The Outrageous Debutante

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘No matter. I know that she is not liked. But she can be very informative when she is not lecturing or finding fault. Perhaps you would be so kind as to drive or ride with me in the Park and point out some of the people I should know. And not know, of course, for I have not the least idea. Unless they are very entertaining. Have you noticed that those who are most scandalous and shunned by polite society are the most pleasurable to know?’

  ‘I suppose so. I had not thought.’ Judith’s eyes grew round with astonishment.

  ‘One has only to look at Lord Byron. Most unacceptable, but totally fascinating.’

  ‘Well—yes. I agree. I suppose … Are you acquainted with my Lord Byron?’

  ‘I know of him—all the scandals and the notoriety that he enjoys. And read his works of course. I thoroughly enjoyed The Corsair, but I think my mother would not welcome his lordship as a visitor to her withdrawing room. However free thinking she might claim to be, she disapproves of unbridled volatility above all things.’

  Judith could think of no reply to this revelation.

  ‘So will you help, Judith?’ Thea returned to her original plea. ‘I think we should deal well together.’

  ‘I should be delighted.’ Judith found her voice at last. And felt as if she had just been swept along by a positive whirlwind!

  ‘On first acquaintance, I think that London could offer me a deal of pleasure.’ Thea took another sip of ratafia with remarkably smooth features and looked hopeful.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Judith gave a sigh of satisfaction and silently thanked her mama. Theodora Wooton-Devereux could just be a gift from heaven. But what polite society would make of Miss Wooton-Devereux, Judith could not imagine. It would be just too fascinating to discover. She decided to take the matter in hand immediately.

  ‘If I might say, Thea—that is a very pretty stole. Quite eye-catching.’

  ‘Yes. I like it.’ Thea rearranged the folds of the scarf. ‘I bought it in Palmyra. It is considered to be very typical of the delicate work produced in that city.’ She caught a look in Judith’s eye. ‘Is there perhaps a problem with it? You must tell me, for I have not the slightest inclination.’

  ‘Well—yes, it is certainly very attractive—but perhaps not for morning wear, you understand, as it is rather … decorative! For an afternoon visit it would be unexceptional. Or an evening at home. I hope that you do not mind me mentioning it?’

  ‘Why, no.’ Thea held up the luxurious fringing for inspection. ‘Really? I would not have known. And I would dislike above all things to be considered lacking in taste. There! I said that we might deal well together, dear Judith.’

  ‘I do hope so.’ The Countess nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘Now, enough of me. Tell me about yourself and your family.’ Thea folded her hands in her lap and set herself to be sociable. ‘Is your husband at home?’

  ‘No, he is not. Simon has gone to Newmarket! I am quite vexed about it.’

  ‘Ah! I understand that you have a young son.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Giles. Now he is quite adorable. Come and see.’

  Thea sighed a little, but was determined to fulfil her social duties. After all, she owed Judith much for her unaffected welcome of an unknown lady to her home, and suspected that she would owe her more before her sojourn in London came to an end. With a not quite enthusiastic smile, but a sharp relief at being able to abandon the much disliked ratafia, she followed Judith up the sweep of the staircase to the nursery to meet the heir to the Painscastle inheritance, prepared to admire and be charmed as was required.

  Why her mother thought she needed a husband and children of her own, she could not imagine!

  Thea returned to the smart rented property in Upper Brook Street, worthy of one of his Majesty’s Ambassadors, to find a chaotic scene of boxes and packages littering the generous entrance hall. Their luggage, it appeared, had finally caught up with them. Servants, hired with the house, were in evidence and in the centre of it all, directing operations with imperious manner and a list in her hand, was Lady Drusilla. As wife to the Ambassador, she had successfully moved homes—and countries—many times. Sir Hector was, sensibly, nowhere to be seen. There was no hope, Thea realised, of her making an entrance undetected, so she did not try.

  ‘Theodora! Where have you been? And without your maid—do not even try to deny it! Agnes informed me of your sneaking off within minutes of your leaving the house! As you must know she would!’

  Thea bridled at the onslaught, even if it was expected. It was simply one more nail in the coffin of her much-prized freedom. ‘If you had wished me to follow every social convention, you should have brought me up differently, Mama.’ Her eyes snapped with irritation. She would have a few well-chosen words with Agnes Drew, her childhood nurse and now her maid—or perhaps more of a companion and confidante—whose loyalty seemed to be as much to Lady Drusilla as to herself.

  ‘True. I myself have no time for many of them. That one. And that.’ The lady pointed at two boxes and crossed them off her list as they were carried away. ‘But here in London—it is important to have a care.’

  ‘I have been out of the house barely two hours—and done nothing to draw attention to myself.’ Thea narrowed her eyes at her mother’s back. ‘How should you think otherwise! Your opinion of me is not flattering, Mama.’

  ‘Nonsense! My opinion of you is of the highest as you are very well aware. But by the end of the Season I hope to have acquired a rich and titled husband for you.’ She announced her intentions with supreme disregard for the interested audience of maids and footmen around her.

  ‘I know. An Earl. Any one of them will do, however old and ill favoured. As long as he is titled and rich! And available!’

  ‘Now, Theodora! I have it on the best authority—from your father, no less—that the Earl of Moreton is in town. He is neither old nor ill favoured and has, I am given to understand, considerable address. Since he also has the advantage of being unmarried, he sounds to be just the thing. I have every hope.’ For the first time, Lady Drusilla gave her daughter her full attention and noted the heightened colour in her cheeks, hardly engendered by a gentle stroll along Upper Brook Street, plus the sparkle in her eyes, which denoted a flash of temper. ‘What have you been doing to put yourself so out of countenance?’

  ‘Nothing. I am not out of countenance.’ Except that she was after listening for an hour—was it only an hour?—to Judith singing the praises of a husband who seemed pleasant enough, but dull in the extreme. An equally tedious lifestyle of trivial pursuits and pastimes in London, of visits and conversations with the same set of acquaintance day after day, week after week. Winter spent incarcerated in the depths of the country, trapped by bad weather and worse roads. Was that the life for which she was destined? She shuddered at the prospect. There was no point telling her mama, who had quite made up her mind, of her fears, her depressing thoughts. But she did not have to like it. Or the unknown Earl of Moreton!

  ‘So, where have you been?’

  ‘To pay a morning call on Lady Painscastle.’

  ‘I see. I am quite sure that you should not have done that without an invitation, Thea.’ Lady Drusilla frowned her disapproval, but kept her tone light.

  ‘Oh, she did not mind. I liked her. And she did not turn me from the door—although her butler would have dearly liked to.’ A faint smile illuminated Thea’s face at the memory.

  ‘It is all your own fault if you allow servants the opportunity to patronise you, my dear.’ Thea had to admire her mother’s worldly wisdom expressed so casually. ‘Take your maid in future! And wear a hat. I expect it is not at all the thing to go about with your head uncovered. At least you had the sense to wear gloves.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  ‘So?’ Lady Drusilla raised her brows. ‘What has ruffled your feathers?’

  Thea sighed a little. ‘Do I really need a husband?’

  ‘Yes. We have had this conversation before. You know my reasons—and your father’s, of cou
rse.’

  ‘But I have enjoyed independence for all my twenty-one years. Travel. Culture. Pleasing myself. Why can I not continue to do so?’

  ‘You cannot travel for the rest of your life, Theodora. It is not suitable.’

  ‘But you have.’ Thea sat herself down on one of the unopened wooden packing cases, swinging her reticule carelessly by its silken strings.

  ‘I had the felicity to meet and marry your father. Such opportunities as wife to a royal Ambassador are not given to everyone. You need a husband who will admire you for your qualities and allow you freedom to express yourself. As Sir Hector allowed me. I hope you will not break anything in that case on which you are sitting!’

  Thea hid a smile. Secretly she doubted that Sir Hector had had any choice in his wife’s chosen lifestyle. ‘Does such a husband exist for me, do you suppose?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Thea pursed her pretty lips, looking sceptical, but made no reply.

  ‘It is merely a matter of learning a few rules, knowing how to go on. And if you could pretend to be demure and biddable for a few weeks—’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘And converse in a genteel and respectful manner, without interruption—’

  ‘About fashion and embroidery, the latest dance and the latest on dit.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Oh, Mama. What have you committed me to!’

  ‘It is not purgatory, my love.’

  ‘And growing my hair into curls and ringlets again, if the glances I received today are anything to say to the matter.’

  ‘I told you that you should not have been so extravagant! But you would do it!’ Lady Drusilla stepped round a pair of leather travelling cases and leaned to kiss her daughter lightly on the cheek. She understood and sympathised with her concerns very well. ‘You are a lovely young woman of whom I am very proud. Whether you grow your hair again, my love, is purely a matter of your own personal choice.’

  ‘I have no intention of doing so.’ Thea returned the salute and rose to her feet. ‘By the by, I arranged for us to pay an afternoon call on Lady Beatrice Faringdon tomorrow if that suits.’

  ‘Certainly. An excellent idea. My acquaintance with Lady Beatrice is from the very distant past, when we were still girls, but she is, I think, knowledgeable and accommodating. And, most important, has entrée to the best families in London. So begins our first step in the campaign.’ Lady Drusilla crossed off two more items on her list. ‘Did you learn anything other of import?’

  ‘No. Except that this stole is pretty enough, but far more suitable for evening wear than for a morning visit.’ The lady raised her brows, her mouth curling into a mischievous smile, as she lifted the delicate scarf from her shoulders.

  ‘Oh.’ Lady Drusilla inspected the garment with sudden interest. ‘Perhaps we shall need a new wardrobe. It would not do to be regarded as provincial. Or oriental in our case! What is suitable in Constantinople is quite plainly not suitable here.’

  The two ladies exchanged smiles, their differences reconciled.

  ‘Let us go and discuss the matter with your father. Who, you will notice, has absented himself from all this.’ She waved her hand in an expansive gesture at the chaos around her feet, then handed her list with great willingness to one of the footmen. ‘And then, dear Thea, when we have some funds at our disposal, perhaps a stroll down Bond Street would be in order.’

  On the following afternoon Lady Drusilla Wooton-Devereux and her daughter, with Agnes Drew discreetly, if a trifle smugly, in attendance, applied the knocker to Lady Beatrice Faringdon’s imposing establishment in Berkeley Square. Expected, they were admitted and ushered into the lady’s withdrawing room.

  ‘Drusilla. My dear.’ Lady Beatrice surged to her feet with a rustle of the puce damask that shrouded her opulent figure and clashed uncomfortably with her fading red hair. ‘And this must be your daughter. Theodora.’ She held out a hand in greeting, then halted, the hand falling to her side, and raised her lorgnette to deadly effect. She did not need to apply the lens as her eyesight was perfect. But the gesture was guaranteed to make an impression. She levelled the glass at her friend’s daughter, surveyed her with a critical thoroughness from head to foot, and drew in a breath.

  ‘Well. Caro Lamb, as I live and breathe!’

  Which unwise comment was guaranteed to bring about a distinct pause in the proceedings. Lady Caroline Ponsonby, as she was before her marriage to William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne, was a spoiled capricious beauty whose appearance, behaviour and wild, tempestuous affair with Lord Byron some years previously had scandalised a notoriously decadent society.

  Theodora took it upon herself to reply, with the politest of smiles, before her mother could intervene. But there was a noticeable edge to her voice and a glint in her eye, which might be interpreted as a challenge to their hostess. ‘I hope that my upbringing has been more respectable than that of Lady Melbourne. It is certainly not my intention to distress my relatives by my outrageous behaviour or to take the town by storm in quite the same manner as that unfortunate lady. I would consider it exceptionally bad ton either to fly into a fit of rage in public, or to attempt to slash my wrists with broken glass.’

  Lady Beatrice actually coloured at the implied set-down.

  ‘Forgive me, my dear girl! Drusilla! It was not my intention to be so ill mannered. It is just … The hair, you understand. So fair … and so short. And so slender a figure. A mere fleeting impression, I do assure you.’ She thought for a moment and raised her glass again. ‘You have not been ill, have you?’

  ‘Of course she has not.’ Lady Drusilla stepped into the breach with calming words, a gracious smile for Lady Beatrice and a narrowed glance toward her daughter. ‘We have travelled extensively in recent months in Arabia to see some of the archaeological sites. Theodora found it expedient to cut her hair. The sand is a great trial, you understand, and not kind to long hair. Theodora is always excessively healthy!’

  ‘Of course. Forgive me, dear Drusilla …’ Lady Beatrice almost gushed.

  ‘And is nothing like poor Caro Lamb.’

  ‘Indeed no. My wits must have abandoned me.’ Lady Beatrice managed to recover her air of self-assurance and smiled with a trifle more warmth at the young lady who still regarded her with the coolest of expressions. ‘And so charmingly dressed. I remember seeing Lady Melbourne in the most inappropriate gowns—if you could call them that—with not a stitch on beneath them, I warrant. Little wonder that she always looked as if a brisk breeze would demolish her. Some of the young girls today …’ Lady Beatrice shook her head and brought her thoughts in line. ‘But that is of no account. I am so delighted to see you again. Come and sit. And you, Theodora. How long is it since we last met, Drusilla?’

  ‘Far too long to contemplate!’

  The difficulties over, the three ladies sat, the two older ones intent on catching up over a dish of tea. Their paths had not crossed since school girls at Miss Felton’s Academy for Young Ladies in Bath. Drusilla Hatton, as a daughter of wealthy parents, had even then nursed ambitions to travel and experience for herself what life could offer. Beatrice had been destined for a Season in London and as advantageous a marriage as she could achieve. The two girls had parted with many tears and protestations of undying loyalty. They would keep in touch. But they had not. And so of necessity the ladies had grown apart.

  As the two ladies set to reminisce, Thea let her thoughts wonder, listening with only half an ear to the less than exciting doings of her parent at the Academy in Bath. What could they find to talk about that was of interest after all these years? It all sounded desperately dull and hedged about with restriction and parental expectations. She hid a yawn with considerable expertise. It reminded her of the worst of formal diplomatic receptions where nothing happened to relieve the tedium and no one had anything of moment to say after the introductions had been made. Thea fervently wished that she had found another occupation for the afternoon—until a stray comment from Lady Beatr
ice caught her attention.

  ‘You had a sister, I remember. A year or so older, at school with us. Mary, I think.’

  Thea’s eyes snapped to her mother’s face.

  ‘Yes. You have a good memory.’

  I did not know that my mother had a sister! Why did I not know? Lady Drusilla’s reply was smooth enough, and yet Thea sensed the slightest of hesitations, a hint of reserve in her voice. She turned her attention fully.

  ‘Does she live in London?’ Lady Beatrice went on to enquire.

  ‘No. Mary lived her whole life in the country. And is now dead. Some years ago.’

  ‘I am sorry. Did she perhaps have family?’

  ‘Yes. Two … two children. But we had not kept in touch. There was … an estrangement. Her marriage was not an easy one. I was not made welcome in her house.’

  ‘You need not tell me about difficult marriages …’

  The conversation moved on, leaving Thea to wonder about this branch of the family of which she was completely unaware.

  The visit drew to a natural close when the ladies ran out of events and people to recall, criticise and chuckle over.

  ‘As you know, we do not expect to remain long in London.’ Lady Drusilla drew on her gloves in preparation to making her departure. ‘But it is my wish to see my daughter married. You were kind enough to offer to ease our entrée into London society. I cannot express my gratitude sufficiently, Beatrice.’

  ‘It will be my pleasure. At the end of the week I have an invitation to Lady Aston’s drum. All the world and his wife will be there, I expect. It has been my intention to get up a small party—just family and close friends, you understand. I am expecting my nephew Nicholas to arrive here from the country any day—that is, if his recent correspondence rings true. But he is a difficult boy to pin down, with a mind of his own, and getting him to put in an appearance in town is more aggravating than you could possibly believe …’ Lady Beatrice shook her head and huffed in indulgent irritation at the vagaries of her wiful relative. ‘But that aside—you, my dear Drusilla, must come as my guest. It will be the perfect opportunity for you. And for Theodora to make some acquaintances.’