Chapter Thirteen

That evening Raleigh was a beacon of warmth and light in the vast, cold infinite blackness. The surrounding villages were dark and drowsy; for that night belonged to Raleigh. Stars blossomed in the night-sky, as the silvery light of the moon reflected eerily on the blanket of snow that coated in the ground. The wrought-iron gates were swung open as strings of carriages, varying in the level of luxury proceeded up the winding driveway.

Tall gentleman in elegant beaver coats and top hats emerged from the depths of the carriage, tipping their hats toward the ladies in exquisite gowns of velvet, silk, satin and taffeta who lined the entrance doors.

Miss Blackburn was among them, outfitted in a gown of pale green, her smile growing larger as group of gentleman filtered inside the manor.

This might be a successful ball, after all.

Nell descended the spiral staircase step by step, her hand gripping the banister for support. Sally was already at the bottom, her eyes peeled out for any handsome gentleman as she waited impatiently for her friend.

As Nell stepped upon the bottom step, she felt the tip of her heel slide off, propelling her forward. Delirious images flashed before her mind, whirling and spinning like the world around her.

With a heavy thud she slammed into the hat rack, which teetered and tottered before tipping toward her. Nell’s hands flew before her head, but the dreaded crack she’d been expecting did not come. Cautiously, she allowed her hands to fall by sides and her eyes blink open.

Miss Blackburn towered over her, her face thunderous at this act of extreme clumsiness. “Miss Farwood, pick yourself off the floor and for heavens’ sake, be more careful! What will the gentlemen think?”

“It isn’t my fault if those stairs are as slippery as ice,” grumbled Nell, grasping Sally’s palm to rise to her feet.

Miss Blackburn did not look understanding. “I know what you’re up to, but you still have to be decent. Your father expects it.”

Sally bit her lip as Miss Blackburn held out a large double card, with a pencil dangling from a cord, containing on one side a list of the dances that were to be played at the party; on the other, blank spaces to be filled by the names of partner.

“Here are your dance cards.”

She fluttered away to welcome another batch of guests and Sally and Nell entered the dining hall where they were greeted with a burst of chatter and laughter of tinkling of plates and glasses full of wine the same colour as Nell’s dress.

They slipped into the adjoining room, the ball room, which was dressed in the most splendid gown of all, a magnificent crystal chandelier, tiny candlelit tables filled the very corners and bevelled mirrors ran along the lengths of the room. The ceilings soared high; indigo-blue skies featuring gold-leaf stars and shimmering crescent moons and suns with powerful rays beamed down at the blur of colour and movement below. An orchestra of harps, violins, flutes, cellos and a harpsichord resonated through the entire room, the dramatic classical works of Bach and Beethoven brought to life once again. The smell of cigars and pipes wafted unpleasantly towards Nell and Sally, who remained awe-struck at the entrance.

“I do say, Sally, Miss Blackburn has outdone herself,” declared Nell, as she observed transformed young ladies of Raleigh that floated past her. Previously clothed in modest morning-gowns of simple cotton, the girls hadn’t been to flaunt their superior status and wealth openly. Now they had every opportunity.

Elizabeth McArthur traipsed past, in a gaudy gown of deep magenta, clinging to an eager gentleman who was intently eyeing the expensive gold bracelets that glimmered on her wrists.

“Miss Farwood, Miss Parks,” she greeted superciliously, flashing Sally and Nell her pearly white teeth and jerking her head toward her escort meaningfully.

“This is Monsieur LaRose, he’s on holiday from France,” as predicted by Nell, she let out a girlish giggle at this point. “He so…French.”

Monsieur LaRose nodded politely, bowing deeply. “An honour to meet you beautiful young ladies,” he said in perfectly polished English.

Nell succumbed to spiteful temptation and added with a wry smile, “So, he isn’t your cousin, then?”

Red swathes of anger appeared on Elizabeth’s powdered face instantly, but she struggled to maintain her composure.

“I see your earl hasn’t arrived, must be running a tad bit late. Or perhaps, he’s just conveniently occupied.” Elizabeth said through a clenched teeth.

“I should hope so,” Nell called after her as she gave Monsieur LaRose’s arm a mighty tug and disappeared through the crowd.

Sally dissolved in giggles. “You really irritate her, you know.”

“Well, she’s a prickly little thorn in my side as well,” muttered Nell, her eyes searching. The question now was, where was Mr. Quigley Paddington?

The orchestra had struck up the second dance, a slow French quadrille and Sally had been swept of her feet by a mysterious stranger, leaving Nell sipping on her mild sherry alone. She watched the couples weave and through one an other, switching arms and repeatedly. She downed her sherry in one gulp; she should be glad he hadn’t arrived, she was rubbish at dancing, anyway, even the quadrille, which consisted mainly of walking and small-talk. Her gaze shifted to the clock, now all she had to do was wait till blessed midnight struck. At that moment, Sally arrived, flushed and out of breath.

“Mr. Puddington still not made his appearance?” she questioned, angry on Nell’s behalf.

“I’m afraid not. Elizabeth McArthur must be having an absolute cow,” she said bitterly. “And I feel like a wrinkled, ugly chaperone sitting here on the sidelines.”

The lady at the neighbouring table, with wrinkled skin, a beaky nose and bulging eyes, swathed in netted black, cast her withering glance.

Sally shot her a sympathetic smile. “Nell, don’t fret. If people weren’t already informed of your…escort they’d be squabbling over your ball card. Mr. Paddington is the one who should be worrying.”

Suddenly, a shadow that did not belong to Sally, fell over the table.

Nell gazed up to see a young man with a strange expression etched on his face.

“Excuse me,” he said, “are you ladies talking of Mr. Paddington?”

Sally nodded wordlessly, but Nell snapped irritably, “Yes, but, sir, aren’t you aware that it’s impolite to eavesdrop on conversations?”

The young man imparted a charming smile, bowing his head.

“Forgive me for my apparent rudeness,” he said, “it was most uncivilised of me, but I have a message from Mr. Paddington. His mother experienced a dizzy spell before her departed his home in Pemberley and therefore he was delayed. He sends his heartfelt apologies to a Miss Cornelia Farwood.”

Nell sighed. “Very well, I accept his apology.”

The gentleman cast her another fleeting smile before disappearing into the adjoining dining room.

A lively waltz began, as the gentleman politely offered their arms to their escorts. Elizabeth McArthur had managed to snag another dance with her French escort and was prancing around the dance floor with a smug expression that trigged a succession of false retchings on Nell’s part.

Her antics having tired her, Nell slipped towards Brigit, who was balancing a tray laden with sparkling goblets of wine. However, she bumped into the young man in the black tailcoat and top hat that delivered Mr. Paddington’s message, with a smack.

“How very clumsy of me,” Nell apologised, colouring. “If Mr. Paddington arrives, would you be so kind as to inform me?”

The man blinked, his boyish hazel eyes twinkling. “You’re in luck, Miss Farwood.”

“Pardon?” A confused frown puckered on Nell’s brow.

With a flourish, the gentleman swept of his ridiculous top hat, with the bright red sash encircling it, to reveal his horrendously bright red hair that was tousled and standing up in electric spike atop his head. He bowed low, once again, and in spite of herself Nell felt an embarrassed flush creep up on her cheeks.

“I don’t understand,” she said weakly, her hands grasping at the fabric of red gown for support.

The man, or boy, rather, straightened himself out, thrusting his chest forward proudly.

“I’m Quigley Paddington.”

Nell’s mouth automatically dropped open, as she struggled to digest this new revelation.

‘Then, why did you blatantly lie to me about your true identity at the table?” she questioned, her deep blue eyes narrowing.

Mr. Quigley Paddington gazed furtively around at the surrounding couples, who were glancing at them oddly, especially Miss Blackburn who sent Nell a warning glare. She gulped; well, he definitely wasn’t the old wart with infinite chins and a bursting belly with unbecoming whiskers sprouting from his face. Instead vibrant red hair, the colour of carrots sprouted from his head and hazel eyes sparkled with everlasting eagerness.

“That is not a matter of importance, Miss Farwood,” he mumbled, “but I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He gripped her hand and bowed his head….

“Ah…I’m charmed, as well,” she replied, wrenching her gloved hand from his grasp, her eyes searching for escape.

“Shall I offer you a drink?” said Quigley, shooting her a winning smile.

Yes! She was dying for some sherry.

However, when Jane passed, Mr. Paddington lifted a glassful of water from the silver-plated platter.

“There you are, my lady,” he said pleasantly.

Nell bristled as she gripped the glass in her hand. “Thank you,” she returned, the vein on her forehead throbbing dangerously.

“Do you enjoy the opera, Miss Farwood?” pestered Mr. Paddington.

“No, Mr. Paddington,” replied Nell with difficulty, sure he was exactly her age. She really couldn’t believe the nerve of her father.

“Their laments either irritate me thoroughly or depress me completely.”

Mr. Paddington face remained impassive. “That’s a shame,” he smirked, “I had two tickets for a show during the holidays and was wondering whether you’d be so kind to accompany me?”

Nell took in a deep breath. “I suppose if you put it in that manner, it’s an offer my fath-I cannot refuse.”

Mr. Paddington gazed at her oddly, though he looked slightly mollified. “Good. I’m glad. It shall be a magical evening, Miss Farwood—“

Magical.

Nell immediately craned her neck to view the clock in the corner. Ten minutes. She exhaled slowly. She would she just have to endure ten more minutes of Mr. Quigley Paddington and then she could take the portal and hopefully never see him again. However, that wasn’t o be the present. The orchestra started up another jumpy melody, a polka, that caused Mr. Paddington to tap her persistently on the shoulder.

“Miss Farwood, may I have the honour?” He offered his arm.

Nell hesitated. Then again, how could she refuse with Miss Blackburn’s eyes transfixed upon her? She nodded silently and they stepped on the dance floor, the music playing instantly, Quigley slipped his arm around her waist looking quite pleased with himself.

“This is a lovely tune by Handel that I quite enjoy,” he attempted another stab at polite conversation.

“Miss Farwood are you feeling faint?” he inquired when Nell did not respond.

“I’m not your mother, Mr Paddington,” she said sharply, placing her hand stiffly in his.

They pranced, their feet moving in rhythmic twos, their upper bodies stiff. Nell wasn’t enjoying herself, an anxiety gripped her insides, she tried to catch a glimpse of the clock every time they past it.

“Miss Farwood,” began Mr. Paddington suddenly hesitant, “I’m feeling quite neglected this evening. You barely spare me glance. I beginning to wonder if my mother was originally right about her assumptions.”

Nell’s flushed in anger as she glanced into his young, naïve face.

What did it matter? She wouldn’t be here much longer.

“How can my father expect us to be married!” she said finally. “You’re but a boy!”

Quigley bristled, and huffily said, “I’m eighteen.”

“And I’m sixteen! I don’t want to do this. I want nothing to do with you!” Nell broke away, the warning of chime of the clock ringing in her ears.

Quigley’s face fell as his eyes lost some of their spark

. “Wait! Miss Farwood! Don’t go!” He wove through the remaining couples in an attempt to catch up with Nell.

He was causing a scene. Nell fled faster, gathering her skirts and bolting upstairs rapidly.

She reached her room, panting as the chime sounded again. Frantically, she grasped the book and held it protectively against her chest. From her writing desk, she grabbed her chalky white rock and used to mark three lines running parallel to each other on the wood. Each represented a time; the past and future were thin bands and her destination was a thick and bold line with arrows on either side on the ground. This was the boundary between this time and that time.

Nell took a deep breath, steadying herself as she whispered fervently, “take me to her.”

A light, cool wind rose with the chamber as the windows swung open and the curtains ruffled gently.

“Take me to her. My soul mate,” repeated Nell, closing her eyes, breathing deeply.

The chime shrieked tauntingly in her ear.

The party seemed somewhere distant, Nell was swept into understanding as she raised her foot….

The door opened, “Oh, there you are,” said Quigley, stepping inside, his fingers grazing the knob.

“NO!” screamed Nell in panic, as her foot hovered uncertainly above the portal.

Quigley stiffened. “I must say, Miss Farwood, your manners or lack of them, needs much—”

“DON’T CLOSE THE DOOR!”

It was too late.

The world around them dissolved.