.
In which there is dancing, and Percy has opinions
(September, 1814)
.
The Honiton assembly was — as usual — larger and more well attended than the recent assembly in Ottery St Catchpole, drawing many of the same attendees from the village in addition to Honiton's own residents.
In practical terms, this meant at least twice as many prospective dance partners clamouring for Ginny's and Angelina's attentions — which was exhilarating for the former and rather exhausting for the latter (particularly as George, ever since their conversation, had vowed he was no longer going to save her from having to dance with other men).
Ginny had, in fact, secured her first dance partner before she'd even left her house, after what seemed like an hour of Mrs Weasley resolutely singing her praises to Harry and ensuring Harry knew that Ginny's dances for the entirety of the evening would likely be accounted for within a mere fifteen minutes of her arrival.
Rather impressively unaware, Harry had nodded politely as Mrs Weasley marvelled over her daughter's popularity — until Ron seized a quick moment to lean over and mutter in Harry's ear, "Ask Ginny for one dance or Mama won't be stopped for the rest of the evening."
Whereupon Harry had smartened up and requested the honour of Miss Weasley's first dance.
Indeed, Ron was growing so tired of his mother's persistent fawning over his titled friend — and Harry had hardly been there half a week! — that when Luna arrived at Burrough House in the carriage Ginny had sent for her, and Ginny ran out the door to join her without further ceremony, Ron grabbed Harry by the sleeve and seized the opportunity to escape the house before everyone else as well.
Ginny stopped just before the carriage, glaring at her brother.
"You're not the only person here who's been put upon by Mama this week," Ron reminded Ginny in a low voice, leaning over so that only she could hear him whilst Harry held back at a respectful distance. "So come down off your high ropes, if you please."
Ginny gave no reply — which was as good a response as Ron could have expected — but took her brother's proffered hand and allowed him to hand her up into the carriage.
"Now, then," Ron said pleasantly when they were all situated inside. "Good evening, Miss Lovegood! I don't believe you've been introduced yet. My friend, the Viscount Potter. Of Buckston Hall in Herefordshire."
Harry greeted Luna with an amiable nod.
"You don't look like a viscount," mused Luna benignly.
Ron, who by now was used to Luna's singular ways, quipped, "Well, it grows dark; he just wants proper light, that's all."
Harry hardly knew what to think at first, but after about three seconds he decided on delighted amusement, countering to Luna, "Ah, well, most times I hardly feel like one. And speaking of that… Weez?"
"Hmm."
"You've been calling me Harry since we were twelve years old; what do you suppose are the odds I might persuade your mother to at least call me Potter?"
"Not a chance," said Ron with a wry grin.
Harry sighed. The courtesy title bestowed upon him — much like the substantive title he'd inherit someday — had always seemed to fit just about as well as if he'd borrowed his father's clothes.
It was all rather too big for him.
"I shall, if you like?" offered Luna.
Even the villagers in Godric's Hollow who'd known Harry as a child didn't address him so informally.
But Harry wasn't in Godric's Hollow presently.
He decided he liked this peculiar girl.
They and the rest of the family arrived with time to spare before the dancing had begun, though the Honiton assembly room was already bursting at the seams; and it was with no small amount of effort that they wended their way through the crowd, stopping now and again to greet or be greeted and make introductions.
Had Harry been paying Ginny any greater attention than he paid any nice-looking girl whilst having literally anything but courtship on his mind, he might have noticed how unshrinking she was despite her small stature, no matter who she was talking to — from the local clerk's nineteen year-old son who blushed furiously whenever he talked to her, to the wealthiest landowner (though she was a great deal softer with the former than with the latter).
She laughed openly and spoke eagerly, and if she were surrounded by half a dozen gentlemen who dwarfed her it only seemed to make her that much more visible.
Even her silences were loud and indelicate, whether she was listening, thinking, or when she believed a gentleman to be a little too high in the instep or noticed when one seemed to imagine himself her favourite (and you could always tell when they thought that).
She was blithely unconcerned about the raised eyebrows she drew from many of the other ladies, and as for those less openly judging, she greeted them with the same enthusiasm as she did any of the boys — only adopting a more modest demeanour if and when she perceived that it was another lady's turn to be on display (though always ready to jump back into the fray).
And through it all, she pulled her curious friend Luna about by the hand, drawing Luna even with her at all times, acting as though Luna had said nothing out of the ordinary whenever Luna broke out of an apparent daydream to make some incongruous remark. If ever someone's face indicated any judgement about Luna's unusual manners, Ginny liked to send them an insouciant look that both forbade and challenged them to say anything about it.
"Your friend Miss Lovegood lives in the village, I believe? In Ottery St Catchpole?" Harry asked Ginny when they'd finally taken their places for the first set — the first safe topic he struck upon, having noticed the obscure look Ginny threw her friend just before the song began. Like most gentlemen, he hadn't a clue that it was a silent, two second-long conversation about him.
Ginny bowed as the dance commenced, replying mildly, "Yes. Her father is a printer."
"Oh, indeed? Admirable."
Harry punctuated this perfectly earnest response with a small, self-conscious smile which Ginny mistook for bland, thereby understanding him to have been completely insincere.
Harry wished he had more to say on the matter, but casual conversation did not come easily to him, no matter how fine his breeding — at least, not the sort of conversation one was allowed to have with ladies one barely knew, which was to say, barely any real conversation at all — even less when the lady in question seemed so openly sceptical of him as Miss Ginevra Weasley had that week.
And printing was a perfectly admirable profession — but as Harry had neither a great love of the printed word nor a complete understanding of the operation, he hardly knew what else to say about it.
After a few silent turns, he assayed again, "Do you have many friends amongst the villagers there?"
"Certainly I do," she replied archly, believing she comprehended his meaning. "And the merchants here in town. And so do my brothers."
She paused whilst they were separated by other dancers, and then continued, "George, you know, has spent so much time with the printer, the cartwright, the blacksmith, that he could probably do those jobs just as well as they. Fred a little, as well, before he joined the Army."
"Oh, yes!" Harry replied, heartened that this was a thread he could pick up. "Ron's told me all about that. I understand that Mr George Weasley is forever creating… well, all sorts of things."
Ginny allowed herself a genuine little laugh. "Creating and destroying in equal measure."
"I try to be a friend to our people in Godric's Hollow," he mused. "But I think your brothers must put me to shame when it comes to so thoroughly understanding how things are run."
"Well, I dare say you have more important things to do," Ginny replied placidly as she turned away.
There were several reasons Harry didn't know exactly how he should respond to that, and so he allowed silence to fall once more.
And on and on this went throughout the set, Harry eventually resorting to asking Ginny who were each of the ladies that Ron and his brothers were currently dancing with and how they were acquainted.
When Ginny mentioned that George's partner Miss Orla Quirke's father had sold Dr Weasley many of the horses the family now owned, Harry, in a sense of deep relief, said perhaps a little too proudly:
"Ah! Horses! Finally something I know how to talk about!"
"Though," he added, remembering himself, "I should probably refrain from boring you."
Ginny, who'd never been bored by the subject of horses in her life and did not appreciate this assumption, eyed him askance as they progressed down the line.
"You know," she said conversationally, "my brother tells me that you are the best rider he's ever seen."
"Ah. We must convince him to stop saying that. It sets quite an expectation." Harry chanced a smile. "I like to keep them low, you know."
"No wonder you and my brother get on so well."
Harry laughed.
"But don't worry," she added as they took a turn. "You were, perhaps, the best at Oxford — or even in Herefordshire, I might grant you. But you're safe here, sir. Nobody expects you to best our most accomplished rider."
"Indeed?" Bemused, Harry admitted, "Now you have my attention, Miss Weasley."
Ginny smiled ruefully to herself. Either they were peacocks from the get-go, or they affected a false modesty that fell to the wayside as soon as you'd actually agreed they might not be the best at something.
"Your attention?" she asked innocently. "You are, perhaps, a little jealous of that distinction after all?"
"Oh — " Harry paused as Ginny took a turn with the gentleman to Harry's right. "Oh, no, the reward is not in the distinction, but in the spirit of the competition!" He took a turn with the dark-haired girl to Ginny's left. "And I freely admit there must be better men than me — in all aspects. It's just that… well, you speak of him with such obvious pride as to intrigue me. And any good horseman must appreciate fine horsemanship in another. Else what is the point? It would be like… begrudging a prizefighter being a better pugilist than I."
They were separated at that moment by another pair of dancers, the lady throwing a dirty look at Harry upon overhearing him talk about something as crass as boxing in present company. Harry grimaced an apology.
The most inscrutable sort of smile twisted Ginny's mouth.
"So tell me," said Harry conspiratorially when they were side by side once more and he'd recovered himself. "Who is the best rider in Devonshire, against whom I readily admit I couldn't possibly compare?"
Ginny glanced up, looking him in the eye just long enough to deliver her perfectly serious response:
"I am."
Then she focused straight ahead as they parted, blithely ignoring the look of marvelment Harry threw over his shoulder, which caused him to nearly collide with a fair-haired young lady in a blue dress and drew a look of irritation from Percy who was partnered with her.
Ginny watched him as the dance concluded and they bowed. The viscount was a difficult man to make out. Her boastful, unladylike quip could have put him off entirely, but that didn't seem to be the case. He looked tremendously diverted, if a bit flummoxed. Perhaps he was the sort who'd be encouraged by it — take her for a challenge — see her as a novelty — increase their attentions whilst at the same time undermining the flattering effect by treating her with the same indulgence as they might a child.
As usual, Ginny hardly knew what result she'd intended — or even whether she'd intended any particular one. Indeed, she hardly knew what she wanted at all.
And why should she? She was only twenty, for heaven's sake.
Perhaps she'd know the desired result when she finally saw it some day.
It was rather unscientific of her — but then, ladies weren't educated in the sciences, anyway; so she felt perfectly justified.
No matter how amused he seemed, Harry did not linger and monopolise her time after leading her off the floor and asking her whether he could fetch her any refreshment. When Ginny declined and linked her arm with Luna's, preparing to go off in search of Mr Thomas and Mr Finnegan, Harry gave her a cheerful nod and waved to Ron across the room — and then he was gone.
That alone was a relatively rare experience for Ginny.
"I hope my sister's been civil to you?" asked Ron without preamble when he and Harry had regrouped and set out in search of libations.
"Oh, perfectly!"
"If she isn't, I hope you know it's nothing to do with you — it's all Mama, you may have noticed. I'm sorry for that."
Harry shrugged helplessly, which made Ron laugh. What could one really do about it, indeed?
"I suppose there'll be a fair bit of it, now you're of age," added Ron cheerfully as they slowed to a stop where a throng of people were attempting to pass both directions through a doorway. "Mamas lining up to push their daughters at you. But then I suppose having a horde of girls after you must not be the worst thing in the world!"
"No," agreed Harry. "Though why anybody would want their daughter attached to someone my age is beyond my comprehension."
"Ah, but you don't have to spend the next several years making something of yourself — you've already got it."
"Still. It's a little ridiculous for a man our age to even think about marrying, don't you th—"
Harry stopped short at the way Ron stared straight ahead, the ease and merriment on his face overshadowed by something else.
It was a brief lapse, and Ron swallowed and forced an expression of nonchalance, but he wasn't quick enough to avoid his friend's notice — or possibly, on this occasion, Harry managed to be a bit quicker on the uptake.
"Oh, Weez, that was stupid of me. Really very stupid. You know I didn't mean it like — "
"It's all right." Ron summoned a smile. "It's true, anyway."
They drew nearer the doorway just as Fred was coming the opposite direction with two cups of punch in hand, and as he passed by he acknowledged them with a flash of one of his impish grins that had always been discordant with the figure he cut in his regimentals.
Fred had danced the first set with Angelina, and returned to her with their refreshments to find she'd been joined by George as well as Roger Davies — the former of whom waved away Fred's offer of his own drink after Fred had supplied Angelina with hers. Then George's hand curled itself back into a loose fist in front of his mouth as he returned his attention to whatever Davies had been babbling about — looking almost pensive, except that Fred knew George did it when he was trying to hold back laughter but look civilised about it and actually try to hide it.
"Ah, Weasley!" Davies interrupted himself to greet Fred. "It's been years, I'm sure! When did you get in?"
"Oh, perhaps a fortnight ago, give or take."
"That long! I'm surprised I hadn't seen you about."
"I attended the Ottery assembly — were you there?"
"Oh, no, I was still away then — been in Brighton, you know."
"Excellent! I am bound there myself in a fortnight. My regiment is encamped there."
"Ah, I expect he'll be gone by then." Davies seemed to direct this comment towards George and Angelina. "Shame."
"Who?" asked Fred.
"Why, Brummell! I was just telling Miss Johnson and Mr Weasley that I encountered him while I was there."
Fred's gaze swept quickly across George and Angelina — the former's eyes laughing and the latter's expression carefully and politely neutral.
"Are you acquainted?" enquired Fred with conversational surprise.
"Acquainted! No, no, I encountered him on the way to a party given by Lady Sefton."
Fred's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. "Are you acquainted with Lady Sefton?"
"Ah…" Davies paused and then affected a self-deprecating smile. "No, no, you see, Brummell was on his way and I happened to be passing by."
"And you were introduced?"
"Ah, no… I was across the street, you see. But I saw him; it was definitely him!"
"Most exciting!" said Fred with a perfectly straight face. George clenched his hand a little more firmly in front of his mouth.
"Petrifying, really!" replied Davies in that charmingly vacuous way of his, looking around smilingly at all three of them. "Do you know, I think he might have seen me? I admit I was so anxious over my presentation — because I can be rather careless about it, you know — that I'm sure every day thereafter I went through at least twenty neckcloths in the morning before getting it just right!"
"Your troubles are many, Davies," replied Fred sympathetically.
"Well, I'm sure ladies don't care half so much about the trivialities of gentlemen's fashion as you all do," interjected Angelina with a spirit of fairness.
"All?" dissented George cheerily. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. Don't wear the dashed thing at all except when I have to."
He indicated his own cravat, which was loosely and carelessly knotted; a striking contrast to Mr Davies who was tailored, starched, buttoned, and knotted out to the nines.
"Only you would think to solve the problem of a little too much with much too little, George," she quipped.
"It's good enough for Lord Byron, ain't it? Anyway, strangle the body, strangle the brain, you know. And despite appearances, I do find mine useful once in a while."
"Ah, well," offered Davies, "there's no need to be overly clever whilst at a party of pleasure, anyway, is there?"
"I'm learning that, yes," replied George with absolute solemnity — though he then returned Angelina's exasperated stare with a mischievous one.
"Of course," continued Davies, "one needn't be terribly elaborate. The waterfall does nicely most days, doesn't it, and perhaps a barrel knot when about town, and the cheval is surely best for sporting."
"Which style do you favour for sea-bathing?" asked Fred innocently, provoking George to let out a sound that he could only cover by pretending to cough. Angelina couldn't seem to decide which of them to glare at, though she was also pressing her lips together to contain herself.
"I…" began Davies uncertainly.
"Do you know," announced Angelina, "I think the next set is about to begin."
Davies glanced over his shoulder to where several couples were already taking their places for the next dance.
"So it is! Might I have the honour, Miss Johnson?"
"Certainly!" And with an arch look, Angelina thrust her empty cup into George's hands.
"Weasley," Davies nodded to take his leave. "Weasley."
Then Angelina took his arm and they were gone — though not before Angelina trod forcefully on George's foot as she passed him by.
"What," asked Fred once they were out of earshot, "is that all about?"
"Oh." George chuckled as he composed himself. "Well. It seems Angie has decided to formally enter the market."
"She's what?"
"Looking to become a tenant for life."
"I knew what you meant the first time. But she's been out for years, so what do you mean she's only just decided? And surely not Davies," Fred added, making a face.
"She's never set her cap at anyone, far as I know. Never seemed terribly concerned. Nor impressed. But now, you know, apparently she fancies herself old — "
"Bag of moonshine! She's more handsome than the girls just come out!"
"Er, be that as it may, there's also the small detail of Uncle controlling her money as long as she's unwed."
"Neither of those is any reason to entertain Davies, for God's sake. I'd take pin money from my uncle over that any day."
"I'm sure Davies will be heartbroken to hear it. But don't worry, I think Angie agrees with you there."
"How do you suppose?"
George shrugged, glancing over at Angelina and Davies as they took their places. "Just a feeling."
"But if she hasn't found anyone worth having in the society here all this time, what's supposed to change now? These faces are all the same as when I went away."
"A fair question," George admitted, realising he hadn't quite perceived this particular flaw in his plan to get Angie to marry anyone but him. "Hadn't given it much thought. But I suppose time must change how you see people."
"Does it? When you've seen them so often you can't perceive the change?"
"I've no idea; and what's more, I detest philosophy. Look, there are the Misses Fenwick; nobody has asked them to dance."
"What a shame! Are we the only two gentlemen in this county?"
"I believe we must be. It's quite a burden. Come! — Oh, dear, there's Potter about to dance with Miss Lovegood; do you suppose Ronnie's warned him?"
Angelina was kept occupied through the next three sets, as were Fred and George, and so scarcely another word on the subject was said between them for a good half of the night.
But George amused himself, now and then, with observing Angie's progress, biting back a grin when he caught her quirking her brows in condescension or pursing her lips in distaste — signs that he could read by now even if so many others could not — though he did find himself genuinely puzzled when she appeared to let out a sincere laugh at something Kenneth Towler said.
For ever since she'd mentioned it during their conversation in the grove, George had found himself noticing it more and more: that Towler was, in fact, quite dull, now that he really thought about it; and Diggory was rather insipid, truth be told; and Flint was a bit leering…
No, Flint was exceptionally leering.
And Davies — well, Davies was fortunate to have twenty thousand pounds — one for every idiotic thing that came out of his mouth.
Apparently where Angie drew the line on this particular evening was at exceptionally leering — for about two minutes into her conversation with Marcus Flint, George observed her curtsey graciously and then turn and scour the room, craning her slender neck this way and that until she caught sight of Fred and George. She came directly for them with her arm outstretched, taking Fred by the hand.
"You must dance this next with me, Fred," she beseeched. "I told Mr Flint I was promised to you."
If anyone had asked Angelina why she'd gone for Fred rather than George — who held the distinction of being her usual saviour from unappealing dance partners — she could hardly have said. Perhaps it was because Fred would be gone again soon; and she'd had so much time and so many dances with George and there would always be more. Perhaps it was that she'd taken to heart her conversation with George and was, in good faith, trying not to lean on him so much.
Or perhaps it was something in the fascinating way Fred looked at her — and had, it seemed, every time she'd seen him since he came home. She could hardly describe it — and would have felt ridiculous to do so — but it was bold and sincere and frankly delightful, even if it was silly for her to feel that way.
Fred did everything without reserve — he always had. He smiled widely when they danced; whenever they were parted he looked at her in a way that suggested he was eager to tell her something amusing; and when the set was finished he took her by both hands and said brightly, "Dance the next with me!"
And later on at the end of the night when the crowd had thinned and Angelina was preparing to take her leave of Cedric Diggory after the final set, Fred sauntered right up to them, offering his arm and informing Angelina that Colonel Weasley had the carriage ready for her, before turning to the other gentleman with a bright, final, "Thank you, Diggory!" — as though Diggory's sole purpose had been to divert Angelina until such time as Fred could get there.
Fred's insistence on performing this service did have the unintended consequence of getting George and himself stuck sharing a carriage with Percy on the way home. And Ginny made the fourth of their party, a little unsteady on her feet with exhaustion as Percy handed her in.
Ginny brushed back sections of hair that had broken free of her chignon over the course of the evening, tucking them behind her ears where they hung straight (her hair never had taken a curl very well).
"No Miss Lovegood?" enquired George as he took the seat across from her.
"Oh, you know Luna," said Ginny. "She gets a bit bored of these after a while and went home early — Bill and Fleur offered her to ride with them. Fleur said she was tired." Ginny made a sceptical face, though it was obscured in the midnight darkness of the carriage.
"Not much of one for dancing, is she?" said Fred, who'd tried unsuccessfully to entice Fleur to dance.
"I think we may be a little wild for her here," Ginny replied with a rueful smile. "Do you know, I think it may be the first time she's even seen a reel."
"I'm sure Bernard will have some more civilised options at his party — "
Ginny let out a resigned sigh at the reminder of the upcoming gathering at Stoatley Park.
" — we must try again then," Fred concluded in a spirit of cheerful resolve.
"Sure you won't be too busy sticking close to Angelina all night again?" teased Ginny.
In the darkness, nobody noticed the way Percy perked up in concern upon hearing Ginny's impertinent treatment of this issue.
"Close?" Fred dismissed. "What assembly have you been at? We had one or two dances, surely."
Percy scoffed, looking out the window whilst not actually looking out the window (not that he could have seen any of the passing landscape anyway).
"Oh, now, that's a very important-sounding scoff," remarked Fred, crossing his arms. "I dare say I'm going to learn something about myself. Well, vicar?"
Percy looked at Fred in a reproach Fred could not see. "I'm surprised that even you could be so flippant about your behaviour."
"Are you? I'm not. But tell me, what behaviour is it that has your inexpressibles in a twist this time?"
Ginny snorted whilst Percy scowled.
" 'One or two dances'?" Percy echoed in disbelief. "You know perfectly well that you were with her through three sets — at least, that I saw. Have you any idea what people will think?"
"That you've a curious way of passing your time at parties?"
Beside Percy, George shook with repressed laughter.
Percy pressed on. "You're not sixteen years old anymore; you know how it looks."
"Well, there is nothing between Angelina and me, so get down off your high ropes." But Fred was grateful for the cover of darkness when his face heated up as he said it.
"All the worse! People will think there is, and it's all very well for you when you leave, but what about her? They'll assume she's jilted or a jilt — or a flirt — and at her age — "
"Oh, now you're coming it much too strong," interjected George with uncharacteristic peevishness. "Angie's been managing herself for twenty-three years; I'm sure she'll manage to get on despite three dances with Freddie, for God's sake."
"Just so!" agreed Fred in amusement.
"And anyway, what does it matter if he dances three with her, or if he has two and I one, it's all practically the same. Here, Freddie, next time just don't wear your regimentals; then nobody will know the difference."
Not to be so easily deterred, Percy countered, "Do either of you care what sort of example you set for your sister?"
Ginny, who'd allowed her head to droop a bit, looked up in alarm. "I would desperately like to be left out of this conversation, please!"
"Really?" said Percy ironically. "Two dances with Mr Finnegan and two with Mr Thomas and you'd like to be left out of this conversation?"
Ginny gaped in outrage. "Every one of you dance with the tradesmen's daughters without worrying that it means anything — every single one! You're always treating me — "
"One, Ginny. One dance, to be polite. You're not fair to those boys by encouraging them, you know you're not."
"I'm not encouraging anything! I like them; I like dancing with them. They have more sense than all the gentlemen combined, and I dance with them because it doesn't encourage them. They don't take it into their heads to start proposing nonsense to me just because I've given them twenty minutes of my time — "
"Because they can't."
Ginny fell silent.
Percy had to say it because it would have been snobbish and graceless for Ginny herself to acknowledge it aloud — even though it was true. Dean Thomas the bookbinder, Seamus Finnegan the draper, Francis Borgin the solicitor's son, Adam Slughorn the apothecarist… they were all beneath Ginny's touch, and everyone in the carriage knew it. Not only would they never pursue romantic entanglement with Ginny — they could never.
(Well… what everyone in the carriage did not know was that Ginny had, hidden in her room where it would never be found, a rather lovely bit of poetry written for her by Mr Thomas, though he'd sensibly refrained from doing or saying anything beyond that.)
It was all very stupid. The way dancing was, as it turned out, not simply dancing. The way a girl was expected to make herself beautiful so that men might clamour over her but was expected not to actually enjoy it.
What was flirting, anyway? Wasn't it all flirting, when it was so obviously being done to attract someone — even if nobody wanted to admit it aloud?
It seemed to Ginny that these rules had been made up by men who didn't like certain behaviours being directed at anyone but themselves.
But there was no point arguing it, Ginny thought to herself as she crossed her arms and disappeared into the sullens for the remainder of the ride home.
What the devil did Percy understand about feeling, anyway?
.
.
.
Notes:
Interesting thing I learnt about dancing: When you had a 'dance' with someone, you actually danced a set, which was two songs, and all told one set alone could be 30+ minutes of dancing. So Percy's being Percy but he's actually not wrong. Two 'dances' (two sets) raised eyebrows. Three dances basically meant "I'm gonna put a ring on it, like yesterday."
.
Brummell - Beau Brummell, the leader in men's fashion at the time. Was said to go through about 20 cravats every morning trying to get it creased and arranged exactly as he wanted it.
'inexpressibles' - funny enough, does not refer to underwear; it refers to breeches or more generally any kind of trousers