imposing at close quarters.
"Charles - Sir Charles, I understand it is now - it has been too long. It is my great pleasure to see you again after all these years." His English was entirely unaccented, and his manner entirely gentlemanly.
"As it is mine to see you," Charles returned. "May I present my niece, Mrs Jean Summers."
Erik turned to her and bowed low, and she could not help but feeling flattered. "Charmed, Mrs Summers. And may I in turn present my companions. This young man," the taller blond, "is my dear friend and adopted heir, Mr Victor Creed. The lady is his wife, Mrs Raven Creed. And the other gentleman is another friend of ours, Mr Mortimer Toynbee."
"What a delight to meet the most elegant Mrs Summers." The speaker was Mrs Creed, her voice all smooth confidence. She smiled. "Why, even in Paris we have heard word of the most respectable couple in London."
Jean was struck by the woman's phenomenal poise; she felt almost gawky beside her. "You are too kind," she murmured.
"Not at all," the other woman said smoothly. "But you know, amidst all this noise and bustle is hardly the place for forming new acquaintances, and certainly not for renewing old friendships." She smiled to Charles.
"In that case," Jean began, "perhaps you would dine with us? Such an atmosphere would be much more conducive to pleasant conversation, surely. Perhaps a week hence?" She was not sure she liked the supremely confident Mrs Creed, or the taciturn disposition of her husband, or the way Mr Toynbee was looking at her. But one dinner, surely no harm could come of that.
Mrs Creed clapped her hands. "Oh yes, what a delightful idea."
Mr Lehnsherr also smiled, and inclined his head. "Thank you kindly for your invitation, Mrs Summers. We would be delighted to attend. With that future date set, we will take our leave, and allow you to return to your evening. Until next week." A further round of bows, and the group moved off as the music wound to a close.
"Dinner no less," Charles muttered once they were beyond earshot. "An evening with that insufferable man and his cronies. Was that entirely necessary?"
Jean looked to her uncle. "I thought he was your friend." The look on his face answered her louder than any words. "Well, it is only one evening, and we are rid of them for tonight at least." She looked up, to where the dancers are returning, Marie and Ororo speaking together animatedly, Logan and Scott not saying a word. "I shall invite Miss Munroe and Captain Logan as well. At least then we will be a party."
The dinner invitations duly dispatched and accepted, the cloud that had been briefly cast by the other party cleared. Robert Drake, who Jean had so dismissed, summoned the courage to invite Marie to dance, and then another young man, and the evening passed in a delightful whirl. Until, very late that night, the Summers party climbed into their carriage, and went home.
Marie was far too excited to be weary, despite the hour, and she talked all the way home, her eyes bright. She talked of her partners, of Captain Logan in particular, of how pleasant Miss Monroe was, of the wonderful time she had and how she could barely wait for the next ball. She did not stop talking until Mrs Summers laid a finger on her lips in her doorway, and bid her a smiling good night.
Falling into bed, Marie knew that she had been correct. London was a fairyland, and she had found a prince. His charcoal gaze winged her to her rest.
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