Free Miss Lindel's Love by Cynthia Bailey Pratt Page A

heard one of the other two ask Mrs. Armitage, “Who was that?”
    “That,” Mrs. Armitage said, icily clear, “is the minx who was making sheep’s eyes at Lord Danesby.”
    Maris couldn’t believe that anyone would be so thoughtlessly cruel to someone who had done them no harm. She returned to the ballroom, blind now to elegancies and follies alike.
    “Miss Lindel,” Lord Danesby said, taking her arm. “You are unwell.”
    “No, no, sir,” Maris said, looking back, worried that those dreadful women would see Lord Danesby with her. She wanted to protect him from their distorted view,
    “It’s far too stuffy in here.” He looked about him. “Come nearer the window and catch a breath of air.
    “I am quite well, my lord,” she answered, resisting the gentle guidance of his hand. “It’s all very wonderful, isn’t it?”
    “Your first grown-up ball?”
    She had not thought that blue eyes could be so warm. Though she nodded at first, so mesmerized she’d hardly heard what he said, she instantly corrected this misapprehension. She was no child, allowed out of the nursery to peep at the party from over the banister. “I attended some winter assemblies last year in Guiverston.”
    “Indeed,” he said, as though this were fascinating information.
    Maris smiled up at him, forgetting for a moment that they might be observed and her expression misinterpreted again. “But even Guiverston is nothing like London.”
    “The comparison is not generally made. Do you miss Finchley?”
    “I miss the people. They are dearer to me than I knew, when I saw them every day. Do you miss it?”
    “I am something of a weathercock, Miss Lindel. When in London, I wonder why I ever left home. When I am at Finchley Place, I wonder what possessed me to think I could ever bear the retired life.”
    “At least you are not tied to either one by some occupation.”
    “There is that. I would be very unhappy as a laborer, unable to leave my position for fear of poverty and yet yearning to be elsewhere.”
    “You could have run away to sea.” Maris enjoyed countering his flight of fancy with one of her own. “Sailors are never still even at rest.”
    “True. But they cannot escape their ship in the middle of the ocean. I think, you know, if I’d needed to choose a profession I would have liked to have been a shoemaker.”
    “A shoemaker?” Maris repeated, looking at his well-cared-for hands. “They stay at their lasts.”
    “But perhaps I could take comfort in thinking of all the places my shoes might go.”
    “And never go yourself?” She shook her head. “I have lived vicariously now for some twelve years. It does not satisfy.”
    Maris did not mean to be mysterious. Seeing his interested gaze, she hurried to explain herself. “As a girl, I mean.”
    “‘As a girl,’ you live vicariously?” He tapped his cheek thoughtfully with his forefinger. His eyes looked even bluer when focused intently on her and they were already the most fascinating sea blue she’d ever seen. “As a man, I confess I cannot understand what you mean.”
    Maris caught the corner of her underlip in her teeth and looked past him at a large sparkling chandelier, seeking words. “I mean ...girls live so quietly, learning our letters, sewing our samplers, playing with dolls and other girls ... unless you have brothers.” She was getting confused.
    Maris stopped and began again. “We have only our dreams, yet even while we are dreaming, we know there’s no chance.... A man might dream of being a sailor or a soldier or ... or prime minister. He can sail away or march off to fight or take his seat. Or even choose to make shoes. Unless a girl limits her dreams to the possible, she must know they will never come true.”
    “And what use are dreams only of the possible?” Lord Danesby murmured.
    She smiled at him again, just as she would have at any friend. “Exactly. My lord.”
    “Don’t start ‘my lording’ me now, Miss Lindel,” he said