Dorothy Eden Read Online Free PDF Page A

floating chiffons and soft silks. She looked like a little solid dark fir tree in a summer garden.
    Well, it didn’t matter. She would be noticeable. That surely was the old General putting thoughts in her mind to give her courage, as Mrs Overton, in trailing misty grey, took her hand and murmured something inaudible. Then William came with his warm smile.
    “Miss Bonnington! I’m so glad you could come.”
    He spoke with such apparent sincerity, and looked so handsome that excitement and pleasure made a corkscrew of pain twist through her stomach. She hadn’t known one loved with one’s vital organs as well as with one’s heart, she thought dazedly. For this was love, she was certain. It had always been love.
    But already William had left her and was the centre of a cluster of pretty young women with ringlets and gauzy dresses. She, the unexciting little fir tree, stood at the edge of this gay plot of flowers.
    Violins were twanging. The long music room, lit by hundreds of candles, had all the desired appearance of a fairy tale even if already, for Beatrice, the right atmosphere failed to exist. There were a lot of little gilt chairs round the walls. She sat on one of these and opened and shut her fan, thinking how ridiculous these affairs were, fans, beaded evening bags, dance programmes, artificial chatter. When she was mistress here, she decided, indulging in her fantasy, parties would be comfortable cosy affairs with only one’s best friends, and at last she would learn to be a good conversationalist.
    “You must let me show you my butterfly collection before you go, Miss Bonnington. I remember you used to be interested.”
    That was William’s voice as he paused a moment, before moving on with an entrancingly pretty young woman on his arm. A moment later the violins burst into full sound and the dancing had begun.
    Somehow the evening passed. Beatrice danced several times with strange young men (sent, she guessed, by Mrs Overton who was a painstaking hostess), and at last with William who whisked her round efficiently, then said, “Oh, excuse me—awfully sorry—I think the next is the supper waltz and I’ve promised—Is someone taking you to supper?”
    “Yes,” Beatrice lied, and prayed for Papa to arrive.
    There was to be no moonlight walk in the garden. Determination, she realised, wasn’t enough. Neither was the hopeless love that she hid behind an impassive face. She decided she would spend the supper waltz upstairs, and once again wander from room to room. Why not? Nobody would miss her.
    The house could not reject her, as William did.
    This solitary occupation had its own reward. She found that William had moved into the General’s bedroom. She knew this because there was a cabinet of butterfly slides where the General’s writing desk had stood. The top one was pulled out and she could study the fragile iridescent insects imprisoned beneath the glass. Painted Ladies, Red Emperors, Fritillaries, a rare Swallowtail. She was pleased that she could recognise them. She had read a great deal about moths and butterflies since that long ago afternoon on the Heath. A happiness as fragile as the butterflies filled her. It came partly from memory, partly from stubborn anticipation.
    One disastrous party had not ruined her hopes. She was not the kind of person to give up because the young man she loved was thoughtless and insensitive, though in the most charming way. Everyone had faults. She had enough herself. Besides, he wouldn’t behave like this when he knew her better.
    The old General was no longer there to encourage her, but another significant thing did happen. Two middle-aged women had emerged from the bedroom next door and were absorbed in the kind of vaguely malicious conversation that went on at parties like this. Beatrice could hear every word they said.
    “If he doesn’t marry money they’ll be in a fix. Poor Blanche has confided in me.”
    “Then Laura Prendergast won’t