The Brigadier's Daughter. Catherine March

much of her time with her nose buried in a book.

      ‘Thank you, Polly.’ Sasha rose from the dressing table, her fingers briefly touching the maid’s arm in an affectionate gesture as she passed to lift her maroon velvet shawl from the bed. ‘Don’t wait up, I’ll see to the girls when we get in.’

      Polly smiled and wished her a good evening, rushing off to see to Miss Vic as she called urgently for assistance with her garters and stockings.

      ‘Come along, girls,’ Sasha called as she walked down the corridor, ‘Papa will be waiting.’

      Voices shrieked, doors banged, slippered feet pattered on the thick carpet behind her, but Sasha did not pause or glance over her shoulder. She knew from experience that any sign of weakness on her part would be pounced upon and time would be wasted on whether this bracelet or that ribbon or those slippers were really the best to wear, so she merely glided as serenely as a swan, gathering her cygnets behind her as she descended the stairs to the hall.

      Brigadier Sir Conrad Packard looked up as he fastened his cloak, and his eyes gleamed with pride as he watched his four daughters. No one could deny that he was the proudest of fathers, the only hint that he might have experienced some disappointment at the birth of a daughter being the bestowing of the feminine form of masculine names. Disappointment had long since faded, and he adored all his girls, fortified by the firm hope that one day soon he would be acquiring four strapping sons-by-marriage.

      There was a flurry of activity as shawls were fastened and reticules clasped firmly about the wrist and then the butler, footmen and their father assisted and chivvied the four Packard girls into the waiting carriage. At last, settled in his seat and rolling his eyes in sympathy with their butler as the door closed, the Brigadier called, ‘Thank you, Lodge. We will not be too late.’

      ‘Very good, sir.’ Lodge bowed with a knowing smile at these familiar words and turned back to the house as the carriage set off, prepared for a night of rummy and copious cups of tea to keep him going until the early hours of the morning. He would not rest until the girls and the master were safely home again.

      A fresh flurry of snow that afternoon slowed their progress as they joined other carriages on the slush-laden roads of London’s fashionable Mayfair, making their way to Lady Westfaling’s Christmas Ball. They were warm and snug within the carriage, a froth of white lawn petticoats, beneath silk gowns in shades of cream, red tartan and green, billowing as the girls sought to tame their skirts.

      ‘Do you think there will be a treasure hunt like last year?’ mused Philippa, offering a small bag of sugared almonds to her sisters.

      The girls each selected one, and sucked on the sweet pink-and-white confections while they speculated on the evening ahead with eager anticipation.

      Victoria helped herself to another sugared almond, her sister frowning and snatching the bag away, with an envious glance at Victoria’s slim waist. ‘I wonder if the Foreign Secretary, Lord Derby, will be there? I would so like to hear if the Turks—’

      ‘Oh, never mind that,’ exclaimed Georgia. ‘I wonder if Felix will be there? I want to dance all night!’

      Their father looked up from adjusting his white bow tie, and offered snippets of advice and admonishments for their behaviour. A military man, he had served twenty-five years before a severe wound had forced him to retire from active service and spend a number of years in the Diplomatic Corps. He was a kind but very particular man, not overly tall and his pate bald of his once-fair hair, but he exuded the strength and bearing of a military officer. He still kept his hand in with the Army by making good use of his knowledge of French and Russian. Having tutored his own daughters, he now tutored young military officers who were in need of these languages. His quiet yet firm voice brooked no arguments and he was not known to suffer fools gladly, the antics of his daughters being no exception. They held him in slightly awed reverence, tempered by affection.

      ‘We’ll not be dancing too often with those young gentlemen,’ he said, glancing at Georgia with his ice-blue eyes, which seldom missed anything of importance. ‘Your mama was quite mortified when Lady Jessop called and commented about your behaviour at her dinner dance.’

      Georgia pouted, recalling to mind the scolding her parents had delivered after that occasion, but made no reply as she sat back silently in her seat, peering out of the window as the wheels of the carriage slowed and they pulled into the portico of Lady Westfaling’s impressive mansion.

      Sasha exchanged a glance with her father and smiled at him reassuringly, her silent promise to keep a better eye on Georgia. A golden glow from the lit hallway spilled out upon the steps as they descended from the carriage, with the assistance of several attentive footmen splendid in frogged uniforms. The Packards joined the crowd of other guests inching along a carpeted corridor to the ballroom, where the major-domo took the proffered invitation card from the Brigadier, rapped his staff upon the marble step and announced in stentorian tones worthy of any parade ground, ‘Brigadier Sir Conrad Packard, and the Misses Alexandra, Georgia, Philippa and Victoria Packard.’

      They moved forwards, descending the steps to where their hosts, Lord and Lady Westfaling, their son, Felix, and daughter, Arabella, stood waiting in a line to greet them and to hand the young ladies their dance cards, which had tiny gilt pencils attached with ribbon.

      ‘Conrad, my dear,’ murmured Lady Westfaling, looking pointedly over the Brigadier’s shoulder as she let him kiss the air beside her cheek, ‘is Olga still not well?’

      ‘Alas.’ He shook his head and moved swiftly on from her cloying perfume and predatory clasp to extend his hand to his good friend, Avery, Lord Westfaling, with the promise to meet him in the library for cigars and brandy at the earliest opportunity. He nodded curtly at young Felix, who visibly blanched as he dragged his eyes from the delightful blonde-and-blue-eyed vision that was Georgia and bowed to the Brigadier, nervously murmuring good evening, punctuated with several ‘sir’s too many.

      Sasha paused for a moment amidst the hubbub as her sisters chattered and looked eagerly about. Her glance fell to the dance card clasped in her white-gloved fingers. Wistfully she wondered if any gentleman would actually put his name down, or if once again she would be so busy chaperoning her sisters and dancing with her father to have time to dance with anyone else. Most likely she would be overlooked as the gentlemen made their choices elsewhere amongst the vast bevy of lovely and well-bred young ladies present. Unobtrusively she slipped the card into the tasselled reticule dangling from her wrist, and then looked up, with a well-trained smile fixed on her soft mouth.

      The ballroom was indeed a magnificent sight, proof that Lady Westfaling had spent a good deal of money and employed numerous people to transform it into a Christmas wonderland. To one side, halfway down the vast room, stood a twenty-foot Scots pine, brought in from their own estate in Scotland, and decorated with red-and-gold baubles, ribbons, gingerbreads and tiny candles. The smell of the pine and ginger was very pleasant, refreshing the somewhat heavy atmosphere emanating from the odour of perfumed ladies and sweating gentlemen. Sasha breathed in the scent as they moved to examine the decorations, the orchestra playing discreetly in the background before the dancing began. She glanced at the garlands of holly and wreaths and ribbons festooned about the walls, and the brightly sparkling chandeliers that lit up the room so beautifully.

      ‘Who is that?’ Georgia murmured suddenly in her ear.

      ‘Hmm?’ Sasha turned as her sister’s urgent fingers dug into her elbow, looking in the direction of a gentleman greeting Lady Westfaling. He was handsome, tall and broad-shouldered, his ash-brown hair flecked with blond and his face unusually suntanned. Sasha turned away. ‘I have no idea, but do stop gaping, before Papa notices. Oh, look, Felix is about to mark your dance card.’

      ‘How wonderful to see you, Reid,’ Lady Westfaling greeted her guest, her glance slightly disapproving, ‘but not in uniform?’

      Captain Bowen bowed. ‘My apologies, Lady Westfaling. I am on leave, added to which my uniform is sadly shabby. A friend has made me the loan of his tails for the evening.’

      Her glance now admiring as she took in the