by S. G. Rogers
“I had not thought of that.”
“Which is why you have me to guide you. Trust me, my dear, you have many natural gifts in your favor. Your feet are far too large, but there is less emphasis on a small foot now than there used to be. Just keep them tucked away whenever you can. On the positive side, your face is lovely and your hair is the most remarkable color. No bust improvers will be necessary for you, or padding for your hips. Your face and figure will be much admired, but you must pretend not to notice.”
“’Tis a blessing Uncle William isn’t here. With all this talk of clothes, I’m afraid he would have taken to his bed with a painful rash!”
Aunt Letty laughed. “When he receives the bills, he will.”
“Do you suppose we could tour London? I’d dearly love to see the palace again and—”
“None of your gowns are ready yet! You cannot leave the house until you look absolutely perfect.”
“But—”
“Of this much you can be sure; London society talk amongst themselves, and not all of the conversation is laced with Christian charity. As soon as you have a suitable afternoon dress delivered, we shall call on my dear friend, Lady Fanny Adams. She knows simply everyone.”
In the meantime, Aunt Letty’s extensive collection of penny dreadfuls provided Jillian with a pleasant diversion, as did the upright piano in the parlor. Jillian practiced melancholy sonatas until Aunt Letty finally put her foot down.
“Dearest, there’s some brand new sheet music in the bench from The Pirates of Penzance and The Mikado. Play something cheerful for a while so the cook doesn’t curdle the soup.”
Lacking any bosom friends to talk to, Jillian also began a diary. As she sat in the parlor, she poured out in its pages her misadventure with Sam Netherby, her interactions with Mr. Logan at Idunn Court, and her subsequent journey by train to town:
I must conclude this entry with a confession, Dear Diary. Mr. Logan stirs within me feelings I cannot begin to comprehend. I must seek another upon whom to attach my affections, however, lest I fall prey to the same melancholy that afflicts Mr. Logan at the perfidy of Miss Sophia Watkins.
Betsy flounced over to the bed and sat down. A cloud of dust set her coughing. The sound of a baby crying in the next room made her want to plug her ears. The smells seeping through the floorboards were worse. Rather than sit in the rickety chair next to the bed, George chose to sit on Betsy’s trunk instead. Oblivious, Sam strode toward the window and looked outside.
“Why are we stayin’ here, Sam?” Betsy asked. “I want ter stay in a nice place and be treated like a lady.”
“Aye, Sam, this is a bit rough, don’t ye think?” George added. “This must be the worst Nethersken in Liverpool.”
“Shut it. I asked the cabbie ter find us lodgings what is reasonable,” Sam replied. “Here on Scottie Road, we blend in, as it were.”
“I don’t blend in! Not dressed like this, anyhow,” Betsy said.
Without warning, Sam leaned over and snatched off one of her gold earbobs. She gasped in pain. “That hurt!” When he reached for the other earbob, Betsy knocked his hand away. “Leave off!”
Sam drew his arm back, as if to slap her. George shot to his feet, his fists clenched. “Oi, what do ye think yer doing ter my sister?”
“I’m taking these luggers to a dollyshop ter sell. I thought we all agreed.”
“Only if we ran out of money,” Betsy wailed, tears spilling down her face. “And ye could have asked me. That earbob was screwed on tight.”
Her fingers touched her injured earlobe and came away bloody.
George’s voice was low. “Ye manhandle my sister like that again mate, and you’ll be the one bleedin’.”
Sam bristled a moment before glancing away.
“The devil take the both of ye. Gimme the other one, quick like.”
Distraught, Betsy unscrewed the other earbob and practically threw it at Sam. Unperturbed, he pocketed the earbobs and headed for the door.
“I’m thirsty. I’m going out ter find a lush.”
Betsy shot to her feet. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
She rushed over to give him a hug. “Don’t be mad at me, Sam. I love ye.”
“Yeah, all right.”
He slammed out of the room. After a moment, Betsy sighed and wiped her tears away. “All he cares about is drinkin’.”
George patted her on the back. “Are ye beginnin’ to think maybe Sam don’t really love ye?”
With a bitter laugh, Betsy opened her hand to reveal the gold earbobs. “Sam can go to blazes. Let’s go find ourselves a ship.”
The tavern was dark, dirty, and anonymous. Sam peered at his hand of cards, knocked back another tot of Irish whisky, and pushed his money into the pot. He laid down his cards, faces up. “I got ten. Ha!”
“I gots me eleven, mate,” said the swarthy man on his right.
“Bloody hell. Ye’ve got the luck o’ the devil himself!” Sam exclaimed.
The man peered at Sam with narrowed eyes. “Ye wouldn’t be accusin’ me of cheatin’, would ye?”
Sam combed back his greasy hair with fingers numb from drink. “’Course not.”
The burly man to his left folded his massive arms across his muscular chest.
“Yer outta money, friend. Time fer ye ter get home ter the missus with yer tail between yer legs.”
“And best pray she don’t slit yer throat,” said the third player.
Everyone but Sam burst into raucous, mocking laughter.
“I got me some luggers worth a bit o’ money,” he said, patting his pocket. “Let’s play.”
“Show ’em or get out.”
A bewildered expression came over Sam’s face when he realized the earbobs were missing. With increasing panic, he checked his other pockets.
“I-I musta left ’em in the room.”
The bartender stood over Sam, arms akimbo. “Did ye say yer out of money? How’re ye goin’ ter settle yer tab?”
Sam lurched to his feet. “I’m good fer it, I tell ye!”
Moments later, he found himself flying through the door of the tavern by the seat of his pants. He landed in the cobblestone street, onto a pile of horse droppings left from earlier in the day. Cursing and railing, he picked himself up and staggered down the street toward the boarding house.
The glimmer of dawn was creeping through the dirty window when he opened the door to his room. To his dismay, Betsy and George were missing. Worse, the steamer trunk was gone and the bed had not been slept in. Sam kicked a hole through the wall. In the next room, the baby woke up from the noise and began to scream.
Clad in her new finery, Jillian settled herself in the Victoria carriage next to her aunt. A pastel blue afternoon dress hugged her body around the hips and then flared out where the stitched-down pleats ended. The fluted collar of a bolero-style jacket framed her face. On her carefully arranged hair rested a halo hat with a curving white plume.
“Phelps, we are calling on Lady Fanny Adams, on Park Lane,” Aunt Letty called out to the coachman.
“Yes, madam.”
“This beautiful spring weather is absolutely perfect for a carriage ride. Let’s do take the long way ’round, Aunt,” Jillian urged. “I want to see absolutely everything in London!”
“We haven’t time to canvas all of London today, but a little detour can’t do any harm,” Aunt Letty said. “Phelps, drive past Buckingham Palace before you circle around to Park Lane.”
“As you like, madam.”
A beatific smile lit Jillian’s face. As the carriage moved along Eaton Square, she marveled at the long line of townhouses. Aunt Letty kept up a running narrative, pointing out landmarks and houses where her friends lived. To Jillian’s delight, she also related a few ongoing scandals involving prominent members of society.
Buckingham Palace was little over a half mile from her aunt’s home. As the gig drove past the edifice, Jillian leaned forward to drink in the view.
“It’s like a great big wonderful present, isn’t it?” Jillian exclaimed.
“Buckingham Palace is a lovely sight, I’ll grant you.”
After they passed the palace, they drove along Constitution Hill. Jillian enjoyed the tree-lined street, with its view toward Wellington Arch. Many fashionable matrons were out for a stroll, parasols in hand. A little further on, the carriage turned onto Park Lane. Aunt Letty pointed out the Grosvenor House.
“That home was one of the first buildings in London to have electricity,” she said. “The wide-spread use of electricity is short-sighted, in my opinion. Ladies are always far more attractive under gaslight.”
Jillian giggled as she laced her arm through her aunt’s. “Thank you.”
“What are you thanking me for?”
“For all this. Mama would be so grateful to you for sponsoring me this Season. When it’s over, I can go back home to Gloucester quite contented.”
“You shall not leave London without being married. I simply forbid it.”
“Do you think I can induce someone to fall in love with me in a few short months?”
“You will take the gentlemen of London society by storm.”
“From what I’ve heard, they are already smitten with Miss Sophia Watkins.”
“Although I don’t know the whole of the affair between her and Mr. Logan, I believe his humiliation was quite complete. It was quite a downfall, since he was much pursued himself.”
“So that is why he refuses to come to London. I cannot think why she broke the engagement, unless it was to prolong her time in the limelight.”
“Do not be so quick to judge Miss Watkins, Jillian. Neither of us is privy to the particulars.”
“You are quite right, Aunt Letty.”
But I am already inclined to despise her.
The home of Lady Fanny Adams, while not as magnificent as the Grosvenor House, was luxurious nevertheless. The three-story mansion was of Grecian design. Fluted columns supported a balcony overlooking Hyde Park. A butler showed Jillian and her aunt into an elegant drawing room where his mistress was receiving visitors. Lady Adams greeted Aunt Letty warmly and bestowed a kiss on her cheek. The woman’s bright eyes fell upon Jillian next.
“And this must be the niece you’ve been telling me about?”
“Yes, indeed. Fanny, this is Miss Jillian Roring. Jillian, let me introduce you to Lady Adams.”
Jillian and Lady Adams curtsied to one another. Jillian was pleased to discover her wound no longer pained her overmuch.
“Please do sit down, Letty and Miss Roring,” Lady Adams said.
Lady Adams chose a floral pattern armchair upon which to perch, while Aunt Letty and Jillian sank down onto a Rococo sofa with damask upholstery. At the last moment, Jillian remembered to slide her feet back under her skirt until not even the pointed tips were showing.
“Tell me, Miss Roring, how do you find London?”
The next few minutes were filled with seemingly idle chatter. Jillian had the distinct feeling, however, Lady Adams was subtly extracting bits of useful information. Within a short period of time, Lady Adams discovered Jillian spoke French, played the piano, sang a little, had learned how to shoot with Uncle William, and rode for pleasure but had never ridden to hounds.
“And your father, my dear? Will I have the pleasure of seeing him?”
“Yes, ma’am. His ship should be arriving in a fortnight.”
“You should have received an invitation to my ball by now. Please bring Captain Roring with you, if he’s not otherwise engaged.”
“That’s very kind of you, Lady Adams,” Jillian said.
Aunt Letty kept uncharacteristically quiet during the visit, but when the butler entered the drawing room carrying another calling card on a silver salver, she stood.
“You have another visitor, Fanny. We really must be going.”
Lady Adams read the name on the calling card and smiled. “Oh, stay just a little while longer, Letty. I’d like to introduce you and Miss Roring to my friends.”
The butler thereafter ushered in a handsome older woman and well-dressed girl about Jillian’s age. The young lady was an absolutely stunning brunette, with dazzling hazel eyes framed by well-defined eyebrows.
“I don’t mean to intrude, Lady Adams,” the woman said. “I see you already have callers.”
“Letty and Miss Roring, before you leave, allow me to introduce my friends Mrs. Watkins and her daughter, Miss Watkins. Mrs. Watkins and Miss Watkins, this is my good friend Mrs. Marsh and her niece, Miss Roring.”
Mrs. Watkins nodded at Aunt Letty, but her gaze cooled considerably when her eyes locked onto Jillian. “Miss Roring.”
Jillian was taken aback. The older woman’s words seemed less a greeting and more a statement of fact. She forced herself to smile.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Watkins.”
“I believe Miss Roring and Miss Watkins just may be the belles of the Season,” Lady Adams said.
Miss Watkins studied Jillian for a long moment before a smile graced her perfect lips. Her next words confirmed Jillian’s worst suspicions.
“I think we should be good friends. Do call me Sophia.”
On the ride home, Jillian gazed at the scenery without comment. Her muted demeanor did not escape her aunt’s notice.
“You did not have to agree to go riding with Miss Watkins tomorrow afternoon, you know,” Aunt Letty said.
“Yes, but if I had declined, it would have seemed odd. Since Lady Adams offered us the use of her stables, I did not wish to appear ungrateful.”
“Oh, I agree you’ve acted prudently, but I don’t like to see you unhappy.”
“Forgive me, Aunt Letty. I’m not at all unhappy. It’s just that my meeting with Miss Watkins—Sophia—was unexpected.”
“And not entirely welcome.”
“Exactly. I did not expect her to be quite so beautiful, nor so congenial.”
“I would certainly be on my guard with Miss Watkins if I were you,” Aunt Letty said. “At this point, her motives are unclear.”
“True. And although I am inclined to think ill of Miss Watkins, perhaps our deeper acquaintance will absolve her of blame in her dealings with Mr. Logan.”
Or perhaps I will convict her more firmly.
Chapter Six
A Toast to Miss Roring
ATOP HER BORROWED PONY, Jillian surveyed the broad riding path in Hyde Park known as Rotten Row. The long straight track was filled with groups or pairs of riders in fashionable apparel. Clad in her brand new riding habit of lightweight navy wool, Jillian was genuinely elated to partake of an activity traditionally favored by London society—despite her unfortunate riding companion. Sophia was similarly dressed, but her habit was an eye-catching deep periwinkle blue.
“I know you want to gossip, so you may ride on ahead a bit, girls,” Mrs. Watkins said.
“Thank you, Mama,” Sophia said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Watkins,” Jillian echoed.
Atop her mare, Mrs. Watkins kept a discreet distance behind as Sophia and Jillian guided their mounts onto the sandy track. Sophia set the pace at a little more than a walk.
“Why on Earth is this place called Rotten Row?” Jillian asked.
“It’s a bit of a joke. About two hundred years ago it was called Route de Roi and the name evolved over time.”
“Kings Road,” Jillian translated.
“Ah, you speak French.” Sophia paused. “Have you been presented at court?”
“I was presented before Easter. I met Her Majesty one other time, in a manner of speaking. My father, Captain Roring, is a favorite of hers. He took me to the palace when I was a baby.”
Sophia laughed. “What a precious story. I was presented at court last spring. I wore an exquisite gown with a ten-foot train. Her Majesty even remarked on my looks. Isn’t that lovely?”
“What a wonderful honor!”
“Your papa…he’s the Ice Captain, is he not?”
Jillia
n smiled. The nickname never failed to delight her. “Yes.”
“You might not want to mention that to anyone else.”
“Why not?”
Sophia wrinkled her pert nose. “I’m sure he’s a very good sort of man but importing ice is an awful lot like being in trade.”
Shocked, Jillian didn’t know how to respond. Sophia mistook her expression for fear.
“Oh, don’t worry. We’re friends, so your secret is safe with me.”
“I thank you, truly, but I don’t have anything to conceal as far as my father is concerned.”
Sophie gave Jillian a pretty little pout, as if she were a small child who’d just been caught doing something naughty. “Please don’t be vexed with me. Mama says I blurt out truths in an unvarnished fashion and it’s frightfully rude. For example, may I tell you I’m terribly envious of your hair? You’ve the appearance of an angel. Your coloring and mine are quite the opposite of one another. We’re marvelously balanced.”
“You flatter me. I can’t imagine you being envious of anything.”
A delicate peal of laughter bubbled up from Sophia’s throat.
“Can you not? I knew you were amiable.”
Logan and Hawkins had donned their best clothes for Rotten Row. Logan was astride glossy and sleek Tuxano, while Hawkins rode a handsome chestnut quarter horse.
“Hawkins, when you said I should get back on the horse, you meant it literally, didn’t you?” Logan chuckled.
“Leaving our calling cards everywhere won’t be enough. We must be seen out and about, Logan. You must quash the rumors of your broken heart.”
“And you must allay fears that you became engaged over the winter.”
As he spoke, the image of Miss Roring flashed into Logan’s mind. Hawkins had no idea how close he’d come to being engaged recently. Not even the greatest affection for his friend, however, would induce Logan to confess it. If he wanted to claim an acquaintance with Miss Roring, he would have to seek a proper introduction through mutual friends—the more highly placed, the better. The challenge would be to find a mutual friend willing to introduce him.
