Work Text:
As the sweeping strains of the orchestra wound down to it's last note, Henry George Fisher, Baron of Richmond-Upon-Thames, took his partner through one last turn with a flourish, then bowed.
"I had forgotten how thrilling it was to have you in my arms on the dance floor, my lady. You are magnificent.”
The Baroness eyed her husband warily and bowed her head in acknowledgement. “Well, if you weren't such an impossible man... running off to the other side of the world ...”
Henry had the good grace to look properly contrite and his wife decided that this was not the time nor place to rehash that particular offence. He seemed to be behaving himself tonight, mostly, and she was wont to upset the status quo.
“Can I entice you in another whirl around the floor, my dear?”
“I think I will sit this one out, Henry.”
The Baron proffered his arm and they drifted towards the peripheral of the ballroom, where comfortable chairs had been set up for observers. Spying her best friend sitting nearby, Margaret steered them to an empty chair beside her. Then, splaying her ballgown like a courtsey, she sat delicately and greeted her old friend.
“Tilly, where have you been hiding all evening?”
“Oh, I was waylaid by that Sutherland woman, who went on and on about her sons and I couldn't decently get away until now! Dreadful woman.”
Margaret tsked sympathetically and shook her head.
Henry, seeing that a good gossip seemed in the works, planned his escape.
“May I get either of you lovely ladies some refreshment?” They both nodded and he scurried away, only to return within the minute with two coupes of champagne.
“I might go have a natter with Boyd ....”, he began.
They both waved him away and he retreated thankfully.
“Henry seems very attentive tonight?” Lady Matilda Sommerville looked at her friend, a small ironic smile on her lips.
“Yes, he does. Although I suspect all that bon vivant is probably due to the fact he thinks I am unaware of the card game going on in the back library.”
Tilly chuckled. “You are a brave woman, Margaret Fisher.”
“Or a very foolish one”, Margaret smirked back.
The large room was filled with the thrum of talk and laughter, sweeping orchestral music and the tinkling of glass. The two women sat companionably and remembered similar times long since past.
Tilly sighed, “You know, I always love these balls. The Duchess has outdone herself this time and I'm fascinated by what the young people get up to.”
There came a particular shout of laughter and their heads turned towards a group of bright young things. Margaret sat a little straighter and scanned the gathering. In the centre of it all was a slim, raven haired beauty - draped in an exquisite blood red gown, diamonds sparkling at her throat and on her simple hairpiece - surrounded by a number of deliciously beautiful men, young and not so young. As Margaret watched, the woman's head was thrown back in merriment, a throaty laugh carrying over the crowd.
The Baroness eyed the younger woman as she took a sip of her drink.
“You're daughter seems to be having a good time,” Tilly ventured, turning back towards her friend.
“Yes, it appears she is.” Margaret was contemplative.
It was lovely to be with her only surviving child again, having not seen her for years and missing her terribly. And Margaret was very, very grateful to Phryne, who had sacrificed much to bring her parents together again, and help sort out this financial mess of Henry's.
Above all she thought her daughter deserved to be happy. Phryne seemed happy, but a mother knew their child. The smile on her daughter's lips sometimes did not reach her daughter's eyes, like tonight, in spite of appearances. Something was going on but Margaret could not quite put a finger on it. Methinks she might be homesick.
Margaret watched as a young man, bedecked in royal sash and various military paraphernalia, swept Phryne up in his arms and they stepped beautifully to a foxtrot across the floor, her daughter appearing not to have a care in the world.
As that tune wound down and ended, another suitor offered his hand and the orchestra broke out into a waltz; Phryne smiled her enigmatic smile.
Time passed as the two friends chatted.
The evening was getting late when Margaret began looking over the heads of the crowded ballroom to find her husband and caught a glimpse of yet another distinguished man waltzing her daughter around the dance floor. Phryne looked incredible and invincible and her mother's heart swelled with pride. Then out of the corner of her eye, Margaret noticed a younger man quietly step out of the crowd and tap her daughter's dancing partner on the shoulder politely, to cut into the dance, The older man looked a little perturbed but withdrew gracefully. Phryne turned to see who had interrupted and her eyes widened as her lips parted. Then her eyes began to glitter.
“Who is that Phryne is with now, Tilly, I can't quite place him ?”
Tilly leaned forward, lifted and peered through her pince nez, and offered,”I believe that is the second son of the Marquess de Longueuil. Reginald or something. Quite dashing isn't he?”
“Yes... yes he certainly is...”, Margaret trailed off.
Her daughter, without looking down, had placed her hand delicately in the man's outstretched one; he lowered his eyes and caressed the top of it with his thumb before raising both into position. Phryne placed her hand on his shoulder and they began to move as one around the dance floor.
When the couple had moved closer to where Margaret and Tilly were sitting, she was interested to see that Phryne's pearl like skin was flushed about the face and chest and she absolutely glowed. The gentleman was expressionless, however there was a air of amusement about his mouth and his eyes never left hers. After a few moments Margaret realized with a shock, that they had yet to speak a word to each other. And the expression on her daughter's face, not exactly happiness but more one of... unadulterated joy.
The couple slid past, in a world of their own and Margaret thought to herself -
No... not a Marquee's son at all, I think.