The Gown(36)

Not wishing to prove them wrong, she told herself that she belonged. That sitting at this table by the edge of a crowded dance floor, her ears assaulted by the thrum and thump of restless feet and raucous music, her lungs clogged by a fug of smoke and perspiration and cheap perfume, was second nature to her, and the sort of thing she’d done all the time when she had lived in Paris.

It had come as something of a relief, when they’d arrived at the Astoria, to see there were scores of tables around the edge of the ballroom and that she would not, as Ann had said, be called upon to hold up the wall with the other girls who weren’t dancing. She’d accepted the vile English cigarette Jessie had offered her, although it had burned her throat and made her feel a little queasy, and the lemonade she’d sipped had been warm and unpleasantly tannic. Yet she was enjoying herself all the same.

It was interesting to sit with the others and try to make sense of this strange place where anyone might come and dance, as long as he or she had the money to pay the admission fee. Most were ordinary people like her friends from Hartnell, treating themselves to a night out and determined to make the most of their investment. A few, however, were like the people at the adjacent table. Wealthy and indolent and so convinced of their own superiority that their disdain for everyone else fairly dripped from the tips of their manicured fingers.

She’d noticed them straightaway. Their accents, all drawling vowels and clipped consonants, were so rarefied that even she could discern a difference in the way they spoke. And there was a languor in the way the women moved, as if dancing a waltz with an attractive man, or raising a glass of lemonade to their lips, were praiseworthy feats of endurance.

They seemed to complain about everything, too, their voices rising easily above the enveloping clamor of bystanders and dancers and music.

“What do you mean there’s no champagne?” whined one of the women. “You know I only drink champagne when I’m dancing. Gin goes straight to my head.”

“There’s no pleasing you, is there?” This from a dark-haired man at the far side of the table. He handed the girl a small metal flask, which she proceeded to empty into her glass of lemonade. Miriam’s eyes fairly watered at the sight of it.

The other man in the group of aristocrats, the one who had just delivered the disappointing glasses of lemonade to his companions, was tall and fair and conventionally handsome in a very English way. He’d been standing next to the table, his gaze flickering around the ballroom, and she had seen him looking in their direction more than once.

All the same, it was a surprise when he approached their table and stopped in front of Ann. Earlier, her friend had been kind enough to let one of the women in his group know when her fur wrap had fallen on the floor. Presumably he had come over to offer his thanks. That was the only reason Miriam could imagine for him to speak with any of them.

He held out his hand. He said something in a low voice, and he smiled at Ann. He was asking her to dance. She hesitated; of course she did, for it was unimaginable that a man like him would ask one of them to dance. France or England, the gulf between classes was just as unbridgeable.

“Go on,” Ruthie urged, and the other girls all nodded their agreement. Ann looked to Miriam, but what was she to do? Tell her to refuse? He was only asking for a dance, after all. So she shrugged, and Ann nodded, and she let the man, the stranger, lead her onto the dance floor and out of sight.

Miriam didn’t see them again for that dance, nor for the one that followed, nor the one after that. There were hundreds of dancers, of course, so she wasn’t worried. Not yet. And Ann had left her handbag behind. She would certainly never leave without retrieving it first.

The band began to play again, a softer, sweeter song, and Miriam swept her gaze over the dancers once more. There—there Ann was, coming toward them from the far end of the room, arm in arm with the charming aristocrat. She’d never looked prettier, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with happiness.

Close up, Miriam was struck again by how handsome he was. His manners could not be faulted either.

“I beg your pardon, ladies, for making off with Miss Hughes,” he said, and bestowed an imploring smile on each of them. “Do forgive me.” He released Ann’s hand and took a step back. “Promise me you’ll ring me up?”

“I promise,” Ann echoed.

“I do hope you enjoy the rest of your evening. Thank you again.” With that, he turned away and went to rejoin his friends.

While the others questioned Ann, their excitement fizzing over into giggles and squeals, Miriam angled her head so she might better eavesdrop on the discussion the stranger was having with his friends. One of them, the woman whose fur Ann had rescued, did not trouble to hide her annoyance.

“You just disappeared with her. It’s like you forgot we were even here.”

“I didn’t forget, Tabby girl,” he replied placidly. “And I’m back now. What say you to the 400 Club for a spell? The cocktails will be a far sight nicer than they are here.”

“Fine. But I insist you stay with us from now on. Darling Caro had no one to dance with at all after you went off with that shopgirl.”

“I’ll stay. Promise I will.”

Miriam stole a glance at Ann. Her friend’s eyes were following the man as he departed, a wondering and faintly dreamy expression on her face. She hoped Ann hadn’t heard the other woman’s nasty comment.