The brighter he was – the more he seemed to be expressly catering to her whims, as if she were some difficult child – the worse she felt, suddenly. Because this was what she had always dreamed her husband would be. Because in the end, she hadn’t earned that, and if Ford was trying to be that husband, it was at least half, maybe more, for appearances’ sakes. He had glanced back; he wasn’t as impervious to whatever had happened back there as he was pretending to be. And the question of her favourite dances felt oddly mercenary, somehow: or maybe she was mourning the fact that her imaginary-husband would have known all these little details about her already. That she was fond of the quadrille, enjoyed the waltz and a polka, found the galop a little dull and the mazurka difficult.
“It’s the polka now,” she informed him, after a glance at the dancers and her (scarce used) dance card. “And a waltz next. But we can do whatever you like,” Jemima said, feeling a little flustered by his attention, or by that reminder that people were watching them, and judging them, and – resenting them, or whatever else. She felt the anxiety climb suddenly in her chest, which made her want fresh air, which only reminded her of the cloakroom incident again, in some terrible spiral about her choices and her fate. “You don’t need to – look after me,” she protested quietly, for want of a better phrase.
The pastry had been enough of a gesture: she had fallen for that one completely, and could cling to that. But she was starting to think that coming tonight had, on the whole, been a bad idea.
“It’s the polka now,” she informed him, after a glance at the dancers and her (scarce used) dance card. “And a waltz next. But we can do whatever you like,” Jemima said, feeling a little flustered by his attention, or by that reminder that people were watching them, and judging them, and – resenting them, or whatever else. She felt the anxiety climb suddenly in her chest, which made her want fresh air, which only reminded her of the cloakroom incident again, in some terrible spiral about her choices and her fate. “You don’t need to – look after me,” she protested quietly, for want of a better phrase.
The pastry had been enough of a gesture: she had fallen for that one completely, and could cling to that. But she was starting to think that coming tonight had, on the whole, been a bad idea.
