weeks. Invitations were already being printed.
Four
A week had passed since that infamous morning, and the occupants of Number Seven Berkeley Square were in a flurry of activity, what with calls to be paid and dresses to be ordered and fitted. Menus had to be arranged, flowers purchased, musical groups auditioned and chosen (Romilla liked the classic quartet and would not hear of Gail’s impish desire for a grand trumpet processional), silver to be polished, and the refurbishing of now seven rooms. Of course during all this, Sir Geoffrey had to keep up his political acquaintance and pay calls on the Home Office. Therefore, Gail and Evangeline often found themselves left to the devices of Romilla, who did not deem it advisable for young ladies not yet presented to the Ton to go out to the British Museum, or to the opera, or Astley’s Amphitheatre, or any other amusement that might keep their minds from dwelling too long on the approaching festivities. Evangeline bore it admirably, as she was in fact looking forward to the event and tried to throw herself as much into the process of giving a party as Romilla would hand over. Only occasionally did her fears of failure overcome her, but Gail was always there to talk her out of her low spirits.
As for Gail, she was not faring quite as well. Her nerves at the prospect of a ball were becoming increasingly worse, manifesting in a bout of awkwardness that had not been seen since the heyday of her adolescent growth spurts. Already, she had accidentally knocked over two very expensive vases and tripped on the corner of a rug, oversetting a tea tray. But whenever such mishaps brought forth scowls from Romilla and sighs from the servants, Evangeline was there to make Gail laugh at herself again.
One thing Gail did have to aid in escape was QueenBee. Romilla was staunchly against her riding during the Ton’s most fashionable hours, but Sir Geoffrey had intervened for his daughter’s sake, and struck a compromise. She was permitted to ride in the very early mornings, before the Ton was out strutting on horseback. Gail reveled in this solitary time, taking all of her frustration and channeling it into a glorious gallop across open fields. She came home refreshed, calmer, and more prepared to face whatever the day or Romilla thrust upon her. Of course now, while riding, she kept her eye out for tall, impossibly arrogant men riding mad horses as if the devil himself were on their tail. Not that she expected to see him. It was only that if she did see him, she would know to politely avoid the area he was in. She was very happy to not see him ever again. Not that she thought about him. Ever.
As for Maximillian Fontaine, he refused to think of that impossibly irritating girl who threw him into a lake. Unless of course, he happened by a lake. Or someone impossibly irritating. After recounting the tale of his watery misadventures to Will Holt, painting himself as the wronged party of course, Max was laughed at by his best friend and told most seriously to remove the rigid wooden object that occupied his posterior.
Max continued to ride as well, once Jupiter had recovered from the effects of his broken bridle. He thought it would be tempting fate to ride in the park in early morning, so he settled for the sunset hours. When most people were sitting down to dine, Max was taking Jupiter through his paces in some secluded corner. Happily, the solitary rides were beneficial to Jupiter’s temper as well as his own. In fact, since having been in the presence of his beloved QueenBee, Jupiter’s moods were much improved, maybe because he thought he might happen upon her at any moment, even though Max was determined to avoid that at all costs. Even so, the horse and rider would fly through the park’s deserted paths and fields (avoiding the area of a particular lake) until they were both breathing heavily and happier for the exercise.
One evening, after a good bout of sprinting, Max and Jupiter
Gabriel García Márquez, Edith Grossman