The Allingdale Ball
“Never!” Yolanda Allingdale hitched up her dress and began to run. Not the expected trot of a petulant child, or the flurry of lace that marked any good girl’s proper retreat to their room; but a bracing stride of a run that carried her out of the room and halfway up the mansion’s stairs before her mother could raise a single protest.
It was difficult to run like that in such thick and tightly fitted clothing, but Yolanda had practice. She ran everywhere she could, from the mansion to the orchard and from the orchard to the pond. She loved running, and not just because it was precisely the sort of thing the Governess disapproved of, but also because it was freeing, liberating. It felt natural, like she had been born to run from tree to tree, climbing and swinging in the branches.
She could hear her mother call her name in the drawing room. Yolanda didn’t care. She wasn’t about to sit back and let this ball happen. She couldn’t.
She ran to the only place she could; ducking past a startled maid, she reached her sister Sindy’s door and pulled it open. Her sister was sitting at her writing desk, calmly filling her pen from the ink-well before continuing to write. She barely glanced up as Yolanda slammed the door behind her. “You didn’t knock,” she said, her high lilting voice as calm as ever. “Is everything alright, dear sister?”
“No,” Yolanda swept to her sister’s bed, throwing herself on it. “Everything is awful, Sindy, just awful!”
“Please get off of my bed,” her sister didn’t look up as she continued to write. “You are too old to behave like a petulant child.”
“You’re only two years older than me,” Yolanda grimaced, pushing herself up off the mattress. “Besides, I will behave my age when I am treated like it. Mother has been absolutely beastly to me. To you too. Do you know what she is planning at the Ball?”
“I dare say so,” Sindy sighed, underlining a word before writing further. “She will be marrying me off, I suspect.”
“Oh, you know that?” Yolanda sat upright, kicking her legs over the plush pink bed-spread. “Well, I bet you don’t know that she’s not just getting rid of you, she will be sacking Mrs. Pullmidge and Mr. Downturn as well! She will even sell the horses, Sindy, the horses!”
“I’m sure you will survive without horses,” Sindy’s placid tone was getting on Yolanda’s nerves.
“But what will I ride?” Yolanda protested. Sindy really didn’t understand how terrible everything was. “What are you writing that’s so important instead of plotting with me?”
“Plotting?” Now Sindy looked up, her pale blonde eyebrow arched gracefully as a swan’s neck. “Plotting what?”
“How we are to ruin this Ball?” Yolanda let a grin blossom over her face. “We are going to save the horses, Mrs. Pullmidge, and Mr. Downturn!”
Sindy had just opened her mouth when there was a knock on the door. “My lady?” the timid voice of a maid drifted through the door. “Is your sister Yolanda in there with you?”
“No,” Sindy sighed, her gaze not once leaving her sister’s. “I haven’t seen her.”
“If you do, please tell her the Mistress is…is demanding to speak with her.”
“I will.”
The faint carpeted footsteps of the maid drifted away into the mansion while the sisters stared at each other.
“Yolanda,” Sindy leaned back from the desk, setting the pen down with care. “If the Ball is ruined because of your petulant behavior, do you know what a scandal that would be?”
“I don’t care,” Yolanda frowned. “Mother is being a beast!”
Sindy didn’t put her hands on her hips, like she usually did. Instead, she walked to the window and stared out at the grounds, her voice soft. “You should care. You are fifteen now; almost marrageable age. You might find it difficult to marry if the Allingdales are known more for their tattered reputations than their honorable name.”
“I don’t care about that,” Yolanda muttered. “What are you writing?”
“A letter.”
“To who?”
“Whom.”
“I don’t care that much about the horses, you know, but Mrs. Pullmidge, she’s always been here.”
“She has.”
“And Mr. Downturn, he’s been here longer than mother.”
“Since grandfather, yes.”
“It’s not fair.”
Sindy sighed, and turned to face her sister. Yolanda didn’t like the look on her face. Their whole lives, they had been a team, a pair of sisters against the world. When Sindy was refused her pudding, Yolanda had been there to share hers. When Yolanda had been punished by being locked in her room, Sindy would lean against the wall and pass amusing pictures back and forth under the door. When Mrs. Pullmidge lied and said the girls had stolen her knitting needles as a prank, Sindy had kicked up such a fuss and gave Yolanda time to go and find them where they had rolled under the old maid’s rocking chair.
Now, looking at Sindy’s face, Yolanda could feel the yawning expanse between them. “It’s not,” she repeated. She knew that Sindy knew it.
Sindy slowly walked to the bed and sat down next to her sister. “Mother doesn’t want you to know this,” she said.
Instantly, Yolanda was at once indignant and excited; angry that her sister would dare to keep a secret from her at all, but delighted that she was now willing to violate their mother’s trust. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“She’s worried you’ll do something rash,” Sindy’s smile was gentle, if smirking. “You can’t let anyone know that you know, understand?”
“I’ll pretend I don’t know anything,” Yolanda raised her left hand with her littlest finger and thumb touching, the sisters’ promise.
Sindy smiled wider before taking her sister’s hand in hers. “The Ridingdoves are coming to the ball.”
“They are?” Yolanda’s eyes widened slightly.
“Mother received notice yesterday. Lady Ridingdove will be coming with her two sons, and one of their uncles. Feliss, I think.”
“My,” Yolanda let her feet swing a bit. “I never thought the Ridingdoves would come to one of our Balls. Lady Ridingdove, really?”
“Really,” Sindy nodded. “And two sons.”
“Which ones do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“I hope Edgur is one.”
“It may be.”
Yolanda stared off into a future of charming smiles and waltzing. “We’ve never had the Ridingdoves visit. And maybe Edgur? My. This must be a very important ball.” A moment later she had brought herself back to her sister’s room. “I’m not stupid, you know.”
Sindy blinked. “Of course you’re not stupid.”
“I mean, I know mother thinks that I’ll do something stupid like ask Lady Ridingdove to invite us for a weekend, or throw myself at Edgur and beg him to take me riding, but I won’t.”
“I know you won’t.”
“I wouldn’t,” Yolanda let her legs swing as she stared at her hands resting in her lap. “You know I wouldn’t.”
“I know you wouldn’t.”
“So why didn’t you want me to know?”
Sindy didn’t answer.
“Mother thought I’d do something foolish, but you know I wouldn’t, but you still didn’t tell me. You still didn’t want me to know.”
For a moment, the two sisters stared at each other, Yolanda searching Sindy’s eyes for some sign of her old sister, the one who would tell her anything, because then they could face it together.
Sindy stood up from the bed and returned to her desk. For a minute, there was no sound in the room except the scratching of the pen on paper.
“Who are you writing to?” Yolanda asked at last.
“Father,” Sindy said, after a moment.
“Has he written back yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Do you think he will?”
Sindy looked away, quickly busying herself with folding the envelope and sliding the letter inside. “I’m sure he will. He must be very busy.”
“You don’t suppose he’s dead?”
“Bite your tongue!” Sindy snapped, then immediately softened. “If he were dead, they’d send us a letter. That’s what they do.”
“He might have run off. He might be hiding.”
“Don’t be silly, Yolanda. He wouldn’t run from the Germans.”
“They’re awfully smelly though, aren’t they? Kinderly told me their family once boarded a Frenchman, and—”
“The Pollinbrooks have started taking in boarders?”
“Only for the summers. Kinderly says it’s their ‘civic duty.’ Anyway, they boarded a Frenchman, and she said he smelled foul. Every evening at dinner she had to hold her nose to keep from being sick.”
Sindy stood from her desk, the carefully addressed envelope in her hand. After a moment’s thought, she turned to her sister. “I’ve never smelled a Frenchman, and even if I had, I couldn’t comment on the race as a whole. Would you like to walk with me to the post?”
The Allingdale Ball was in full swing.
The Ridingdoves had, in fact, made an appearance; Mrs. Ridingdove in a fabulous silver dress with spangled brass clasps and accents. Her gown was laced and exquisitely designed, matched only by the long flowing train and broad hat that perched on her head.
Edgur had taken ill after a late night riding, and so she had brought Marther and—much to Yolanda’s dismay—Luce.
The Ridingdoves were not the only nobles to make a showing. The Lippins had come in a brilliant carriage, covered with flowing feathers and silks. Sir Rochard and Lady Florisan had come, both bedecked in their splendid military regalia, complete with cavalry sabers and helmets. Even his Lordship, Father Daleunderdale had arrived, cloaked from head to toe in the finest purple anyone had ever seen. Truly, it was an evening everyone would remember.
Yolanda hated every second of it. The pomp, the circumstance, the flowers and the feathers and the silks and the lace and what was Mother doing, opening the large keg of wine from their stocks; she knew they were supposed to save it and open it when father came home.
Mr. Downturn had shrugged when Yolanda had complained, and said only that “Sir Allingdale would never leave the best keg un-tapped when entertaining guests.”
And now Yolanda was stuck drifting demurely through stock stable pillars of society like an aimless leaf on the wind. She paused only briefly, to behave like a proper daughter and be introduced to this Earl or that Baroness, but soon she would give her apologies and fly back to the drifting currents.
“Ahem.”
Yolanda turned to see Luce Ridingdove staring at her with his thick piggy eyes. Yolanda struggled to smile, like she had been taught. “Luce, I hope you are enjoying the—do you have a drink? We have fresh sweet-lemon, I should go and fetch you—oh…I see that you have.”
Luce smiled, his rosy cheeks glistening in the bright gas-light. He sniffed, wiping his mouth with his arm, and hopped a bit, his pudgy body bouncing up and down in bemused interest. Yolanda had to struggle not to speak slower and enunciate every word clearly and loudly.
“Cracking ball,” he said after a pause, nodding his head to the guests.
“No one’s dancing,” Yolanda muttered, then cursing herself as she realized the opening she had given him.
Thankfully, he missed it as well. “Yes, everyone is wandering around.” He cleared his throat again. “I say, that’s a jolly fine painting, isn’t it?”
Yolanda glanced over her shoulder at the long thin portrait hanging on the wall behind her. “That? Oh, yes. It’s my great grandfather on mother’s side. A Colonel in the army, I think.”
“Wow,” Luce’s red nose glowed. “Jolly fine. How…” he gulped. “How much?”
Yolanda blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, I…” Luce’s smile vanished like summer lightning. “Crumbs. How am I supposed to say it? They never told me, you see. They think I wouldn’t be interested, but I really am. I like paintings, don’t you?”
“There are several paintings that I simply adore,” Yolanda admitted, struggling to find the conversation again. “What sort of painting do you like?”
“Oh, landscapes!” Luce’s eyes glittered. “I can’t stand portraits, with ugly people making ugly faces. I like paintings with trees and hills and far away buildings. My favorites are the ones with animals in them. There’s one in our winter home that has an eagle sitting in a tree. You have to squint to see it.” Luce hopped back and forth on his feet again before downing the last of his sweet-lemon and setting the glass aside on a nearby table. Yolanda winced, but it was only seconds before a sharp-eyed servant had snatched the glass away and wiped the table free of condensation.
“I like animals too,” Yolanda stammered. “We have horses in the stables, and I love riding them.”
“Oh, no,” Luce wrinkled his nose. “I can’t stand animals. There’s a farm down the road from our mansion, and it positively stinks. I have to smell it every time we go by in our carriage. Animals are big smelly things, and they make weird noises. No, I love pictures of animals. And the stuffed animals at father’s hunting lodge. Those are magnificent. Does your father hunt?”
Yolanda was finding it quite impossible to stand still like a proper lady. “Father is off at the war.”
“Oh!” Luce’s piggy eyes squeezed tight as he grinned, leaning closer with his sour lemon smelling breath. “Oh really? Has he killed anyone? It must be jolly exciting, mustn’t it? I hope I get to shoot a gun someday. I mean, I suspect father will take me hunting someday, but I’ll bet its quite a different thing to shoot a person.”
“Why do you like this painting?” Yolanda asked, desperately searching for a way out of the horrible conversation.
Luce turned to the painting again, a look of surprise on his face, like he had forgotten it was there. “Oh? Ah, I like the blue. Lots of flowers, aren’t there? So there’s a lot of blue, and I like blue. How much?”
Yolanda huffed. “I don’t know what you mean. How much of what?”
“Money,” Luce blinked. “I mean, how much do you want for it?”
“Money?” Yolanda gaped. “Master Luce, I may not be daughter of a Countess, but even I know you do not walk into a guest’s house and just start asking to buy their furniture! This painting is not for sale!”
“Oh?” Luce licked his lips and squinted at the painting. “You’re keeping this one, then? Crumbs. I really like it. Lots of blue. Only I have to buy something, right? Only mumsy didn’t want to bring me because she thought I’d do it all wrong, and I want to show her I can buy things just as well as she can. So…maybe that painting? It’s got blue too.”
Yolanda didn’t bother to look where the young lad was pointing. “What on earth are you talking about? Nothing’s for sale. This is our home. This isn’t a general store where you can buy anything that strikes your fancy.”
“Oh?” Luce glanced around. “But that’s why we came. Mumsy said it was to buy things before you sold the mansion.”
Yolanda felt her heart drop into her stomach. Her petulant protest died on her lips as the foolish Countsson looked around for another sweet-lemon. With a barely-whispered apology, Yolanda pulled open her fan and walked out of the ballroom, half-heard conversations drifting through her memory.
She walked through the mansion, staring at the tables, vases, and paintings. Had that plinth always been empty? Hadn’t there been a picture there? Certainly a mirror had once hung in that space, but had it been moved months ago, or just today? She cursed herself for a child; why hadn’t she paid more attention? She had lived in this house for fifteen years, and now she couldn’t remember a thing about it for certain.
Everywhere she walked she saw guests, some talking to each other like patrons in an art gallery, others studying a painting or small statue. Before, she might have thought it was bemused admiration. Now, she realized it was pragmatic appraisal.
It was a ball. Mother was holding a ball. That was what she had told them; that they were inviting friends to have a jolly good time, and share some drink and food.
But that wasn’t what was happening, was it? The Ridingdoves hadn’t come to get Yolanda married to Edgur. They had come to buy things, to take all the lovely paintings and soft chairs and delicate vases so Mother wouldn’t have to sell them to peasants. Mr. Downturn and Mrs. Pullmidge were being sold too, weren’t they? Mother had said this was going to be their last ball…
And Sindy. She was marriageable age, wasn’t she? Marther Ridingdove was here, spending his time talking with Sindy and laughing and she was letting him laugh, smiling at him while he laughed and turning her fan just so…
A thump caught her ear. She turned and walked down the hall to see two stout men in suits carrying a desk towards the rear of the house. “Careful, now,” a well dressed Baron waved his cane aimlessly in the air. “That’s well seasoned wood, that.”
Yolanda walked faster. In moments she was at the men’s side, tugging at their arms. She could tell she was shouting, but she couldn’t tell what. Something about her father, probably; it was his desk. Of all the desks in the mansion, she recognized it easily. No one had touched it in years, ever since her father had left for the war. It had remained in his study, calmly sitting there like a remembrance-stone, a marker that brought to her mind his kindly face and gentle voice.
Now they were pushing her. The guests were staring. Mother was probably staring too, and everyone. They didn’t understand how important it was, how vital that no one touch father’s desk. It was his. He would want to come home to find it exactly the way it was.
She pulled on their arms, and one finally let go, one end slipping to the floor with a crack. The desk tipped. A drawer fell open, spilling its contents to the floor.
Letters. A pile of unopened letters, each of them addressed in Sindy’s gentle hand.
The world went still. A gasp from the other end of the room…was it Sindy? She was there now, slowly kneeling with a look of shock on her face. Confusion. She picked up a letter, then another. She choked out a cry as she looked up into her mother’s face. Mother, where she had stood speaking with Lady Ridingdove and Lord Rochard, her face already streaked with tears. Her fan struggled to hide her face, but Yolanda could see the anguish etched in her brow.
Sindy was shouting now, grabbing at the letters, her unsent letters. She was pleading. Demanding. Furious at her Mother’s deception. It would have been a scandal, but Yolanda was looking at the guests now, and didn’t see shock or scorn on their faces, but pity. Understanding. There was no scandal left for the Allingdales. Their family was destitute. Pitiable. A family who had lost their home, their fortune, their father…
They were finally free.
Yolanda turned and began to walk.
She walked through the door out to the gardens, and then kept walking. She walked, faster now, down the garden path and past the rose bushes that Mr. Downturn had taken such pride in. She was running now, towards the pond near the stables and the long fence. Now she was climbing over the fence, and running faster still.
She ran like a horse given free reign. She ran like a river towards the unending sea. She ran like a bird on the wind.
Like there was nothing left in the world, she ran.