Belinha's stomach grumbled, protesting away from the dark thoughts that haunted her at night. The soft twinkling laughter surrounded her, bright candle light casting everyone in a golden glow.
She wasn't in Portugal with Sir Pablo anymore. No, she was in London.
Forcing her feet to move, she attempted to walk straight ahead to the table at the back even as the stares followed her. She clutched her gloved hands in front of her, the grip shooting pain up to her elbow.
Petite snacks she had never seen before were laid out before her. Her gaze devoured every single one, not knowing what to do. She decided to settle with a drink. If she picked something to eat, there would be no stopping her devouring the entire plate.
Belinha moved back to where she stood when a woman, out of nowhere, stepped back from her position near another. She crashed into her, her red cordial of sorts staining the beautiful, white silk.
"Lady Margaret," her voice shrilly said before her mind could process. "I am terribly sorry!"
"You had better be," gasped Lady Ainsworth, surveying her daughter's spoiled outfit. There were many gawking at the scene now. "Are you willing to compensate for this? It cost a fortune—more than your measly existence!"
Belinha froze. Her tongue wouldn't move in her mouth, heavy as cotton. Gazes piercing every side of her head made her shoulders cave in, fingers fumbling to grasp the other for assurance.
She caught sight of Lord Caldwell and Lady Delafort dancing in line with the others. Their attention on each other had not strayed. She could not ask for help from them and be a burden when they had no reason to help.
"Are you going to stand there like a sopping idiot or fix this dress?"
"I...I cannot," she whispered.
"I beg pardon? You cannot or will not?"
As her voice became louder, it seemed to gather the attention of some of the dancers, too. Belinha lifted her skirt and ran the other way, down past the fern covering the hall where statues led her to other rooms.
From behind one room with double doors, she could hear the commotion of laughing and hooting. She would be safe here, she knew. Opening it, she surged inside only to come to a stand still at the heads that swivelled her way.
They were all men.
The silence bustled into whispers.
"A negro woman?"
"I don't think you belong here, sweetheart," called out one man from a table at the back.
She knew she didn't, but she couldn't move. The mist of smoke filled the air above them, swirling around each head and making it difficult for her to discern expressions, though she could tell from the jeering and the whistling that they did not appreciate her presence.
Some of them held cigars, others tumblers of alcohol; they all held cards, sitting around large rounded tables. None looked at her with smiles, only dark glares and raised brows. Warm fingers wrapped around her upper arm tight, pulling her back slightly.
Turning her head, she was met with Lord Caldwell beside her. "There you are," he said, deliberately loud, "this is not the room Lady Delafort wanted to see you in."
"Huh?"
He raised his eyebrows, though his smile did not deter. "Dear Lord, you truly are helpless with directions."
He was trying to help her! "Ah, y-yes, indeed, my lord. I apologise."
"Carry on with your game, lads." He turned them toward the door when they were stopped.
"Is this your negro?" Belinha stiffened, not able to find a word in as another man continued in his stead. "Your father already ruined his name by taking that coloured woman as his wife. Must you attempt to follow in his footsteps by involving yourself with the help?"
Lord Caldwell chuckled, much to the twisting of Belinha's stomach. The fire in the hearth nearby flickered in his orbs, the flame rising. "You ought to stick to playing cards and gathering money for your wife to spend it on the man she entertains nightly than to comment on the union of others."
The man's nostrils flared, but they did not stick around to see what his response would be. As Lord Caldwell guided her down the hall, they were enveloped in silence.
"Thank you, my lord," she mumbled. Was he mad that he had to come and help when he would rather be with his fiancee? Of course, there was no doubt about that. He most likely saw her as a nuisance he had to babysit.
"I will arrange a ride back home for you," he said instead. Lady Delafort rushed over when they had reached the crowd, worry creasing her face.
"Is everything quite alright, my dear?"
"Not to worry, only a misunderstanding. I'll take care of it once Miss Price is sent off."
Belinha hurried to curtsey before following Lord Caldwell out the front steps. He ordered for the footmen to bring around the carriage and helped her inside.
"I—what about Lady Margaret's dress?" she asked.
"That'll be a matter taken care of."
He would fix things? The Marquess was a man of great kindness, her earlier disposition of him ebbing just slightly. Belinha peered at him through the mini window of the carriage. "But why?"
The night made the normal aqua blue of his eyes seem dark. "You are my mother's lady-in-waiting. Regardless of your story, you are now under our employment."
"I thank you for your kindness," she said, swallowing through the lump in her throat. No one had ever said such words to her. He would not question her past. But she had to know. "And when we first met? I was not under your employment, then. You were under no means to help."
"Mother needed a companion. You were there at the right time." His expression didn't change when he added, "It didn't seem noble to send away someone who looked as though they were in need of dire help. We were both lucky a scandal was not brought upon us because of it."
She supposed he was right. So many things could have gone wrong, although luckily for her and through God's grace, everything went perfect.
For now.
"For your kindness," she began, "I pray for the Duke to get better every night. He is very lucky to have a son like you."
She could not tell if it was in her imagination, but his features softened. He stiffly bowed his head in thanks before shutting the door and stepping away.
The carriage rumbled down the pebbled streets, rocking her from side to side as the hall became further and further away. A speck in her sight. She leaned back in the comfort of the velvet seats, her back melting against the soft texture.
Eyes closed, she attempted to picture serenity, though she could only envisage the scene at the hall. The disgusted, angry faces of everyone when she had spilled juice onto Lady Margaret's dress, and when she had burst into the card room.
Her presence was truly unwanted. Would she ever get away from the ghost of her past? Or was she bound to it by eternity?
All of a sudden, the carriage came to a sudden stop, her body lurching forward.
What was going on??