Halted by another snarl, they stopped side by side. Jo, clutching the window frame, stared directly into the coach and met a gentleman’s dark appraising eyes. His mouth quirked up, and he removed his tall beaver hat, revealing jet-black hair. “Good day,” he said through the open window.
She suspected she’d turned scarlet at the amusement in his eyes. “Good day to you, sir,” she said crisply.
“Who are you talking to, Jo?” Her father craned his neck to see around her. But the coachman had cracked the whip over the magnificent gray horses and moved the coach on.
Jo’s pulse thudded as she gazed after the disappearing coach. “A polite gentleman, Papa.”
“Life here is not the same as the country. You must never talk to strange gentlemen in London, Jo,” Aunt Mary said, having revived a little at the prospect of the journey’s end. “While I was in London as a girl, we couldn’t put a foot out the door without the footman.”
“Surely times have changed, Aunt Mary,” Jo said. She wasn’t used to being confined.
Mayfair was different from the parts of the city they’d passed through. Trees lined the clean streets, and some of the houses had gardens. The townhouse her father had leased was one of a row of narrow-fronted ornate brick houses in Upper Brook Street, three-stories plus attic rooms, with fancy ironwork in front. Lord Pleasance, the owner, was traveling on the Continent. His servants came with the house.
Once their carriage had pulled up outside the townhouse, two tall, handsome footmen rushed out. One put down the steps to assist them down, while the other removed their baggage.
Jo joined Aunt Mary and her father to farewell Fred before he drove off to Covent Garden, then they climbed the steps to the glossy black front door, which had an arched window over the top.
A gray-haired butler in black garb waited at the door. He introduced himself as Mr. Spears. Sober faced, he escorted them into the entry where they shed pelisses and hats into the arms of a maid.
Aunt Mary considered it proper to meet the staff, so she and Jo descended below stairs to the servants’ quarters to introduce themselves to the cook and the housekeeper. Her aunt was keen to discuss the menus and was quite put out to discover Mrs. Cross, the housekeeper and cook, had the menus for the next week already decided upon. Jo suspected the house ran like clockwork.
Jo’s bedchamber was furnished in rose pink and cream floral wallpaper. Sally, the maid who was to attend her, opened the trunk and took out the primrose muslin. Jo cringed to have her few things revealed to the servant’s gaze. “I am to have a whole new wardrobe made for the Season.”
Sally nodded, her fresh face kind. “There’s a bowl of hot water on the dresser, Miss Dalrymple. I’ll assist you to change, and shall I tidy your hair?”
Jo put a hand to where hair was escaping the pins and sighed. She must get her hair cut. “Thank you, Sally.”
They ate in the dining room at a long table covered in white linen beneath an unlit chandelier. Everything sparkled in the candlelight cast by a pair of silver candelabrum. The footmen served the courses while the butler, Spears, with great aplomb, poured wine from the cellar he’d decanted into crystal glasses. Jo’s father added water to Jo’s. After the dessert course, which was a delicious syllabub and fruit, her father sat back with a hand on his stomach and instructed Spears to compliment the cook. The butler inclined his head but didn’t deem to reply while he poured a glass of port. The man looked down his long nose at her father. Annoyed, Jo held her tongue.
Despite the noisy street below her window, which was so different from the quiet countryside, Jo slept soundly. The next morning after breakfast, while they sat in the parlor making plans for the day, the butler entered carrying a visiting card on a silver salver.
He showed in Mrs. Millet, an attractive, fair-haired woman in her mid-forties, dressed in what Jo considered must be the height of fashion, a spring-green dress and a white straw bonnet trimmed with plaid ribbon and silk flowers. She shook their hands in her gloved one. “How do you do? I trust your journey was satisfactory?”
Jo’s father rushed to assure her it was. As he assisted her into a chair, describing their excellent accommodation on the road, Jo covertly studied the woman her father had hired to ease their way in society. She disliked that they must rely on anyone but accepted the necessity for it. The ways of London society were new to them, and she fretted about how well they would be received.
Mrs. Millet’s carefully modulated tones lacked warmth, and her smile failed to reach her eyes. Jo supposed she was accustomed to the easy familiarity of country folk, but the lady had exquisite manners.
A maid brought in the tea tray while Mrs. Millet explained how best to begin. It was clear she knew the ins and outs of Society. She explained how Jo must deport herself at a ball and other affairs, discussed her wardrobe and the dressmaker she had engaged to make her clothes, then departed with the promise of securing several invitations from those who agreed to receive them.
They were not top drawer, and could not expect to have an intro everywhere, Mrs. Millet explained at the door with a soothing smile. Whilst Jo considered it unnecessary for her to remind them, there was no getting around it. They were shopkeepers from the country, despite her father’s newfound prosperity and her generous dowry.
After the door closed on Mrs. Millet, Jo gave a mental shrug. She wasn’t silly enough to set her cap so high as to wish to marry a duke or any titled gentleman. She wanted a man she could love and admire, who accepted her father. Surely, attending all the social engagements Mrs. Millet had mentioned, balls, soirees, breakfasts, and picnics, Jo would meet the man of her dreams and find friends among the other debutantes.
A whisky in his hand, Gareth, Lord Reade, stretched out his legs before the Cartwright’s library fire. “It’s good to be back in London.”
His good friend and colleague, Brandon, strolled over with the crystal decanter to top up Reade’s glass. “Your journey didn’t go well?”
“Much as I anticipated.” He thought of his lonely rambles along the shore, watching the gulls soar over the cold gray waters. “Improvements are continuing at the house.”
“Just how bad did your father leave it?”
“He scarcely noticed the decay for some years. Lost heart, I suppose. I never really knew him. As you know, I found him dead in his chair with several empty brandy bottles beside him. Seeking Lethe, perhaps. He’d been reading Hesiod’s Theogony.”
Brandon sat in the leather armchair opposite. “We don’t always know what demons a man must deal with.”
“He never got over my mother and brother’s death. Bart was his favorite son, and as his heir, he always spent more time with him. Riding about the estate. He took great interest in it in those days.”
“Still, you were his heir. He should have done the same for you.”
“But he never did. That can’t have been a comfortable thing for him to take with him to Hades.”
“No, indeed.”
“I was at fault, too, I suppose. Once I joined the army, I didn’t see much of him. I feel some pity for him now.” Reade shrugged off the melancholy that had settled over him and grinned at his friend. “Let’s choose a more attractive topic of conversation. I spied the most delightful young woman as I entered the city this afternoon.”
“Oh? A shop girl or a prostitute on a street corner?”
“Au contraire. This girl wore gloves and a fetching bonnet. She was traveling in a deplorable vehicle with her family. A fresh-faced angel, Cartwright, with a mouth to make a man dream.”
Brandon chuckled. “Good to see you’re regaining your equilibrium.”
Chapter Two
Jo’s first ball was held the following Saturday, and to distract herself from the butterflies in her stomach, she thought about Mrs. Millet. How had she arranged the invitations so quickly? Wouldn’t they have to be sent weeks prior to the event? The fluttering increased, and she felt slightly sick.
The dressmaker in Picca
dilly Mrs. Millet recommended, fitted Jo for several outfits. Madame Moreau ran a large establishment and knew her business, but Jo found her as snooty as their butler and not nearly as endearing as Mrs. Laverty in Marlborough. As no dresses would be ready until the following week, Jo was thankful to have the ballgown Mrs. Laverty had made for her.
They’d had little chance to see London. She and Aunt Mary made some hurried purchases in the shops near the dressmaker’s rooms. Jo purchased a blue satin hat with a soft white feather, and a painted fan made of ivory sticks with a silk tassel. She chose a silk shawl as a gift for Mrs. Laverty.
The shop fronts displayed exotic wares. It was noisy and exciting, with bustling pedestrians, the shoppers strolling the pavements while vehicles crammed the roads. She could have stayed for hours looking into shop windows, but Aunt Mary complained of sore feet, so Jo hailed a hackney, and they went home.
On the evening of the ball, Sally helped Jo dress and arranged her hair as best she could. Disappointed, Jo stood before the Cheval mirror to study the effect. The color of the ballgown suited her, but the fussy style didn’t. Even her mother’s pearl necklace failed to improve it.
“It makes me look a bit…lumpy,” Jo said in despair.
“I think it’s pretty, Miss Jo.” Sally was fresh from the country with no more idea of the ways of Society than Jo, but she was eager to learn and friendly, which Jo appreciated.
Jo gave the blonde maid an encouraging smile. “We shall learn together, Sally.” She shrugged. “I’m afraid I have no recourse but to wear it.” She gathered up her shawl, reticule, and fan and went down to join her father, determined to enjoy her first ball even if she sat out every dance for the entire evening.
Her father smiled as she entered the parlor. “You look beautiful, Jo.”
Aunt Mary, beside him in purple and black lace, warmly agreed.
Mrs. Millet was there to greet them in the hall of the Rivenstock’s townhouse in Westminster. She introduced them to their host and hostess. Lord Rivenstock, his crimson waistcoat straining over an enormous stomach, rudely viewed Jo from head to toe through his quizzing glass on its black velvet ribbon. His wife merely nodded before turning to welcome the other guests. Jo’s face felt stiff, and her smile wavered.
They entered the ballroom, gaily festooned with lanterns, and decorated with vases of flowers on every table. Jo wondered again why the Rivenstocks had issued them an invitation. Were they paid? Or might they owe Mrs. Millet a favor?
Jo refused to let such concerns spoil her first ball, her attention captured by the smoky ballroom crammed with noisy guests dressed in glorious finery. A footman took them to their chairs, and a handsome young footman approached with a tray of champagne and lemonade. When Jo’s hand hovered over the glass, the footman cleared his throat.
She glanced up at him, then remembered Mrs. Millet’s advice. Young ladies did not drink champagne. The footman angled the tray to bring the lemonade closer. Jo gave him a smile and took it, and was glad of it, for the ballroom, a series of rooms opened to form one long space, was stuffy and overheated. The overly perfumed guests mingled on the edge of the dance floor and barely glanced their way. They might have been part of the wallpaper, which was a bilious green decorated with gold ribbons and bows.
An hour passed, and another set ended. The young footman reappeared. He raised his eyebrows when she took a glass of champagne. He smiled at Jo’s shrug and moved away. Jo had a glass of Madeira once and hadn’t much cared for it, but the champagne was infinitely better. After she’d finished the glass, her nervousness eased.
At the announcement of a quadrille, people left their seats and crossed the floor with their partners. Her father had engaged a Frenchman, Monsieur Forage, to teach Jo the dance steps. While she had danced at assemblies, her partners could not be compared to the elegant gentlemen here.
When the orchestra on the dais struck up, she tried not to wriggle her toes, longing to join the dancers on the floor. But no gentleman asked her. Growing despondent, Jo watched the dancers going through the steps. The young ladies were in white or the palest pastels. Aware of how wrong she looked, Jo sat, her back as stiff as a poker, while Aunt Mary talked with Mrs. Millet.
Her father had become friendly with a couple who hailed from Wiltshire. He regaled them with how Jo had been delightfully plump and freckled as a child and excelled at the lute. “She has her mother’s gift, she sings like an angel,” she heard him say. Jo cringed and wanted to cover her ears. Hot with embarrassment, she swished her fan before her face, praying for a gentleman to rescue her.
No one did. She sat, her chest tight with distress, watching the dance until its conclusion, and then the couples promenading from the floor.
Two debutantes sashayed past Jo. They glanced at her and giggled behind their fans. Their dresses of white muslin embroidered with tiny flowers and trimmed with ribbons, were exactly like the illustration Jo found. Jo wistfully admired them. They were like dainty blossoms, from their elegant heads to their satin slippers.
She placed a hand over the saucer-shaped green silk camellia above her navel. She dropped her gaze, unsure where to look, fearing everyone in the ballroom laughed at her. How totally lacking in style, she was. How could she be so gauche? So foolish?
She sat out the country dance, which seemed interminable. During the break, two women walked past her, casting her curious glances.
“Who is she?” the lady in puce asked the woman beside her.
“No idea. They come from far and wide to the Rivenstocks’ balls and pay for the privilege,” the other lady said.
So, it was true! Mrs. Millet had paid the Rivenstocks to invite them!
As the women strolled away, Jo heard the lady in puce ask her friend, “Where on earth did she get that dress?” Jo sat rigid in her seat, fearing her father overheard. Fortunately, he was now talking about his shop.
When she couldn’t bear it another minute, Jo excused herself and went in search of the ladies’ retiring room. She hurried inside, relieved to find no attendant and no one behind the screen provided for a lady’s modesty.
Jo flopped down onto the settee, but a moment later, the door opened, and a young lady in rose-pink brocade entered, her dark brown hair styled elegantly to display a long, graceful neck. Diamonds sparkled in her ears and adorned her throat and wrist.
Crushed, Jo rose to tidy herself before the mirror. She frowned at her image. Her heavy dark red locks defied any attempt to tame them and were escaping the pins, the arrangement in imminent danger of collapse.
The lady smiled at Jo’s reflection. “Your first ball?”
Jo sighed. “Is it so obvious?”
Her smile widened. “Mrs. Letitia Cartwright. How do you do?”
“Miss Joanna Dalrymple, and not very well, I’m afraid. My hair is beyond help, and I hate my dress. I should ask my father to take me home.” She gathered up her shawl and reticule from a chair and turned to leave the room.
Letitia put a hand on her arm. “Please stay a moment. Might we talk? I gather you are new to London?”
Jo feared another snub. “Yes, we arrived a week ago from Wiltshire.”
“It takes a while to accustom oneself to how we do things here. It’s all a mystery at first, especially the rules and dictums of Society. I found it challenging myself at first.”
Jo raised her eyebrows. “You did?” She could not believe this elegant lady could suffer such humiliation.
“I came from Cumbria. My first Season in London was awkward and then…well, most unusual. But that’s a story for another time.”
Letitia didn’t seem much older than Jo herself. “Did you meet your husband during the Season?”
Laughter warmed her brown eyes. “I did, yes.”
“I shan’t be so fortunate. Not tonight, at least.” Jo pulled a face and turned away from her image. “My dress is all wrong, Mrs. Cartwright.”
“Please call me Letty.”
“Letty. I’m Jo,” she said shyly
.
“I had a similar experience, Jo. In fact, it was that which drew me to you.”
“Oh?” Jo studied Letty’s beautiful ballgown in disbelief.
“My aunt had antiquated ideas about dress. You are far more fortunate than I was. My gown featured a large double ruffle around the neck, which one might find on a lizard.”
“Oh, no!” Jo giggled.
Letty grinned. “The style of your gown is fashionable, but the flowers detract from the overall picture, don’t you think?”
“I wanted rosebuds,” Jo admitted.
She nodded sympathetically. “Let me see what I can do.” She studied the gown, from the largest flower on the skirt to the smallest decorating the short sleeves, and those rioting around the bottom.
Her face burning, Jo stood in silence while Letty considered it. How mortifying. She would love to go home, but how could she disappoint her father and Aunt Mary? It was insupportable.
“We can improve it,” Letty said finally.
“How?” Jo couldn’t help being hopeful. Letty seemed confident.
“With these.” Letty opened her reticule and took out a pair of scissors. “Let’s remove some of those flowers.”
“Oh… do you think we should?” Jo’s eyes widened in the mirror. What if Letty cut a hole in her dress?
“I do.” Letty took hold of the flower positioned near Jo’s navel and cut the threads holding it in place. The camellia came away in her hand.
Jo turned to the mirror. Her gown was better without it.
She tried not to tremble as Letty snipped away. More flowers fell to the floor. She kneeled to remove some of those crowding the hem, then straightened and made Jo turn around. “I like the sleeves, they’re pretty, we shall leave them,” Letty decided as she viewed her handiwork. “The gown is quite elegant now, don’t you think so?”
“Yes. I do,” Jo said cautiously, moving closer to the mirror. There were no holes in the fabric, and the change was miraculous.
Introducing Miss Joanna (Once a Wallflower Book 2) Page 2
