Mrs Bell does indeed rake through Calliope's suitcase, discarding near half it's contents. Though she apologises profusely throughout and, when both women are sure the man of the house is not listening, let's Calliope talk her ear off about her plants.
The guilt Calliope feels in bringing up such a subject matter is not new, but it has been buried for some time in the free spirit of Ferndale Hall. Overrun with Eudoria's sheer will and want for Enola's eduction. Calliope was a great asset in that she'd been assured. Now she wasn't sure she was to be much use to anyone, other than an ornament to her uncle. And that was only if Mrs Bell could tame her with combs and ribbons and whale bone.
In the end it wasn't a perfect job; her hair refused to sit quite as high on her head as was fashionable with merely the ribbons to hold it there, her waist would not be squeezed as narrow as was wanted without turning black and blue in mere minutes, rendering her to sitting the whole evening so as not to grimace and 'ruin her face too', her feet were too big for the pumps, and her skin simply refused to stay a pale milky complexion, despite layers of powder being applied to fight off her consistent flush.
In the end they settled for only tying up half off her hair, loosening the corset till only continued movement would bruise, wearing an old pair of her mothers boots that almost matched the deep red of her dress, and discovered there was little they could do about her skin so sent her off with a fan and the hopes that a red dress might offset the red in her cheeks.
Nevertheless the first thing Calliope's Uncle said upon seeing his niece was that she looked like a harlot and ought to be sent back to finishing school.
Calliope had no doubt he would find such a school to send her to if given half a chance.
So, she resolved to sit quietly, remain pretty and sweet, and listen without disturbing the men's conversation. She would speak only when spoken to and hide her flushed cheeks with her fan whenever possible. She hoped it would be enough for her Uncle to see some 'potential' and merely keep her trapped at home rather than playing homage to her youth at a finishing school of his choice.
And she was managing it so, so well, even as her Uncle guided her through crowds with harsh hands, and corrected her posture with raps of a closed fist to her spine, shoulders, hips, anywhere he deemed unseemly. This she could endure again, this was men, society. Everything she'd been lucky to escape for any brief amount of time.
But then, across the room, her eyes caught with those she'd been trying to escape.
Her brows rose involuntarily, certainly not expecting the detective to attend such a frivolous affair. Everyone here was wearing a mask, or two, and Calliope couldn't help but think how tiring that must be someone who's whole job is to understand people. Although, she must admit that he was certainly beautiful. A beauty to rival even the soft, sprawling ferns growing around the windows, over the balcony.
A pinch to the back of her arm pulled Calliope's attention from the sharp blue-grey of Sherlock's and back to the young man her Uncle was trying to introduce her to.
He was alright, she supposed, but it was blatantly obvious that he showed no interest in her and kept drifting off with hunched shoulders and stale ale breath, staring despondently at the arched windows behind her. His escort, Father if she had to guess, seemed far more interested and made no effort to control his wandering eyes.
"She's still young though," her Uncle was saying, "will need a firm hand to keep her in line."
She knew, as her uncle talked, that she was expected to smile pretty and duck her head under their appreciative gazes. That this was about her, but did not actually involve her.
And she hated herself, just a little bit, as she let her uncle spin her around on feather light feet so they could see all she had to offer. She hated the spark of fear his hand on her lower back, sliding round her waist as she spun, set off within her.
It was the fear that made her comply, she supposed.
The fear that made her spin faultless, even as her eyes met with the detectives, now somehow across the other side of the room, again as she made it half way around. Calliope was flushed before she stopped spinning.
Her uncle frowned.
Almost faultless.
She managed to control her face, just enough not to frown. To betray herself more as she curtsied low and accepted the young man's lazily held out hand.
Her uncle rapped his knuckles between her shoulder blades, twice, short and sharp, as she rose from the curtsy. Calliope pulled her shoulders up, tucking her spine back into that elegant line she knew her uncle liked.
It was something near to relief that made her half smile real as she followed the slouched man onto the dance floor — she didn't even know his name. Although, it was highly likely he hadn't bothered to retain hers either.
She was just glad to put a little bit of distance between her uncles reprimanding hands and his fathers hungry, mocking gaze.
Letting his slide a hand around her waist, to sit on her hip as the next lilting tune started up Calliope let herself fall into the dance. The music, at the very least, was beautiful.
And Calliope, if she was honest with herself, liked to dance. It felt a little humiliating to admit, but she liked that she didn't have to think much to dance. Someone else was leading, she was following, and her body knew to do the rest.
But this time? With a partner who was bored at best, and forgetting the steps entirely at worst, Calliope was left to stumble through the steps and try to lead from the position of the follower.
Suffice to say, it wasn't working.
She was beginning to hear tittering around them as she tripped over the young mans foot — the young man who didn't even notice as he then stepped too many times backwards and swung them awkwardly round, narrowly missing another couple.
Calliope was on the verge of making up some half baked excuse (or perhaps falling flat on her face and stopping the dance altogether) when a body, tall and broad, blocked their path.
Her dance partner lead them to a stumbling stop that made Calliope wince, and then sway into the new arrival just enough to set her face aflame.
"Mind if i cut in?" His deep voice rumbled and Calliope realised with a start that it was Sherlock. He didn't seem like the dancing type.
The young man merely shrugged, retreating to the crowd before another word could be uttered.
Calliope was left feeling a little unsure, tucking her hands into her chest and, for some strange reason, now entirely unable to make eye contact with the beautiful man in front of her.
But Sherlock didn't seem to mind and moved in to dance with her nonetheless, not bothering to bow but giving her enough time to run from his slow advance should she choose too.
She stepped forward, just a fraction, instead and relaxed herself into Sherlocks hold, gentle but sure. His hands exactly where they should be.
And, as he stepped back, leading them easily into a smooth path around the floor in the middle of a song, she was able to look up at the man.
He was even more beautiful in person. He had the sharp, cleanness of a member of high society in his suit, pressed collar, and styled hair. But maintained the rugged five o'clock shadow and slightly sunken eyes of a working man. Possibly one who works too much, she thought dimly as she met his eyes.
She couldn't help the sharp breath at that eye contact. Nor the holding of that breath that followed as the corner of his mouth tipped up in something akin to amusement at her reaction.
If she was burning up before then she was practically on fire now.
The realisation sobered Calliope and, still following Sherlocks sure and steady steps, she pulled herself back into the positions she knew were favoured. Tucked her spine, her stomach, pulled her shoulders up and adjusted her eyes to look resolutely at his chest.
The song trickled out and there was a beat of silence. Calliope prepared to return to her uncle.
But Sherlock didn't falter, merely led her into an easy walk around the dance floor. She found herself easing up, far more comfortable now she knew who she had to follow, who to listen to.