20th December, 1894 — Minister’s Winter Ball, Destiny Hotel, London
Her dress was new – even if the first event she was wearing it to was still as much a Ministry affair as it was purely society. Still, it was a strange, heady feeling for Effie, to actually be wearing something perfectly new, for no reason at all. After quitting the season, giving up as it were (and Annie might not have given up on getting married in spite of her work, and she oughtn’t, but – privately – Effie had, years ago), new gowns had been a needless, irresponsible expense.
But now she had Brooks. Somehow she had Brooks; somehow her luck seemed to have all changed course this year. Old worries were evaporating before her eyes. She could afford – this, to press a pin better into her hair and swan about in her new skirts and smile over at the man who was possibly, probably, actually, going to marry her.
His attention seemed elsewhere, though he was standing alone; she extricated herself from a slightly-too-loud transportation debate and took advantage of the moment – to save herself or to rescue him, both. “Will you dance with me, Mr. Watson?” Effie said dryly, flicking his arm gently with the dance card attached to her wrist, jokingly. “If you don’t, I might actually mistake myself for not having left work for the day at all.” She could have rolled her eyes at every conversation she’d had, because never mind her entirely new dress or her rather new courtship, no one else seemed to have cared a whit about those – most of the ball had thus far been with her colleagues, or her superiors, or with people talking about the Floo network, anyway. Perhaps he’d had a better time.
But now she had Brooks. Somehow she had Brooks; somehow her luck seemed to have all changed course this year. Old worries were evaporating before her eyes. She could afford – this, to press a pin better into her hair and swan about in her new skirts and smile over at the man who was possibly, probably, actually, going to marry her.
His attention seemed elsewhere, though he was standing alone; she extricated herself from a slightly-too-loud transportation debate and took advantage of the moment – to save herself or to rescue him, both. “Will you dance with me, Mr. Watson?” Effie said dryly, flicking his arm gently with the dance card attached to her wrist, jokingly. “If you don’t, I might actually mistake myself for not having left work for the day at all.” She could have rolled her eyes at every conversation she’d had, because never mind her entirely new dress or her rather new courtship, no one else seemed to have cared a whit about those – most of the ball had thus far been with her colleagues, or her superiors, or with people talking about the Floo network, anyway. Perhaps he’d had a better time.
