The Storm-Grey Sea

Chapter One - Blue Muslin

Author's note: A new historical fiction. I am ridiculously, egotistically in love with this story, and I hope to make it one that I update frequently. Also, I've done a shit ton of reading both from my history courses and from outside sources to be a historically accurate as possible. Hope you enjoy! Vote and comment if you like this story, maybe even fan!

Stephen hated balls. Absolutely loathed them. It was not so much that he disliked dancing, or that he had no ear for music, or that he had any objection to being out in the evenings. He was a perfectly capable dancer, he was an avid listener of music, and he quite enjoyed an evening spent out.

But what he disliked about them was the people. Being forced to mix and mingle and converse with people he was not closely acquainted with was Stephen's idea of what would await a particularly nasty sinner in Hell.

Now, he stood apart from the throng as, a glass of punch in his hand, he watched how others seemed to go about talking to others in such an easy manner - how did they do it? As he watched, Lady Beckett laughed gaily and patted the arm of some man - Mr. Philips, he wondered? - as though they were the greatest friends.

The only thing that saved him now was the fact that he knew so few people at the ball. Those he knew - reserved to Lady Beckett, the hostess and his landlady, and his cousin on his mother's side, Mr. Arthur Watson - were busy chattering or dancing with new friends, and he, of course, could not presume to talk to anyone else without an introduction.

So there Stephen stood, sipping at his punch and wondering whether he could safely slip out onto the terrace and be alone, or whether some amorous young couple would be out there, stealing kisses.

Watching as Arthur whirled about with some pretty, pink young woman, Stephen downed the rest of his punch. He wanted the blurring, warm effect of alcohol, he wanted to be at least a little drunk to make the evening easier. But he was not about to get drunk off the few glasses of punch he could scrounge.

"What I wouldn't give for a flask of gin," he mused aloud.

The woman next to him gave him a horrified look.

Grumbling, Stephen set down the punch glass and, when he looked up, caught the eye of a very pretty young woman. He jerked back in surprise as he noted how her eyes were fixed directly on him. He did not often attract the attention of elegant young ladies.

As he watched, she smiled very broadly and then, to his growing suspicion, nudged the man standing next to her. Suddenly, the pair of them began to laugh, and Stephen felt himself go rigid with horror as he looked for the source of their amusement and saw a rather large stain on his breeches.

He'd spilled punch on himself, and not noticed it, and now it marked his right thigh in a most unfortunate way.

Going red with both embarrassment and anger, he shot the giggling pair a stern look and made his way to the terrace. He was prepared to brave any couple he face there to get away from this damn crowd.

Luckily, there he found nothing but the cool late summer air and the quietness of the evening. Giving a sigh, Stephen leaned his hands against the rough stone balcony and stared off into the distance. Over the sloping lawns of Westleigh, he could see that the moon had risen.

He sighed again and closed his eyes. He was barely aware of his own humming, a tune he could never seem to forget - his blasted father had roared it with his friends too many times when he was drunk - and stared out over the lawn.

Suddenly, there was a rustle from beside him and the figure of a woman emerged from behind a statue. He had not seen her standing there; perhaps she had come around the other side of the house.