by Lynn Morris
“But we haven’t had luncheon yet,” Giles protested.
“I haven’t invited you for luncheon.”
“I invited myself.”
“And you ate two scones, two puff pastries, a biscuit, and fully half of that dish of dried fruits. Surely you can survive on that. You can invite yourself for dinner.”
“If you insist. I hereby invite myself for dinner. I’m going to invite your mother and father, too. Would you care to join us?”
Affectionately Mirabella said, “Ninny.”
“I strenuously object to being branded a ninny. Everyone knows that I’m a namby-pamby fop.”
“Then mince on over here and start cleaning up these toy soldiers with your scented hankie. You wash, I’ll dry and polish.”
“As always, my lady, I am your most humble servant.”
* * *
Most ladies of high society found winters in the country dull, but Mirabella relished them, and to her this winter at Camarden was particularly agreeable. November had several mild spells, and Lord Camarden had four highly successful fox hunts. To Mirabella’s delight they had a perfectly beautiful snow on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. She always longed for Christmas snow, and secretly even prayed for it, though she knew it was fatuous. Still, she was grateful for this one. On Boxing Day she, Josephine, Lewin, and Giles piled themselves up with furs and took a ride in the open landau. The park and grounds of Camarden Court were stunning with their frothy diamond snow-blanket.
Parliament opened in January, and Lord Camarden went to London to attend the House of Lords. He came home some weekends, and was subjected to extensive interrogation by his daughter concerning Who was in Town and Who was not.
“Mirabella, by now you know that most of the families stay in the country until March,” he said wearily. “The only dinner parties I’ve attended given by ladies were Lady Liverpool’s and Countess Lieven’s.”
Lord Camarden was a powerful man in politics, albeit behind the scenes. He was a close longtime friend of the prime minister, Lord Liverpool, and was one of his most trusted advisors.
Countess Lieven was married to the Russian ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, who was also a friend of Lord Camarden’s. The countess was something of a political force in her own right. She was extremely clever, haughty, and arrogant, and was perhaps the most ruthless patroness of Almack’s, excluding anyone, regardless of birth, lineage, or fortune, if they did not meet her approval.
“Countess Lieven is in Town?” Mirabella cried. “You didn’t tell me. At her dinner did you ask her about vouchers for Josephine and Lewin?”
“I most certainly did not. Neither did I ask her about the newest, most fashionable ladies’ fripperies, nor about the health of her dogs, nor about Count Lieven’s choice of waistcoats, although I did find one of them questionable, it had some sort of bear’s head design. At any rate, it’s your mother’s heavy burden to deal with the hallowed halls of Almack’s, not mine.”
Mirabella immediately went to her mother to importune her, again. “Mamma, Pappa says Countess Lieven is in Town. Please write to her again about the vouchers for Josephine and Lewin. I know that she would be the only patroness who might possibly deny them.”
The Marchioness of Camarden, both because of her own considerable consequence in Polite Society, and because of her husband’s political influence, held no little sway with the patronesses. She had been friends with the two older patronesses, Lady Sefton and Lady Castlereagh, for many years, and was on very agreeable friendly terms with the other four ladies. At one time there had been an attempt by Lady Castlereagh, Lady Sefton, and Lady Cowper to name Lady Camarden as a patroness, but she had graciously refused, saying that attending to her own daughter kept her so occupied she could hardly concentrate on anyone else’s children.
Lady Camarden said, “Mirabella, I’ll do no such thing. I’ve already heard from Lady Castlereagh that she’ll be happy to submit applications for Josephine and Lewin, and has no doubt that they’ll be accepted. I hadn’t yet mentioned this to you because I thought I might wait to hear from Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, more out of politeness than any other reason. Both of us know that she won’t vote against Amelia Castlereagh, who in reality is the most powerful of the patronesses.”
“But Countess Lieven is so merciless when it comes to exclusion,” Mirabella pleaded. “Surely, if you simply mention them again, it may encourage her to accept them.”
“She already responded to my letter, in a conciliating manner, for her. Apparently this victory at Badajoz was so influential in the war that it’s been a major topic. The countess was quite knowledgeable about it, and had learned that Lewin is an acknowledged hero in the storming of the breach. Although she didn’t specifically say that he and Josephine would be accepted, as her hauteur wouldn’t allow her to be so kind, I’m satisfied that she’ll vote for them.”
“Oh, Mamma, this is wonderful news! Thank you, thank you!”
Josephine visited that afternoon, and Mirabella immediately seized her and dragged her up to her dressing room. “Josephine, Mamma told me today that she’s all but certain that you and Lewin will receive vouchers for Almack’s! Isn’t that marvelous?”
“Truly? Oh, it is! And Lewin, too? He’ll be so—or perhaps he might not be quite as enthusiastic as we are. All he talks about is having to wear silk stockings, he’s really very grumpy about it.”
“He’ll find it well worth the trouble when he sees all the lovely young ladies to flirt with at balls and at Almack’s. And speaking of silk stockings, please listen to me, Josephine. I know that fine smallclothes are costly, and I’d like to—”
Josephine interrupted sternly, “No, Mirabella, I will not allow you to buy lingerie for me. As it happens, I’ve already bought several things on my own.” She smiled sweetly. “You know, Lewin received a cash award for his gallantry at Badajoz. He said that if he was going to throw it away buying silk stockings and pretty little black pumps with ribbons, he might as well give me some money to throw away, too.”
“That is so like Lewin. He’s such a darling. Very well, then. Shall we go through the half dresses today?” Mirabella asked eagerly. She had been having as much fun in arranging Josephine’s wardrobe as in ordering her own.
“What are half dresses again? It’s too bewildering. Half dresses, full dresses, morning dresses, day dresses, walking dresses, promenade costumes, carriage costumes, dinner gowns, formal dinner gowns, ball gowns, opera gowns, full formal evening ball and opera gowns—”
“Josephine, surely you remember that half dresses are exactly that, only half as formal as ball gowns. That makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Oh, half a moment! We completely forgot riding habits! I have six—no, eight now, with the two I ordered that only arrived yesterday, and that will be more than enough for us, as you know I prefer taking the phaeton to Hyde Park. That will require carriage costumes, as you well know, in spite of your blustering. Still, we do need to attend to the riding habits, as they’ll require some alterations, I’m sure, since they’re so formfitting in the bust, and you’ve had the effrontery to exceed me by an inch or so. Colette will attend to it, she can work pure miracles in alterations, and since I promised her an extra half day off during the Season she’s stopped complaining about making alterations to dresses she’s already altered…”
Josephine watched and listened to her friend with affectionate indulgence. This was going to be an exciting Season indeed.
Chapter Six
The carriage was now in the jostling, bustling streets of London, which normally was quite an eye-opener for one who had never been in Town. But Josephine had barely glanced out the carriage window, since she and Mirabella were engaged in an extremely serious discussion.
“No, Josephine, I insist!” Mirabella argued. “You see now it’s just as I’ve said, London is so much warmer than the country. We shan’t have an opportunity to wear furs much longer, perhaps only another week or two. I doubt if I’ll even be able to w
ear the Hussar jacket with the mink.”
“But that is precisely my point,” Josephine said stubbornly. “You haven’t worn it, because it’s brand-new, and I absolutely refuse to start pilfering in your new wardrobe, after I’ve already stolen an entire Season’s worth of clothes from you. I have the blue pelisse and the olive green, which is very fine, and which I like very well. I shall wear it.”
“Please, please wear the Hussar?” Mirabella pleaded. “In any case, I don’t care if I wear it after you wear it. Tomorrow we’re only going to see three of the patronesses.” With sudden inspiration she added, “If you’ll wear it tomorrow, then I’ll wear it on Thursday, when we go shopping. If you won’t wear it, I shall refuse to wear it at all.”
“Oh, really, Mirabella, you can drive a person batty attempting to reason with you,” Lady Camarden said. “Josephine, please wear the Hussar, for my sake. You two have been arguing about furs for the last hour, I declare I almost wish I’d never see one again. Thank heavens we’ve arrived, I’d rather talk to one of the scullery maids than listen to more of this.”
They had arrived in London, at the Camarden town house, which was in fashionable Mayfair, of course. The Camarden town house was not one of the many terrace houses on Grosvenor Square; it was a sizable, elegant freestanding house of six stories, counting the half basement and attic. The large kitchen was detached, and the lot also had a private mews, with stables and the carriage house. Although not as grand and palatial as the mansions lining Park Lane, which bordered Hyde Park, it was still larger than most town houses, and stylishly appointed.
It was the last week of February, and it was cold and damp, so the ladies hurried out of the Camarden town coach and into the house. All the servants were assembled to greet them in the entry hall, a spacious room with black-and-white marble tiles and a grand white marble staircase with an intricate black wrought iron railing.
The marchioness greeted them in her usual brisk manner. “Irby, Mrs. Parmeter, the house looks very well, I’m certain you have everything in hand.” The faintest shadow of pleasure crossed the butler’s stoic face. In contrast the housekeeper, Mrs. Parmeter, smiled happily as she curtsied. Both of these highest of servants were young to occupy their exalted positions. Irby had just turned thirty, a great hulking man with black hair and eyes and a crude, pockmarked face, but he possessed that economical grace that characterized good butlers. Mrs. Parmeter was twenty-eight, a small sweet-faced woman.
As the ladies took off their traveling cloaks and bonnets, Lady Camarden said, “You may all resume your duties, there’s no call for everyone to be standing about here in this drafty hall. Mrs. Parmeter, we’ll have tea in the drawing room.”
The entry hall, the dining room, and the marquess’s study were on this, the ground floor; upstairs on what was called the first floor were the drawing room and a grand ballroom. The drawing room was a gracious space, with an intricate Adam ceiling and fireplace surround. The marchioness had furnished the entire town house in the light, elegant Neoclassical style of Thomas Chippendale. At one end of the drawing room double French doors led out onto a balcony overlooking the square. The color scheme for the draperies and furnishings was a pleasing Wedgwood blue and deep rose. The ladies settled themselves comfortably near a hearty fire in plush wingback chairs.
As usual, two footmen served one of Madame Danton’s sumptuous tea creations. “Mirabella, will you pour, please? My fingertips are still frozen.”
“Of course, Mamma.” As she poured and served the tea and seedcake she said, “And so tomorrow we shall call on Lady Castlereagh, Countess Lieven, and Lady Jersey, and Wednesday will be Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, Lady Sefton, and Lady Cowper, correct? How I wish we could visit Emily first, I’m so anxious to see her again.”
“And Emily is…?” Josephine hinted. “You will please recall that I’m hardly on a first-name basis with the patronesses of Almack’s.”
“I beg your pardon, Josephine, it’s rude to name-drop in such a manner, isn’t it?” Mirabella said with good humor. “Emily is Lady Cowper, and a particular friend of mine. She’s very warm and amiable, you’ll like her, too, I’m sure.”
The ladies lingered over tea for an hour, and then the marchioness said, “I find that I’m fatigued after our journey, I think I’ll rest until time to dress for dinner. I’m glad it will just be us and Giles and Lewin this evening. Camarden wanted to have Lord and Lady Liverpool tonight, but I implored him to give me one night to recover before we start tomorrow.”
“Josephine, why don’t we go up, too? I want to show you your bedchamber, I hope you’ll be pleased,” Mirabella said.
“I’m sure I will be,” Josephine answered. And so she was, for it was a lovely room done in cheerful yellow and green, with an elegant French canopy bed, a slender white secretary, two plump recamiers and a thick carpet with an ivy-and-cornflower design. Like all ten bedrooms at the Camarden town house, it had a separate dressing room.
After Josephine expressed her delight, Mirabella settled on one of the recamiers and said, “Did you wish to rest, too, Josephine?”
“No, I’m far too excited,” she answered, settling on the other recamier. “To be honest, I did want to ask you some things, but I didn’t like to, in front of the footmen.”
Mirabella said wryly, “Yes, that’s one of the myriad rules in Town, one always has footmen in attendance in the reception rooms. It would cause quite a scandal to dismiss them.”
Josephine looked puzzled. “But in your own home, if you dismissed them, how would anyone ever know?”
“That’s another of the rules in Town, everyone knows everything about everyone else. Our servants would tell other servants and soon all of Polite Society would know of my calumny in dismissing the footmen.”
“Then you must never commit such a grave sin,” Josephine said, her eyes sparkling. “When I have something delicate to discuss with you, we shall make certain to wait until we’re hiding out here in our bedrooms.”
An oddly pensive look came over Mirabella’s face. “It’s strange you should say that, for I have a rather delicate matter to discuss with you. But no, you first, dearest. Are you truly apprehensive? Not just about the patronesses, I mean, but about the Season?”
“Oh, no, not at all. I promise you that I’m almost giddily happy to be here,” Josephine answered sincerely. “No, what I really meant was that I didn’t like to show my own ignorance in front of the servants. I can’t help but wonder, since I understand that the Lady Patronesses are the arbiters of Who is in Polite Society and Who will not be allowed to join it, aren’t they at the very top of the social ladder? I mean, aren’t they considered to have the most exalted position of all ladies in society?”
Mirabella looked knowing. “Yes, they are, and what you’re really wondering about is why my mother is calling on them first, instead of waiting for them to call on us.”
“Hm, it seems I don’t hide my ignorance very well at all. Yes, I was wondering exactly that.”
“It’s not ignorant, it’s a perfectly logical question. The reason is that morning calls are made according to very strict rules, and believe you me, the patronesses are the most rigorous in demanding observance to protocol. The first rule is that a lady of higher rank must make the first call on other ladies of lower rank, and conversely, no lady of lower rank must ever make the first call on one of her social superiors.”
“Of course,” Josephine said thoughtfully, “I should have known that. With your mother being a marchioness, she outranks everyone else except duchesses. Still, it seems a little odd, since Lady Camarden has been such longtime friends with Lady Castlereagh and Lady Sefton, one would think that friends can call on each other as they wish.”
“Oh, later in the Season the rules get more relaxed. For instance, you know that although we call them morning calls, they’re really made between two and five o’clock in the afternoon, and ladies who are mere acquaintances and not intimate friends would never actually make calls in the m
orning. But close friends often do.”
Josephine nodded. “This makes more sense to me. Not all of the rules do, you know, for instance, why on earth do we call them morning calls when they’re made in the afternoon?”
Mirabella looked nonplussed. “I have no idea. You see, you’re not the only one who’s ignorant.”
“Oh, do be quiet, you’re not ignorant at all. The daughter of a marquess, you were practically born knowing the rules,” Josephine said. “Such as you never have to worry about the depth and supplication of your curtsy, all you have to do is bob politely to everyone but dukes and duchesses and the royal family. I realized when I was practicing mine in front of the mirror that it was ridiculous anyway. I’ll be expected to virtually kneel to all and sundry.”
“Silly girl, you do a most elegant and charming curtsy,” Mirabella said affectionately. “And don’t be too impressed with my rank. There are some who aren’t. In fact, my grandfather was one of them. He said that a marquess was a Frenchy jumped-up sort of title they gave you when they didn’t want to make you a duke.”
Josephine giggled. “But he did still take it, I see.”
“So he did. Anyway, to continue this stimulating conversation about curtsies, you’ll find that I don’t do the same polite bob to everyone. There are certain shades of politeness that concern a person’s lineage, their age, their status in society. For instance, I curtsy quite subserviently to Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, even though she’s not married to a peer, although he will be one day. It’s mainly because she is a patroness, and she’s so haughty that she fully expects it.”
“Yes, you’ve told me that she’s the most straitlaced and icy of the patronesses. What about the others? Tell me all about them.”
Mirabella’s dimples flashed. “All the juiciest gossip, you mean?”
“Of course. After all, you yourself said it’s a rule in Town, yes? Everyone knows everything about everyone else. Now I’m one of the everyones.”
