Tangled In Time

Tumbling Into Trouble

I returned to my room, and Sophie was still seated in the same spot where I had left her. As we waited for the additional maid to arrive with the requested makeup supplies, Sophie and I engaged in a friendly conversation about the Ball. She shared stories of past events held at the Winslow estate, painting vivid pictures of glamour and opulence. Her excitement for the evening was contagious, and it helped alleviate some of the nerves I had been feeling.

"Have you ever been to a Ball like this before?" I asked, genuinely curious about her experiences.

Sophie's eyes lit up with a spark of nostalgia. "Oh aye, a few times. Winslow balls are summat else—talk o' the village, they are. Gowns, music, the works. It's proper grand."

As she spoke, I couldn't help but sense her pride in the Winslow estate. Her stories added a layer of enchantment to the Ball, making it feel even more extraordinary. It was as if I'd been given a glimpse into a world I'd only ever dreamed about.

Finally, the second maid knocked on the door, her arms laden with bottles, compacts, and an array of makeup tools. We spread the powders, foundations, and eyeshadows on the dressing table. It became clear that none of Gwen's face powder or foundation would match my complexion. Sophie, ever resourceful, guided me through the selection of eyeshadows, opting for natural, earthy colours she thought would suit me best.

Following her instructions, I expertly blended the eyeshadow, creating a soft but alluring look. Then, I applied eyeliner, adding a subtle wing at the corners to accentuate my eyes. Sophie watched as I transformed myself, offering an encouraging nod here and there.

With the careful application of mascara and a final touch of lipstick, my makeup was complete. I turned to Sophie, who was grinning with pride.

"Thank you, Soph. I couldn't have done it without you," I said sincerely.

Sophie flushed, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her apron. "It's nowt really. You look grand, Miss Felicity—like one o' them film stars."

I chuckled lightly at her compliment, feeling a flicker of warmth at her earnestness. "You're too kind," I said. Then, after a pause, she added, almost shyly, "You can call me Soph if you like."

The unexpected offer made me smile. "Alright, Soph," I replied warmly. The camaraderie we had developed in such a short time was something I cherished—a connection to this unfamiliar world that made it feel a little less foreign.

"Reckon it's time for your dress now?" Sophie said, nodding towards where it hung in pristine glory.

"Definitely," I agreed, my excitement bubbling. Sophie crossed to fetch the gown, unhooking it with care.

As Sophie assisted me in slipping into the dress, her fingers deftly securing the buttons, we continued our friendly banter. "I don't know, are you sure I don't look frumpy?" I asked, fiddling nervously with the edges of the delicate shawl draped over my shoulders.

Sophie laughed, adjusting the hemline with a sharp tug. "Frumpy? Nowt frumpy about this dress. Ya look like a proper lady."

Her reassurance eased my self-conscious thoughts. I glanced at myself in the mirror, and for a moment, I felt like I belonged in this grand world.

Suddenly, I remembered the earrings Blake had given me. "Have you seen a small black box?" I asked, scanning the room.

"Oh, aye. In t'drawer, I think," Sophie replied, her accent as familiar as it was comforting. She retrieved the black box and handed it to me.

I carefully opened it, gazing at the moonstone earrings inside. Their elegant design caught the light, casting a faint shimmer. "They're stunning," I murmured, fastening them carefully. As I took one last look in the mirror, I felt a sense of quiet confidence I hadn't expected.

After the last few preparations, Sophie left to attend to other tasks, and I exited my room. My nerves bubbled as I headed toward the main staircase. The hallway smelled faintly of beeswax polish, and I ran my hand along the banister, feeling its cool, smooth surface beneath my palm.

Approaching the top of the staircase, I could hear the faint strains of music wafting from below. The symphony of conversation and laughter mixed with the gentle clinking of glasses. As I descended, the flickering candlelight from the chandelier above bathed everything in a warm glow. The guests below—dressed in a dazzling array of evening attire—milled about in animated clusters, their movements fluid like a grand dance. Women in flowing silk gowns, their hair intricately styled, clutched elegant clutches. Men in formal suits with neatly folded pocket squares exchanged words over tumblers of amber liquid.

Blake stood near the foot of the stairs, dressed impeccably in a black tuxedo, his wavy hair perfectly coiffed. He was welcoming the arriving guests, his practiced smile faltering slightly when his eyes caught mine. His expression briefly flickered between surprise and something harder to place—perhaps irritation? The reaction was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it lingered just long enough for me to notice before he masked it with a cordial nod. My heart skipped as I realised I might have been more of an imposition on his carefully constructed evening than I'd thought.

Just as I reached the final steps, my heel snagged on the hem of my dress. Gravity took over, and I stumbled forward. The world spun as I slid down the polished marble, my hands grasping at the air in a futile attempt to steady myself. A sharp gasp escaped me as I landed unceremoniously on the floor, the impact reverberating through my pride as much as my backside.

My left shoe skittered away, spinning across the floor like a rogue top. The sound of my descent echoed through the foyer, drawing the attention of more guests than I cared to count. A smattering of gasps and stifled laughter rippled through the crowd. Heat crept up my neck, and I resisted the urge to bury my face in my hands.

Before I could collect myself, Blake was there, his hands steadying me with an ease that felt both reassuring and slightly infuriating. "You and your shoes," he said, his tone a mix of amusement and mild exasperation.

His fingers brushed against my ankle as he crouched to retrieve the errant shoe. Sliding it gently back onto my foot, he looked up, his gaze locking with mine. For a moment, everything else—the laughter, the whispers, the music—seemed to fade. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his attention was enough to make my cheeks burn.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly.

I nodded quickly, my voice betraying me with a nervous laugh. "Just my dignity is bruised. And perhaps the stairs."

He smirked, standing and offering me his hand to help me up. "Well, they do say a grand entrance is the key to a memorable evening."

Before I could respond, a clipped voice sliced through the moment. "Blake, what are you doing?"

We turned to see an older woman approaching, her posture regal and her grey hair styled perfectly in waves. She leaned on an elegant cane, her expression cool and assessing.

"Grandmother," Blake said, standing quickly. "This is Felicity Eastwood. She dropped her shoe."

"So, you're the girl who turned up today." Her words, though civil, carried an undertone of scepticism. Her sharp eyes studied me, taking in every detail of my appearance.

"Yes," I replied, maintaining a polite smile. "It's lovely to meet you."

Blake's grandmother nodded curtly. "Charlotte is waiting for you in the ballroom. Come." Her tone left little room for argument. Blake extended his arm to me, and I took it, allowing him to guide me toward the ballroom, my heart still racing from the combination of my fall and the intense scrutiny of his grandmother.