The Vicar's Wife

3

Breakfast the next morning, or, as the custom was with Hattie, lunch for the rest of the Foster family, became a rather riotous affair. It began with the reading of the newspaper aloud on Mr Foster's part. Yet, Mrs Foster's response was the true catalyst.

"Interesting developments in the social scene, my dear," he said detachedly. "There is a report that the Marquess of Aramoor is returning to Black Oak after his honeymoon. He and his wife shall be received by a ball, hosted by His Grace, the Duke of Essex."

"The Lady Benedict returns to London society?" Mrs Foster's voice betrayed her disdain. "Has she so little care for what her presence puts upon us?"

"Pray, my dear, what is it she puts upon us?" Her husband inquired, folding the paper aside slightly to eye her.

"You have not forgotten the disgrace of her brother, have you? Her own very questionable reputation? The very public trial of her husband?"

"While I did not pay acute attention, I do seem to recall that matter was settled in the Marquess' favour. His company, as that of the Marchioness, should be welcomed with admiration and respect wherever they go."

"There perhaps might be some who side with the lady, despite all her reputation has suffered, but those of respectable repute will find any and all excuses to avoid their tiresome company."

"Mamma!" Hattie slapped her teacup down with enough force to rattle it disturbingly against the saucer. "I have the utmost respect and amiable feeling for Lady Benedict, and all her family and acquaintance! There has never been one inappropriate word spoken by her in my presence! I should be glad to see her once more, married to such a fine, handsome man as the Marquess! Although his manner is most severe, Lord Benedict's rank and position are utterly respectable!"

"Hattie!" Lucille glared impatiently at her. "We'll not receive any such invitation with pleasure, and certainly not attend any such function as to which they may be present!"

"I wish I had been aware of the nature of your feelings, my dear." Snapping the paper quietly closed, George Foster laid it on the table. "The invitation came yesterday while you two were out, and I responded that we'd be delighted."

"What-!?" Mrs Foster leapt to her feet in shock. "Do I rightly hear you?"

"Indeed." His grin was calm, but a sparkle of amusement glinted in his eyes. "We cannot escape now, I am afraid."

"A ball?" Hattie's voice brought their eyes to her. "Father, truly, a ball? Hosted by the Duke of Essex himself?"

"Quite so."

At her mother's frustrated cries of protest, Hattie rose from the table, already lost in fine gowns, music, banquet- suddenly she stopped, turning slowly.

"Am I allowed to go, father?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Now that I am engaged, should I be allowed to attend a ball if Mr. Forsythe is not there?"

Her father regarded her with faint affection. In truth, Hattie was his wife in her youth, and he adored her all the more for reminding him of happier times.

"Father?" Hattie's gentle inquiry made him smile as he got up, holding out his hands to her.

"Of course, my dear, just mind that you pay the young gentlemen little fixed attention, for you'd not like to give rise to ungenerous comments. Nor give your intended cause for jealousy."

"I'll not dance with any of them, then!" She declared firmly. "None shall have reason to think anything improper of me!"

"Don't be silly-!" Her mother started, but Mr. Foster cut her off.

"Very wise, dear girl. There are times you quite forget yourself, and act with recklessness. Mr. Forsythe is a patient, wise young man, but let us not put him to the test."

Smile luminous, his cautionary rebuke completely missed, Hattie giggled before spinning away, racing up the stairs to tear through her closet for her best gown. Mrs Foster stared irritably at her husband.

"Why you put us in this position in the first place is beyond me, George! How is it that you are so eager to rub elbows with a name so deeply mired in scandal? To expose our daughter-!"

"Lucille," tone patient, he regarded her calmly. "To deny an invitation sent specifically by the Duke of Essex himself would display a shocking lack of gratitude and propriety. I have it on good authority that those invited are hand selected by His Grace for the specific pleasure of Lady Benedict. To be chosen is a high honour."

"But her past-!"

"Is in the past, dear." Moving around the table, Mr Foster took his wife's hands, feeling them stiff and cold in his. "There was a time, my dear, when you might have held some compassion for the lady."

"Now we have three daughters that I must take care to ensure are-"

"Two of the three are married, Lucille, and Hattie is set."

Her eyes finally dropped from his, her shoulders slumping a little. George grinned faintly, putting a finger under her chin. Tears glistened in her eyes.

"Society is so unforgiving, I...I suppose I allowed myself to be persuaded to go along so that I might preserve the dignity and virtue of our own girls. Even close association is enough to tarnish a reputation...I was frightened to risk their futures."

"Might it not be time to start again?"

"Surely it would be hypocritical to do so now? Lady Benedict has been treated harshly by all her class and rank members. What must she think of us, who are below?"

"If you approach this with doubt, it will surely end in disaster. Let us go, and sincerely welcome the Marquess and his wife home. Their reaction will be up to them."

"Hattie does adore a ball,"

"As did you, at one time." George cupped her shoulders, beginning to smile as she met his gaze. "Do you recall the first time we stood up together?"

"I was eighteen, you four and twenty," her voice went soft, eyes tender. "I thought you the most handsome man I'd ever seen, and still do."

"You were the most beguiling, charming creature I'd ever had the pleasure to meet, and have remained so."

"It was a country dance," she murmured, moving closer to him.

"The orchestra played Joys of the Country," their hands slid together, fingers intertwining. "I couldn't keep from staring into your eyes."

"We stood up only with each other the rest of the evening," a smile began to form on Mrs Foster's lips.

"And every ball after that, for the last twenty-seven years."

When the kitchen maid opened the door to clear away the luncheon, she stopped, wide-eyed, then backed quietly from the room with a knowing smile. The master and missus of the house had eyes only for each other, lost in decades past, dancing to music only they could hear.