Chapter Five

***By LMA***

The resulting throng of curious bystanders who surged forward to gape at this intriguing incident consequently pushed Sarah backwards and away from the epicentre of drama. Despite her borderline dullness, at least this much may be said in defense of Miss Morland: she was not one to follow the crowd blindly. She found herself in a flurry of bustles and fans and lost sight of the gentleman to a wall of broad-shouldered velvet suits who encircled Mrs. Benwick. Sarah retreated to the relatively quiet seclusion of the cluster of chairs at which the near-catastrophic imbibition of one Edwina Suckling had transpired, which seemed to pale in comparison to the blood loss. Sarah relievedly sank upon one of the velvet cushions and took stock of the most recent turn of events.

Had Sarah been a more fanciful creature, the ensuing ponderances may have had greater weight towards cultivating her romantic sensibilities than they actually did. She yet wondered at the identity of the gallant gentleman with whom she had just finished dancing, and at his eagerness to assist with the poor Mrs. Benwick’s ill-timed nosebleed. Was he perhaps a physician, accustomed to giving succour to patients similarly afflicted? A more imaginative young lady might have envisioned him, heroically clad in white, ministering to the bedside of a dying old woman, whispering words of comfort in her final moments while sponging her forehead with a cold compress. Sarah merely wrinkled her nose at the memory of her family physician, the elderly, mustachioed doctor who had forced her to drink a vile concoction when she was ill in bed with the whooping-cough at the age of five. Perhaps he was a military officer, accustomed to the gore and bloodshed of the frontlines of battle. She did not pause to marvel at what a dashing cut he would have made, clad in red, brass military buttons rivaling the shine of his gleaming sword, even while his forehead was beaded with sweat and grime as he bandaged a wounded fellow-soldier in the heat of battle. Surely, she deduced, had he been in the military he would almost assuredly have worn his regimentals to such a gathering; thus she quite reasonably rejected that notion. Was he a clergyman instead? He might well be accustomed to giving solace to the ill and afflicted, inspiring hope and faith to his grateful congregation, hungering for his confident and reassuring guidance. Though perhaps in too fine a waistcoat for a man of the church, he might yet be in studies with his ordination yet pending. He had too distinguished an air to be a country parsonage, she thought, unlike her dear papa, who was more comfortable behind his wooden pulpit than he would be at such a busy and decorous gathering.

Sarah would have been more than content to be left to her rational reflections had not she been rejoined by Edwina once again. Breathless now from dancing with Mr. Rushworth, who had once again sallied forth in quest of refreshment for his partner, she had dreamily wandered backwards towards the chairs and would have collapsed from delight had not Miss Morland been there to break her fall. Indeed, Miss Suckling had almost sat upon Sarah as she had not even turned to visualize the chair she sought, so long had she gazed at the retreating form of Mr. Rushworth en route to the punchbowl. Sarah was not eager to entertain her company again, and readily stood up once Edwina had awkwardly regained her posture from her ill-timed repose. As sure as she was of her intention to leave, she remained undecided whose company she was more desirous of escaping, Edwina’s or Mr. Rushworth’s.

The young lady clasped Sarah’s hand in her own, pressing them near her heart as she turned her eyes heavenward, rapturously stating, ‘Oh, Miss Morland! Why did you not tell me what a captivating gentleman Mr. Rushworth is? Such manners! Such conversation! Do you know how well-informed he is of the latest in satins and silks? He could even describe to me in perfect detail the costumes of the latest theatricals he has seen in town. Indeed,’ she whispered conspiratorially, her voice dropping as she glanced furtively around the room, ‘he has even seen the production of Lover’s Vows now showing at the Covent Garden theatre. I have not seen it yet, for I hear it is a shockingly scandalous performance, but I daresay the pelisse of the heroine as he has described it must be worth at least …’ Sarah had not known such a large torrent of words to flow from so tiny an aperture, even while punctuated by occasional wheezes into her obliging handkerchief (which, when not in service to her cough, was fluttering wildly in the air as she gesticulated) and a shrill giggle, which Sarah would later liken to the unoiled wheel of Mrs. Jennings’s carriage.

She did not have it in her heart, though, to interrupt the happy effusions of Edwina’s overflowing adoration. Thankfully, another party provided that service, as she heard a voice break through the prattle with a simple ‘Miss Morland?’

***By CMS***

Sarah turned to see that the object of her former musings had approached her unawares as Edwina had been tumbling forth the praises of Mr. Rushworth. Edwina herself was suddenly taken by another bout of feeble coughing, which Mr. Rushworth himself gallantly eased with a timely application of party punch, and Sarah was able to turn her attentions to the man whose name she had yet to learn.

‘I beg your pardon for taking my leave so hastily a few moments ago,’ he said with a smile and a bow, ‘but I hope it has not cast me into your displeasure to such an extent that you would not favor me with the next dance? If your card is not quite filled already, of course.’

‘It is not, sir,’ Sarah said quite properly. She wondered vaguely why the heroines of her eldest sister’s novels never seemed to notice that one’s feet grew quite sore after dancing for so long, but of course the romantic dismissal of verisimilitude had always been one of Sarah’s objections to the genre. ‘I trust,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘that Mrs. Benwick is quite well now?’

‘Oh, quite well,’ her companion replied. ‘A little overexcitement, that is all.’

Excitement it had been indeed. Sarah had witnessed such drama among her siblings playing too roughly in the garden, but never had she seen it in such a formal circumstance, and at the expense of such a fine cravat as Mr. Benwick’s.

‘Might I inquire,’ Sarah began a little hesitantly, ‘as to the name of the gentleman whose company I am to enjoy in the next dance?’

‘Have we not been properly introduced yet, after all this?’ the young man exclaimed with what seemed quite genuine surprise. ‘Miss Morland, forgive my effrontery! I shall fetch someone to make our acquaintance straightaway.’ He had just turned from her when he stopped and said, ‘And here is Mrs. Jennings, as conveniently as though her entrance were scripted. She shall introduce us, I am certain.’

Indeed the matron bustled through the crowd and approached, huffing slightly and fanning herself excessively. ‘My, how warm it has become in here! Surely that is what caused poor Mrs. Benwick’s disaster.’

‘Mrs. Jennings,’ the stranger began, but he was interrupted immediately.

‘Why, Miss Suckling!’ Mrs. Jennings cried. ‘How very flushed you look! It is the heat, assuredly, not to mention the excitement. Come, my dear, we must take you home. Surely such a sight as that which Mrs. Benwick unintentionally presented must be shocking — quite shocking? — to young and tender eyes. We cannot have you fainting into Mr. Rushworth’s arms, can we, my dear? That would be quite too forward upon your first meeting.’ She gave the pair a conspiratorial wink, having apparently forgotten that Mr. Rushworth had originally been intended for Miss Morland.

‘Let us say our goodbyes,’ she said. ‘Come, Miss Morland, I can’t leave you here by yourself! What would your dear mother think of me? To the carriage, my dears, before Miss Suckling quite withers away!’

The young ladies were swept out a moment later, scarcely able to take their leave of Mr. Rushworth and the waistcoated gentleman whose name Sarah feared she would never now learn.

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