Josephine's Lists

Chapter 23- The Rivingdale's Ball

Evening gowns dominated, as people exited a barrage of carriages lining the drive. Loewick's neighboring home was occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Rivingdale whom spared no expense in impressing tonight's many guests. Torches brightened the dwindling light of sunset, with assorted roses flanking the entry doors.

Josephine thought it silly for each of Loewick's guests to arrive by carriage when Mr. Rivingdale's home was a short walk away. Despite her observation of that fact, Miss Yorke descended the carriage with practiced entitlement. Her gown's delicate white lace overlay reflected the waning sun's orange hues. Constance, too, looked a vision in cream silk with pearl beading. Lord Cavender gazed appreciatively upon his wife and the girls before leading them up the broad steps.

Constance whispered, squeezing Josephine's wrist, "Savor tonight. Your problems will still be there come morning. Fret over them then. If you let them steal your joy tonight, you have only created a new problem for yourself." Although Constance could not view her own life with such level-headed scrutiny, she had a gift for reasonableness while examining other people.

"I make no promises, but since this could be my final ball before acute poverty befalls, perhaps I should enjoy it." The negativity felt foreign on Josephine's tongue. "Forgive me for bombarding you with my difficulties earlier. And I apologize for my sour mood tonight...it...
it is simply...ugh! I do not know, you and Sir Cartwright have it so easy and I am rife with jealousy. Why can it not be such with Tennyson? Must it be so complex? And all while my family is amidst financial ruin!"

"In the least, you will know how important Tennyson truly is to you. I would have abandoned that cantankerous man at the first inkling of difficulty," Constance teased, and further prodded. "What I mean to say is, you are young and so very beautiful. If there are any doubts, you could easily find a husband whose fortune is not at risk and..."

Josephine censured her with a look. "Constance..."

"Yes, yes. You love him, unwilling to give him up, and so on and so forth."

"Precisely so." Miss Yorke clasped arms with her best friend as they were ushered into the massive ballroom.

Josephine tried to focus on the lush decor and surrounding merriment, but found the attempt futile. After she left the study, Tennyson had sought Josephine out and revealed even more revelations during their afternoon walk. His father had treated her with such kindness that Josephine felt shocked by what Tennyson had related. She was shocked by her mother's broken engagement to Horace Tennyson, and shocked by it being the reason behind the betrothal contract. Josephine gathered that her father must have been hopelessly in love with her mother to have agreed to such terms. That thought warmed her heart only to break it again when thinking of her mother's premature death. Of course Mr. Yorke was melancholy, he gave up so much for a wife that would never see thirty.

Although not shocked by his demand, the hardest to hear was that Horace now disapproved of his son marrying her. With the absence of a fortune, Josephine was no longer a desirable wife. Even Horace's jilted spite was abandoned in favor of a rich heiress for his son. Tennyson assured her that he would not obey those orders, and had told his father the same. He again promised Josephine they would be wed, but she couldn't help the guilt building inside. She didn't want him to sacrifice so much. What if she, like her mother, died young? Would Tennyson regret taking her as his wife?

Tennyson's deep voice sounded in her ear, "You clean up nicely, Yorke."

Josephine turned around to a smirking Tennyson, wine glass generously tilted heavenward. "I wish I could return the compliment, but sadly you still dress as dull as ever," she teased, with a knowing glint in her eye. Tennyson easily outshined every man in the room.