Garth Nix - Newt’s Emerald

“Grimacing won’t help,” said Lady Badgery as she stood up and shook out her voluminous skirts of gold sateen.

“That was my smile,” said Truthful indignantly.

“Was it?” asked Lady Badgery. “Perhaps avoid another one if that is the case. Perhaps you should try to merely look amused. Parkins! Parkins!”

Parkins popped her head around the door and looked enquiringly at her mistress.

“Parkins! My sword cane.”

Parkins disappeared again. Truthful looked at her great-aunt.

“A sword cane? Surely that can’t be something you can take—”

“It is simply a walking stick for an old and tired woman,” said Lady Badgery. “That happens to have a sword in it. But no one will ever know unless it proves necessary to unsheathe it, in which case, it will not matter.”

“I see,” said Truthful.

“I have a wand in my sleeve as well,” said Lady Badgery brightly. “One cannot depend upon Sergeant Ruggins and his type to keep you safe, Truthful. They mean well, but they are only men.”

“Yes,” said Truthful doubtfully. “Perhaps I should fetch a pistol for myself?”

“Don’t be silly!” barked Lady Badgery. “A ball is no place for a pistol. Besides, where would you put it? Let us get on. Dworkin! Dworkin! Has the carriage been brought around?”

The carriage had been brought around to the front. It was very large and rather old-fashioned, and seemed even more so with four liveried footmen hanging off the back, three of them Sergeant Ruggin’s men and the fourth Lady Badgery’s rather put-out regular servant. Ruggins himself had assumed the role of the driver, and two more of his men stood by with lit flambeaux, to act the part of running footmen who would illuminate the way to Cavendish Square and Lord and Lady Mournbeck’s extremely large, palatial and ugly house.

Truthful and Lady Badgery were handed into the carriage by Dworkin, with what seemed like most of the indoor servants lurking about in the front part of the house, all pretending to carry out tasks with heavy implements that could be turned into makeshift weapons, so they could come to Truthful’s rescue should there be another attempt to kidnap her.

There was no such attempt, nor did one seem likely given the number of guards around and on the carriage. Truthful, who had in truth been a little apprehensive, soon forgot she was in any danger and pulled the curtains aside so she could see the outside world.

The significance of Lady Mournbeck’s ball could be seen within half a mile of Cavendish Square. Lady Badgery’s carriage soon joined a long procession of coaches and sedan chairs waiting their turn to disgorge their passengers on the threshold of 16 Cavendish Square, pausing no doubt to admire the twin rows, each of a dozen trees that Lady Mournbeck had arranged along the front of the house in azure tubs. The trees had trunks and branches of silver and leaves of gold, and appeared to be of shining metal but were in fact only cunningly painted, much to the chagrin of the few urchins who had managed to snatch some leaves, despite the vast number of watchmen deployed to manage the traffic and quell any possible disturbance that might disrupt the ball.

Given the great press of guests, Lady Badgery and Truthful were not greeted by Lord and Lady Mournbeck until almost eleven o’clock. This all went as expected, Truthful grateful that Lady Mournbeck did not single her out or pause in her greeting of guests to say something embarrassing about inviting Major Harnett.

But Truthful’s relief was short-lived. As they entered the vast but already very crowded ballroom Lady Badgery disengaged herself from Truthful’s arm.

“I am to see some old friends in the library,” she said. “We may play whist. You go and entertain yourself with the young folk, Truthful. Dance if you like, but not the waltz. Not yet.”

“Yes, Great-aunt,” said Truthful dutifully, but her heart sank as she looked out at the throng. A country dance was nearing its conclusion, with what seemed liked hundreds of participants dancing to the music of the large and accomplished orchestra; every gilded chair against the walls seemed to be occupied, and every circle of beautifully-dressed ladies and exquisitely turned-out gentlemen looked to her to be turned inward with the express purpose of keeping her from easily joining them.

But she stood for barely a moment before there was a sudden movement among those circles. Young men turned to look at her, neatly framed just past the doorway, the light from the candles in the great chandelier above making her hair bright as a flame and her green eyes sparkle as if they were indeed emeralds.

In what seemed like only a second later, Truthful found herself surrounded by gentleman asking her to make up a set with them for the next quadrille; offering to fetch her a glass of lemonade, or champagne or orgeat; wondering if she might like to sit down, or stand up for a country dance; and surely a waltz could be permitted with her presentation only a few weeks away?

None of the gentlemen were Major Harnett. Truthful accepted several invitations to dance from those she had met before, and took particular care to be pleasant to Mr Trellingsworth, who went away happily once his name was inscribed upon her dance card for the fourth quadrille. But she declined the offer of drinks and chairs, and chose instead to make her way towards that corner of the ballroom which was primarily occupied by other young ladies, taking their respite between dances, and being modestly seen not to seek the company of the men.

Truthful was almost there when she was intercepted by a dark-haired, serious-looking young woman of no great beauty but some obvious, indefinable charm and a very businesslike manner. This young lady stood in front of her, forcing Truthful to stop, leaned in close and spoke quietly but forcefully.

“Lady Truthful? I am Miss Gough, Miss Eliza Gough. I should like to speak you privately on a matter that concerns my fiancé.”

“Your fiancé?” asked Truthful, bewildered. She had never met Miss Gough, though her name did sound familiar.

“Yes,” said Miss Gough decidedly. “My fiancé, Major Harnett.”

“I see,” said Truthful lightly, though she felt as if she had suddenly been struck somewhere just below her heart with a savage blow. It was only surprise she told herself, as she took a calming breath and tried not to show any agitation. It was very difficult to believe that Harnett had not only made her an offer when he claimed to not want to marry anyone, but he was also already betrothed! Yet here was this serious young lady telling her so . . . but it was of no consequence, Truthful told herself firmly. She only felt upset because she had not thought Harnett so contemptible. That was all.

“We can talk outside on the garden terrace,” said Miss Gough, taking Truthful’s arm and leading her away. Truthful went with her, her mind in a turmoil.

No-one else was on the terrace, though the evening was pleasant, and Lady Mournbeck had been thoughtful enough to have several Japanese lanterns hung to create a charming nook to recoup from the hurly-burly of the ballroom. Miss Gough steered Truthful to a bench, and they both sat down. Truthful flicked her fan open and began to fan her face, but shut it again when she realised she was revealing something of her inner agitation.

“This is difficult,” said Miss Gough, indicating that it was not only Truthful who suffered some agitation. “Where to begin?”

She took a very deep breath, held her hands together and looked Truthful squarely in the eye.

“I want to ask you to . . . to discourage Major Harnett,” she said, with a gulp. “And most particularly discourage his mother. I mean discourage any pretension that you might look upon his suit with favour.”

“I don’t understand,” said Truthful. “You say Major Harnett is your fiancé?”

“We have had an informal understanding for some two years,” said Miss Gough. “But my mother does not wish me to marry Major Harnett, who is my cousin, and my Aunt Sylvia, that is his mother — she is most desirous that he should marry an heiress. That is why I am asking you to let him go. You are rich, and a beauty, surely you could choose anyone and . . . and I will die if he marries you!”

Truthful reached out and took Miss Gough’s trembling hands in her own.

“I have no interest in marrying Major Harnett,” she said firmly. “You need not be concerned about me.”

“But you asked Lady Mournbeck to invite him tonight,” said Miss Gough. “Mother and Aunt Sylvia were cock-a-hoop about it.”

Truthful shook her head. “That was none of my doing. It was my great-aunt. I’m not perfectly sure why. She can be a little . . . eccentric at times.”

“I couldn’t believe you wanted him invited so particularly,” said Miss Gough. She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes with it. “Or even how he might have come to your notice! But Aunt Sylvie insisted it was so. It is so very difficult when she is against us, and my own mother too, and the book is taking so long . . . we can’t get married until it is published and a great success, which I’m sure it will be. Then Aunt Sylvia said you were setting your cap at him . . . and you are so beautiful, and everyone knows rich enough to buy an Abbey . . .”

“If Major Harnett truly loves you and you love him then you have nothing to fear from anyone,” said Truthful diplomatically, as Miss Gough had a quiet little sob into her handkerchief. “Hadn’t we better go back inside? I think I have missed a dance I promised and am in some danger of being forsworn on the next as well.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Gough, tucking her handkerchief away. Her eyes were a little red, but with some effort she composed her face. “You . . . you won’t dance with him tonight, will you? Only it would so encourage his mother if you do.”

“I won’t,” promised Truthful. “I haven’t seen Major Harnett at all, I must say, though I suppose that it is no surprise in such a crush.”

“Oh, he is always late,” said Miss Gough. “In fact, he might not even remember. Sometimes he gets so intent upon his manuscript that he works all night. Why, just this week he rewrote two whole chapters, when they were already perfectly good in my opinion. But I am sure he will soon finish, and the publishers are waiting. They are so eager they have forgone half their usual fee, which is a wonder!”

“I am glad,” said Truthful, though she found it hard to reconcile her image of Major Harnett with someone who would work away at their desk all night. Yet another indication that she didn’t really know him at all, and would be best off forgetting what she did know. “I am surprised he could find any time to write, what with searching for Lady Plathenden and the Emerald.”

Miss Gough gave her a puzzled look, but before she could say anything more, a young man with flaxen hair and a pleasant but vacant face looked out on to the terrace. Seeing Truthful, he smiled and waved. His smile added charm to his visage, but did not alter his essential likeness to an enthusiastic but not overbright puppy.

“Lady Truthful! Our set is being made up! I have been looking for you everywhere.”

“And here I am, Sir Evelyn,” said Truthful, taking his arm. “I trust we will not be too late?”

“I would be happy to wait for you until the end of time,” said Sir Evelyn. “Beyond the end of time if it comes to that! Beyond the end of the end of . . . er . . . the end of time, no that’s too many ends—”

“Goodbye, Miss Gough,” said Truthful, mercifully cutting Sir Evelyn short before he became more confused.

“Goodbye, Lady Truthful,” said Miss Gough. “And thank you.”

Truthful smiled, a smile that she feared was indeed a grimace. She hardly heard Sir Evelyn prattling on as they went back inside. The music washed over her as she mechanically took up her place for the quadrille, bowing and smiling, her mind a million miles away and her heart a cold void in her chest as the rest of her trod out the dance as if she cared for nothing else in the world.

Truthful danced every dance save the waltzes after that quadrille, turned down three times as many invitations, and accepted several glasses of lemonade and one of champagne. The fortune-hunters she had already met in the Park or at Lady Badgery’s house when she first came to town offered her eloquent encomiums, and other, newly-acquainted gentlemen delivered less-eloquent but possibly more deeply-felt praise. She spoke to several other young ladies, who appeared to fall into two camps: those who admired her beauty and wished to be friends on the strength of it, and those who resented her and considered her a rival in the Marriage Mart.