III. Brighton

Reluctantly Henry relinquished Isabel to another dancer. He would have loved to put his name on every line in her dancing card; but since that would have been improper, he had ask her to reserve him as many dances as etiquette allowed. It still didn't seem enough, and Henry felt jealousy raising its ugly head whenever he was forced to let someone else take Isabel's hand and to watch them dance.

With a sigh he turned his attention from the dance floor to the people standing around it. His eyes scanned the crowd to find Juliet.

He couldn't help but smile. If ever a woman had been easy to find, it was his not-so-little sister: taller even than most of the men, and with her dark red dress not to be overlooked among the crush of pastels.

That dress.

That dress was Juliet's victory. Highly inappropriate for a debutante, in no way following fashion, and yet so very much Juliet, and so unbelievably complimentary that even Lady Harriet, who was acting as hostess for the night, had been shocked only for a few seconds when she first saw it. However, she had tsked, and, in a remarkable shift of countenance, lifted an eyebrow; but Juliet, being a Heatherstone and therefore immune to raised eyebrows, had just produced her most winning smile and complimented Lady Harriet on the "magnificent choice of setting" of this ball. (A completely genuine statement: the Royal Pavilion's Music Room with its imaginative crimson and golden decoration of serpents, dragons and oriental landscapes simply had to please and stimulate his sister; and the tent-like octagonal cornice and richly decorated gilt dome surely satisfied her appreciation for fine architecture.) This had evoked another unexpected display of emotion, this time an actual smile from the iron lady, and then for the rest of the evening she had stood unwaveringly next to Juliet, introducing her to a seemingly neverending parade of appropriately dressed earls and dukes and their families.

Which smoothed it down, but didn't change the fact that Juliet's dress was a victory and a loss at the same time.

Oh, Henry remembered only too well the day Juliet and Miss Westlake, her governess for the last seven years, had come home from the dressmaker. Juliet had looked triumphant—and stubborn, like a conqueror who knew his victory wouldn't come without a price; and Miss Westlake had looked...defeated. Devastated. And obstinate—a look Henry had never seen on her before.

While Juliet had danced up the stairs to her room, only her defiantly raised chin betraying that she wasn't completely content, Miss Westlake had demanded an audience with the Earl—immediately. It all had ended with Miss Westlake leaving the house with a giant wardrobe trunk, and Juliet sitting in silence at the dinner table while their father watched her with thoughtful concern.

Henry would never know the full story, but from the bits and pieces he, as he lingered in the hall purely by coincidence, had accidentally overheard as the governess was laying charges before his father, as well as from the few tidbits his sister had given him, he understood that Miss Westlake had dared to try and force Juliet to buy a white dress. Which wasn't unreasonable, under normal circumstances. Debutantes were supposed to wear white, or at least ivory or cream, but white was the usual choice. Now Juliet disliked wearing white, for she thought—not without reason—it didn't suit her complexion, and everyone knew that. Everyone, including Miss Westlake—she certainly even more than anyone else. And so another battle for supremacy had run its course.

Seven years ago, when Miss Westlake had come to Barnstoke Hall to teach the little countess, Juliet had been delighted. Back then, Henry had thought she was happy about the prospect of having someone's full attention, but later he had understood that Juliet had expected nothing less than some kind of mother.

Well, Miss Westlake was anything but a mother. She was stern, strict, and unforgiving. Well versed in many a subject, she taught Juliet a lot and was able to satisfy her questioning mind for a long time before Juliet learned to learn from books; but Miss Westlake failed in being likable. In the beginning Juliet tried hard to please her governess, but it never seemed to be enough, never good enough, never right: Juliet found her own way to solve a mathematical problem? Wrong. Juliet had new ideas about how to analyse Shakespeare's sonnets? Presumptuous. Juliet had further questions? Insolent. Juliet wanted to read more by Marlowe? Unnecessary.

In the end, Juliet didn't try to please Miss Westlake anymore. She fought her wherever she could, and with this last battle she had finally won the war.

She had won the war by winning a completely insane battle over the colour of a ball gown: Miss Westlake had insisted on white, Juliet on cream. Apparently they had argued quite some time until the governess had made the fatal mistake of saying, "Your mother would have wanted you to wear white."

Henry didn't have to have been there to know how Juliet's face must have gone stony, how her upper lip had gone stiff, her chin had risen an inch, and her jaw had set sternly. And he didn't have to have heard it to know her tone must have been contemptuous when she had replied, "You have no way to know what my mother would want— or any mother at all."

Eventually Juliet had spotted a bale of wonderful thick dark scarlet silk, and commissioned a ball dress made out of that fabric. She had brushed off all objections from Miss Westlake with reference to who was paying for the dress—and for Miss Westlake's salary after all.

Surely it was this last unbelievable (and unforgivable) insult that had been the final straw, but Henry suspected that Miss Westlake's realisation that she had lost any governance over Juliet had played a major role in it, too. Be it as it may, that last battle had led to the governess's resignation, and to Juliet wearing an unsuitable dress on her great day.

It had given Juliet freedom, and peace, and sovereignty; but it also made her an outsider among the other girls, even more than her height or her inability to talk about insignificant topics, and it clearly showed her individualism and independence—traits that would keep her from being what England's aristocracy considered an ideal marriage candidate.

Henry had to bite his lip at this thought to keep himself from smirking—even more so when he finally spotted Juliet at the far end of the big room, engaged in an animated conversation with a young man who did not belong to England's aristocracy, as Henry noticed with wry amusement.

"Your sister looks very pretty tonight."

Henry nearly jumped. He hadn't realised he'd been so deep in contemplation, but Jason's words had startled him as if he'd been drawn out of a dream.

"Why, yes, thank you," he replied awkwardly.

Jason grinned. "And very different to that shy sapling in your hand-me-down clothes at Cambridge..."

"Shh!" Henry glared at Jason. "You're getting us all into devil's kitchen."

"Calm down, Henry, old house. No one is listening to us."

Henry rolled his eyes. Jason Wodehouse was a fast friend, a smart student, and a good conspirator in sneaking Juliet into lectures at the university. But he also had a loose mouth and tended to be careless to the point of recklessness.

Now he just winked and smiled unconcernedly when he went on, "I prefer her like this anyway. That dress is...extraordinary but lovely. Very flattering. I didn't know she could be like this, so...attractive."

Henry crossed his arms and leaned back a bit while he looked at Jason, amazed.

"Are you interested? I'm sure father would be delighted..." Oh, how the Earl of Barnstoke would be delighted. Jason was the first son of the honourable Lionel Wodehouse, sixth Earl of Elmsworth, and one day he would be a very wealthy man.

"No!"

Henry just looked pointedly at his friend.

"No," Jason repeated, this time a bit less urgently. "Sorry, Henry, mate, but no. I like your sister very much, you know that. She's got a good head on her shoulders, and there's no one I like to discuss Machiavelli with more than with her; but really, when I'm going to get married one day, it will be to a woman who gives me a little rest from time to time. Someone who's happy with attending her social duties and looking after her family, and who leaves me to my own pleasures."

"Come on, it's not that Juliet isn't capable of following social conventions. She just needs her...latitude from time to time," Henry replied, suppressing a smile. It was just so hilarious to see Jason squirm.

"From time to time? She's talking about politics right now. At a ball."

"Well, she's well informed and she likes to exchange viewpoints." Don't grin.

"Yes, but people don't want to exchange viewpoints at balls; especially not with girls."

"With Juliet it's different. You said it yourself: it's a pleasure to debate with her."

Jason looked very uncomfortable. He bit his lips, then straightened. "Henry, right now she's talking to Will Lawrence about abolitionism."

This time Henry couldn't help grinning. He knew where this was heading, and he enjoyed it immensely. "And your point is?"

Jason made a sweeping gesture towards Juliet and her collocutor. "She's talking to Will Lawrence, Henry," he said insistently. "Will Lawrence, son of Abbott Lawrence, Minister to the Court of St. James's, the American ambassador. I'm not sure he will like what Juliet has to say. Someone should tell her who he is."

It was clear whom Jason had in mind for this task. Henry's grin became even broader.

"Oh," he said, raising his eyebrow into what was widely known as the Barnstoke Arch. "I'm absolutely sure Juliet knows perfectly well whom she's talking to."

Jason gaped; there was no other word for it. Then he chuckled, shook his head and laughed, "Oh, dear, you're right. You know she's a lost cause, don't you?"

"I hope not," Henry answered, suddenly sober; and then he kept watching Juliet and the ambassador's red-faced son exchange viewpoints until it was his turn to dance with Isabel again.

For the first time that night, he couldn't quite concentrate on the dance steps, and Isabel clearly was not amused by his uncharacteristic silence.

ooOoo