Author's note: A new historical fiction. I am ridiculously, egotistically in love with this story, and I hope to make it one that I update frequently. Also, I've done a shit ton of reading both from my history courses and from outside sources to be a historically accurate as possible. Hope you enjoy! Vote and comment if you like this story, maybe even fan!
Stephen hated balls. Absolutely loathed them. It was not so much that he disliked dancing, or that he had no ear for music, or that he had any objection to being out in the evenings. He was a perfectly capable dancer, he was an avid listener of music, and he quite enjoyed an evening spent out.
But what he disliked about them was the people. Being forced to mix and mingle and converse with people he was not closely acquainted with was Stephen's idea of what would await a particularly nasty sinner in Hell.
Now, he stood apart from the throng as, a glass of punch in his hand, he watched how others seemed to go about talking to others in such an easy manner - how did they do it? As he watched, Lady Beckett laughed gaily and patted the arm of some man - Mr. Philips, he wondered? - as though they were the greatest friends.
The only thing that saved him now was the fact that he knew so few people at the ball. Those he knew - reserved to Lady Beckett, the hostess and his landlady, and his cousin on his mother's side, Mr. Arthur Watson - were busy chattering or dancing with new friends, and he, of course, could not presume to talk to anyone else without an introduction.
So there Stephen stood, sipping at his punch and wondering whether he could safely slip out onto the terrace and be alone, or whether some amorous young couple would be out there, stealing kisses.
Watching as Arthur whirled about with some pretty, pink young woman, Stephen downed the rest of his punch. He wanted the blurring, warm effect of alcohol, he wanted to be at least a little drunk to make the evening easier. But he was not about to get drunk off the few glasses of punch he could scrounge.
"What I wouldn't give for a flask of gin," he mused aloud.
The woman next to him gave him a horrified look.
Grumbling, Stephen set down the punch glass and, when he looked up, caught the eye of a very pretty young woman. He jerked back in surprise as he noted how her eyes were fixed directly on him. He did not often attract the attention of elegant young ladies.
As he watched, she smiled very broadly and then, to his growing suspicion, nudged the man standing next to her. Suddenly, the pair of them began to laugh, and Stephen felt himself go rigid with horror as he looked for the source of their amusement and saw a rather large stain on his breeches.
He'd spilled punch on himself, and not noticed it, and now it marked his right thigh in a most unfortunate way.
Going red with both embarrassment and anger, he shot the giggling pair a stern look and made his way to the terrace. He was prepared to brave any couple he face there to get away from this damn crowd.
Luckily, there he found nothing but the cool late summer air and the quietness of the evening. Giving a sigh, Stephen leaned his hands against the rough stone balcony and stared off into the distance. Over the sloping lawns of Westleigh, he could see that the moon had risen.
He sighed again and closed his eyes. He was barely aware of his own humming, a tune he could never seem to forget - his blasted father had roared it with his friends too many times when he was drunk - and stared out over the lawn.
Suddenly, there was a rustle from beside him and the figure of a woman emerged from behind a statue. He had not seen her standing there; perhaps she had come around the other side of the house.
Straightening up quickly, he made her a pert bow, holding one hand before him to conceal the punch stain, though he doubted she would be able to see it in the gloom.
"Forgive me for disturbing you, sir," she said, and curtseyed very prettily but very hastily. She looked unnerved to see him and more than a bit flustered. "I did not think I should find anyone here. My apologies."
"Not at all, madam," he replied. "The fault is mine." Even in the moonlight, he could see that she was quite the beautiful young thing - easily the prettiest girl he'd seen all evening.
"I trust you are enjoying the evening air, sir?" she asked.
"Very much, madam," he said, and inclined his head.
They stood in silence for a moment, Stephen unsure of what to say to the woman, and she staring right at him with such a look on her face that it gave him pause. Her wide, blue eyes were fixed right on his face, and he stared right back.
Stephen, in the time during which the woman stared him down, cursed himself for his social ineptitude. She was waiting for him to say something - this very pretty young woman was standing expectantly, and there he stood, neither knowing nor particularly caring to figure out what to say.
"Good night, sir," she said, and curtseyed once more.
"Good night, madam." His reply was as pert as his bow.
With a rustle of muslin, she was gone back inside. Stephen stared after her for a moment, wondering why she'd been out on the terrace. As he stared back through the wide windows - lit so that those inside would no doubt be able only to see their own reflections - his eyes followed her.
Two young ladies had just fallen in on either side of her, and were giggling madly. She, however, smiled down at them with a certain level of sober composure that gave her gravity and serenity. Her head was held high, her hair shone, and her ivory skin very nearly seemed to glow.
Stephen noticed, rather absently, that her dress was blue, the muslin the precise grey-blue colour of her eyes.
Giving another sigh, he wished once again he was drunk.
"Stephen, what the devil are you doing sulking out here?"
It was Arthur, who had joined him. Somehow, Arthur had managed to get himself more than a little intoxicated, leading Stephen to wonder whether Arthur simply had no head for drinking or if he'd located a stronger source of alcohol.
"Fresh air," said Stephen.
"Well come back in, damn you!" Arthur said, and seized Stephen's arm. Half-dragged back into the house, Stephen consented to being towed by Arthur around the room until he was suddenly in the presence of a small circle of people.
"We've just been talking about you. Stephen, if I might introduce you to Mr. Vance, his sister, Miss Vance, and Mr. Cuthbert?" said Arthur.
Stephen covered the stain as surreptitiously as he could as the attention of three people was suddenly focused on him.
Stephen had to try very hard not to forget their names, carefully attaching the title of Mr. Vance to a tall, hook-nosed, brown haired man leering a little at him, Miss Vance to his shorter, plumper, and similarly complexioned - but far prettier - sister, and Mr. Cuthbert to a medium-sized, slightly-plump, pleasant-faced, blue-eyed specimen. He took a particular note of Mr. Cuthbert, for his blue coat with its gold buttons but the lack of either one or two epaulettes meant that he was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy.
"How do you do?" he said, and bowed to each one in turn, receiving a bow from each one of them.
"And this, dear friends, is my cousin, Mr. Byrne."
"Dr. Byrne," corrected Stephen, irked enough to correct Arthur.
"Oh, you're a doctor? A physician, perhaps?" said Miss Vance, and looked up at him with an open and very charming curiosity.
At the same precise moment, her brother narrowed his eyes, glared, and would have stared down at Stephen had Stephen not been taller than him. "You're an Irishman, are you?"
His voice was blunt, and unashamedly rude.
Stephen would have been more offended had he not been so used to it. His name never ceased to bring up the question of his Irish heritage with the English whenever he was introduced. Some people seemed to take it rather well; others muttered suspiciously; some refused to speak to him.
And the English wondered why there was animosity.
"My father was," said Stephen, and met Mr. Vance's eyes.
Miss Vance laughed, either oblivious to the anger that had sparked to life between Mr. Vance and Stephen, or a very clever actress and hiding her knowledge to smooth things over.
"Tell me, is it true that the Irish are light on their feet, then?" she asked.
"As light as heavy hearts can make them," replied Stephen, and glared straight at Mr. Vance.
Mr. Cuthbert coughed loudly, sounding like he was gagging on something in his throat, and even Arthur, in his slightly intoxicated state, managed to look uncomfortable.
"At any rate, madam, I am only half Irish. My mother was English, and so I am only half as light on my feet as you might wish," he added.
It alleviated the tension far more than he wished, for Stephen had meant it only as a quip, as he did not care to mask his indignation at Mr. Vance's words. But, with Miss Vance's loud, sweet laugh, and Mr. Cuthbert's visible relaxation - deflating as though he'd been stuck with a pin - and Arthur's grin, Stephen could tell that Mr. Vance's animosity had been dismissed.
"May I test that myself, sir?" asked Miss Vance.
Stephen would have rathered the animosity. He smiled as well as he could, made a small bow, and offered Miss Vance his arm.
Stephen proved himself there to be a very reasonable dancer - talented, nimble, but unenthusiastic, which made his steps far less charming than those of Miss Vance, whose talent was not as great as his but her gaiety was immense.
That gaiety faded, however, throughout the course of the dance. For while they danced, Stephen made little conversation and no attempt to change that fact. Not only that, but in the movement of the dance, he revealed the punch stain on his thigh. All in all, he proved to be a poor, surly partner, apparently quite contrary to Miss Vance's wishes.
He could sense Miss Vance's growing disappointment and irritation based on the way she began to trip over her feet and to glare, but he was stuck in the interesting position of neither caring to converse nor fully knowing how to.
The moment the dance was over, Miss Vance curstseyed in such a cold manner it made Stephen smile. Then she stalked off, casting an angry look over her shoulder, before going back to her brother and chattering directly in his ear.
When she shot a particularly a particularly nasty glare at him, he gave yet another sigh. He needed to retreat somewhere, to get away from the noise and the lights and all the damn people.
The terrace was off limits to him now, of course, and there was no other place to which he could flee. Stephen was considering doing himself some sort of harm, perhaps running himself through with a candlestick to avoid further conversation, when Mr. Cuthbert appeared at his shoulder.
"I do believe you've wounded Miss Vance irrevocably, Dr. Byrne," he said. The words would have been grave had Mr. Cuthbert not said them with a grin.
Stephen smiled in relief, pleased to find at least one amicable soul amongst the whole party. "I think she was expecting a stunning conversationalist and a perfect gentleman. I am neither," he observed. "Tell me, will she recover from that wound?"
Mr. Cuthbert laughed. "Never, sir. But be glad you wounded her. She will never speak with you again, I think, and that is a blessing. She becomes tiresome, you see."
"Then I consider myself blessed in my lack of charm," returned Stephen, the self-mockery acerbic and biting.
Mr. Cuthbert laughed once more, this time even more exuberantly. When he had paused for breath, he went on.
"You know, Dr. Byrne, though we had not met until tonight, I have heard of you," he said.
Stephen raised his eyebrows, wondering what part of his reputation had preceded him. "I do hope you have only heard good things about me, sir."
"You, sir, prescribed my uncle - you know, Sir Hugh Harte, a Rear-Admiral of the White - an excellent purging diet last spring. He says he's quite cured now, and by a most unconventional method, he says," said Mr. Cuthbert.
Stephen remembered the Admiral with very little fondness, for he'd been a man of sixty-three with a poor temper and a healthy constitution who'd called for a physician to cure him of an ailment he never had.
"You must tell me, Dr. Byrne, more about your work. I have the greatest interest in physic."
Stephen could not have been happier if Mr. Cuthbert had told him that he'd had a flask of gin in his jacket pocket. And so, satisfied at last in finding at least one intelligent person in the house, Stephen and Mr. Cuthbert settled into a corner and, for quite some time, ignored the pretty ladies for the comfort of genuine conversation.