“Who? The family? I am afraid so. When they are all together it is quite...” He paused, searching for the right word.
“Overwhelming,” she answered, sitting down on a nearby bench.
“You must tell them. They can certainly come it too strong, if you will forgive the expression. Lady Ashbury likes everything to be extravagant and grandiose.”
“I had noticed. I could not dissuade her from buying another bonnet and two more pairs of gloves today, though she had purchased me over a dozen in London. On the other hand, however, I do not wish to offend my new family.”
“That is understandable.”
“What is this Season they and your sister speak of?”
“It is, somewhat unkindly, known as the Marriage Mart—amongst bachelors anyway.”
“So, I am to be taken there and somebody will choose me as a wife.” It was not a question.
“It is wrapped up in a prettier package than that, but essentially, yes. There will be dinners and balls and parties, as well as the theatre and rides in the park; it is a few weeks of madcap courting.”
“It sounds horrid.”
“Many people live for the Season. Maili has been dreaming of it since she knew what it was.”
“But she has been raised for it. I have not.”
“You must not feel as if you are being forced into anything. Do not allow it. Your family wants you to have the best of everything and this is their way of showing it.” If she only knew how he ached inside to have to say these things when he longed to have her for his own.
“Extravagance. What an interesting perspective. I confess, I had not thought of it in such a way, but perhaps you are correct. I will try to remember it. Will you be part of this Season?”
“I will attend a few things. Of course, I will put in an appearance at anything our family hosts, which I expect to be often this Season with you and Maili there.”
“Are there truly several events every single night?”
“Yes, truly.”
She sighed and he could hear the resignation in her voice.
“Will you promise me one thing?”
“Of course,” she said looking up at him with innocent eyes.
“Send word to me if you need anything.”
“But how?”
“Leave a note with Childers. He will make sure I receive it.”
“Childers? The butler?”
“I took care of him while he was recuperating after the war. He will be discreet,” Seamus explained.
“Why must we be discreet, as you say? You are part of the family.”
“I am still only an adopted son. I am tolerated as long as I am perceived to be harmless. I am a bachelor and you are a maiden, so we may not be seen around town alone together again. It would ruin you.”
“But we have been seen, non?”
“I think your father plans to dismiss it as cousinly friendliness, even naïveté. Now it would be best if you are not in my company, without a chaperone, in Town.”
“I do not think I will enjoy the Season. But it is my father and Beaujolais’ wish.”
“You will be a success, no doubt.” He hoped he was remaining impartial on the outside, at least.
“But will I be happy?” she asked, looking skyward.
“I hope so. I would advise you to keep Society in perspective. It can be a very fickle thing, I hear. However, having a duke for a father and Ashbury for a grandpère will help tremendously.”
“I expect so. I think it may be a mixed blessing,” she answered in a considering tone—wisely, he thought.
Chapter 15
You are doing quite well. You are a natural horsewoman,” Yardley said as he led her on a golden pony in a circle.
“False flattery!” Christelle had released her death grip on the reins at the very least. “Who knows, by this time next year I might graduate beyond the paddock.”
He made a deep, hearty, rumbling sound. “Nonsense. I will have you on a blood mare by this time next week, when we arrive in London.”
“So soon?” When she had arrived at Yardley, they had discussed staying on in the country for some time.
“The ladies think it is necessary to quell any possible rumours before they begin. People do tend to rusticate in the country when they have something to hide.”
“I am perfectly happy to rusticate,” she muttered.
“We will again, in time,” he reassured her. “However, we must go with the social whirl until the fuss dies down.”
“Fuss is not a good word in my book.”
“Nor in mine, but it must be done, and the longer we put it off, the worse it will be.”
He put his fingers to his lips and let out a loud whistle.
A beautiful black stallion came prancing out from the stables, stopped and looked expectantly at her father. He began to lead her pony by the bridle and handed it into the charge of a groom. Christelle had fully expected one of the grooms could teach her to ride as well as the Duke, but he had insisted on doing all of it himself. She was grateful for the time with him.
“Are we finished?”
“With the paddock.” His voice indicated there was something more.
Another groom led out a white horse, who looked as if she were toying with the black stallion. Christelle had a sinking feeling that he expected her to ride one of these beasts.
He helped her down from the pony and then led her to the white mare. “This is Dido. And that is Hector.”
“I am not ready, Papa,” she protested as he took her hand and put it up to greet the horse.
“No one who is wise ever thinks they are ready the first time. But there must be a first time. You are quite ready. You will find no better trained horses than these. Dido knows the way and she will follow alongside Hector. You must trust me.”
How could she refute such an ultimatum? “Very well.” She took a deep breath and was hoisted atop the horse.
He mounted Hector and began to lead them out.
“Relax,” he instructed. “Horses can sense you are nervous. The worst thing you can do is be frightened.”
“How can I help how I feel? I am terrified!” She was afraid she had shouted.
He laughed at her. “That's the spirit. I was beginning to wonder if I had a clandestine affair in my past I did not remember. I could not imagine Lillian and I had produced a passive daughter.”
“That is unkind, Papa.”
“My apologies. But you must admit you have been very quiet.”
“Who has a moment to speak here? I prefer to speak when I may be heard.”
“You are wise beyond your years, my dear. If you are not careful, you will dispel all of the myths about young girls at their come outs. You might find yourself hooking some hard to catch fish on your line.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“It is unfashionable to have too much wit or wisdom at your age. The ton prefers its young ladies to be guileless and innocent.”
“You are jesting, surely.”
“I am afraid not. However, what they do not realize is the more intelligent men do not always agree. Certainly the rogues do not, but they stay away from the new crop.”
“What a strange country this is.”
“Do you see? You have walked Dido across the meadow with no harm.”
By Jove, she had. She had not even realized. “You distracted me.”
“Only to prove a point. When you are calm and in command, the horse will do as it is trained to do. Never panic on a horse. Always be firm. Now, shall we attempt a canter back to the stables?”
“I suppose we may if you insist.”
“There is nothing to fear. I can stop her if you lose control.”
She met his eyes and knew he told the truth. Trust him. She closed her eyes and nodded.
“That's my girl. Now click your tongue and release the reins a little.”
She did as he said and held her breath while her mind was instructing her to relax
.
“Now a nudge with your leg or your whip. Excellent.”
The horse picked up its momentum and she felt for the first time the exhilaration of speed. Christelle felt free and giddy until she considered she would have to stop. She made the mistake of looking at the wooden railing ahead.
She should not have worried. When they approached the fence the horse naturally slowed, even before she remembered she was supposed to pull on the bit.
She looked over at her father as she finally dared to take a breath. He was beaming proudly at her.
“You have an excellent seat. And I do not say that because I took part in creating it.”
“Thank you, Papa.” She cast him a wry grin.
“Excellent, Christelle!” Beaujolais called as she came towards the stables. “You may be ready yet for Hyde Park this Season,” she exclaimed.
“I think so, too. Of course, Dido is an excellent horse for your first canter,” Yardley said with a smile.
“She is.” Beaujolais rubbed the horse’s forehead and neck affectionately. “Are you ready to go, girl?”
Dido nickered at her owner in acknowledgement.
Yardley assisted Christelle to dismount from the horse and then boosted Beaujolais into the saddle. Every afternoon they went out on a ride together, it seemed.
“The others are waiting for you in the saloon,” Beaujolais said to Christelle. “Remember I told you Monsieur St. Pierre has been engaged to ensure Maili is ready for the London ballroom? He has arrived, so why do you not join them?”
Christelle had discussed this with Lady Ashbury, but they had decided they could never be too prepared. The French took dancing very seriously—it was an art, an expression. Christelle knew the steps to these dances in her dreams.
Seamus had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he donned his breeches and top boots for the journey home. He could not say why, but he felt as if he was leaving the Christelle he cared for behind. It was a melodramatic sentiment, of course. He would see her at family gatherings. Yet at those gatherings she would very likely be the centre of attention or, before long, bear someone else's name. It was the first time he had ever wished he had wealth and a title, and he hated the fact that he had the thought.
He looked back over the room. His few belongings were already packed. He made his way down the stairs to say his goodbyes.
He heard the strains of the piano echoing through the house and moved towards the sound.
“Magnifique, mademoiselle!” he heard a heavily accented French voice say.
“Where did you learn to dance like that?” Maili asked Christelle. Approaching the ballroom, Seamus watched them from the doorway.
“It is the way they teach it in Paris. Lose yourself in the music,” Christelle said.
“I think losing herself in the music is the problem,” Lady Ashbury said.
“She is very free spirited, this one. Let us try the waltz. But remember, you must receive the permission before dancing it in London,” Monsieur instructed.
Lady Ashbury began to play the notes to the Viennese waltz, and the dancing master took Maili in hand as Christelle stood by to watch.
Seamus could not very well interrupt at this moment. He was in his riding boots. Nonetheless, he could not miss this opportunity. He strode quietly to Christelle and held out his hand.
“Madamoiselle Christelle, may I have this dance?”
Her eyes brightened and she looked up at him with a radiant smile.
“Oui, je serais enchanté.”
It was all he needed to hear before he swept her into the timing of the dance.
Seamus had learned to dance, being a part of the Ashbury family. They did love their music and dancing. This was perhaps the first time he was grateful for it.
He tried to memorize everything about Christelle, knowing it may be the last time he would have the freedom to do so. Even if he were fortunate enough to secure a dance with her in London, it would be under the watchful eyes of Society.
Her dainty hands seared his palm with fire. His hand encircled her waist, and it took a great deal of restraint not to pull her in closer. He closed his eyes and allowed his senses to capture the moment; to inhale her scent of jasmine, but not for too long. He wanted to see her.
Seamus looked down and found those golden eyes were watching him just as intently. The couple continued to float through the air as they stepped and twirled. There was nothing and no one else in the room but them.
If only time could stand still.
When the music drew to a close and they stopped, it was a few moments before he could draw his eyes from hers. They looked up to see the others staring at them in dismay—or what he perceived to be dismay. Had he lost himself to all propriety? He would not trust himself in Town with her.
Monsieur St. Pierre wiped a tear away and began to clap. “Si beau! Parfait!”
Lady Ashbury sat quietly, and Maili looked astonished.
“I came to say my farewells. I must return to Town.”
“So soon?” Christelle asked with a slight frown.
“I will see you in London. Remember what I told you,” he said quietly.
“Oui,” she whispered. “I will not forget.”
He received an exuberant hug from his sister and walked to the pianoforte to kiss Lady Ashbury’s hand.
“Be careful,” she warned. She gave him a look that held pity, and he suspected her words were less to do with his journey than his feelings for Christelle.
He bid the rest of the party adieu, and set out on his trusty steed, feeling very much as though he had just left happiness behind.
Chapter 16
Christelle was returning to London, but this time she was as far from being the pauper she had been just a few weeks ago as it was possible to be. It was difficult to believe. Her new family was kindness itself, but she still felt she was a foreigner. As they passed through the streets towards the luxurious realm of Mayfair, she realized her future was still as unknown as the day the stagecoach had left her on the steps of The White Bear. At least she would not be facing that future alone—although it would be just as frightening—but with her father by her side.
She refused to dwell on what she had missed and instead live for each day. However, she still did not find it comfortable to be amongst a large, ebullient clan.
Even now, her time was not her own. Her days were filled before the Season had begun, it seemed. There was to be a grand ball in her honour to open the Season, which in itself was enough to make her ill. Afterwards, there were morning calls, Venetian breakfasts, dances at Almack’s, balls, the theatre, Vauxhall, and rides in the park to look forward to, she was frequently told. But first, there would be more fittings with Madame Monique. The modiste normally made private calls for fittings for someone so grand, but Christelle wanted to visit and see all her fellow seamstresses again.
The Duchess had decided it would be simplest for Maili, along with Lord and Lady Craig, to stay together at Yardley Court for the Season. The girls would be attending the same functions, and could therefore be chaperoned together.
Christelle was happy to finally reach her apartments, which had quickly become a refuge. The coverlet and draperies were a soft rose hue, and a pale green paper with tiny roses covered the wall. She lay flat, staring up at the floral pattern in the canopy and wondering why she could not be more like her cousin. She adored Maili, but was exhausted by her exuberance. Why could they not share that?
She rested in blissful peace for a while before a maid came to inform her the carriage was waiting to convey her to the modiste.
Lady Craig was to accompany them to help Maili with her choices, and Christelle had even drawn up some sketches she thought would flatter her cousin.
It was comforting to alight in front of the shop, and hear the familiar ringing of the bell when the door opened. Madame immediately came into the salon and curtseyed deferentially to them.
“Bonjour, Madame,” Christelle sa
id familiarly. “I assume you know Lady Craig? This is my cousin, Miss Maili Craig. She would like to have some gowns made as well.”
“Oui, of course. There are pattern books here for your perusal. These are the more appropriate for a young lady making her come out.” Madame directed them to one book in particular. “I will bring some fabrics I think would complement your colouring.” Maili and Lady Craig went to peruse the sketches and Christelle looked expectantly at Madame. “May I please see the girls? Am I not to have fittings?”
Madame opened her mouth as if to protest but reluctantly nodded her head. She went through into the workroom. A few of the girls looked up at her and smiled, but most kept their eyes on their work.
Christelle sought out Noelle and Lorena, but they did not look at her. No matter how long she considered them, they would not meet her gaze. She was not comfortable speaking out to them in front of everyone.
“Perhaps it would be best if we did the fittings at Yardley Court after all,” Madame said quietly.
Christelle nodded and turned back to the salon before she became upset. Why would they not look at her? It hurt deep inside to discover their friendship was not real. Could Madame have warned them away? It made no sense.
“I have some sketches for my cousin,” Christelle remarked as they perused Maili’s choices. She took them from the leather satchel she had brought them in. She was too sad to be excited for Maili, and she felt horrid about it. Yet, she could not put aside the knowledge that the two people she had been closest to—had shared a room with—would not even look at her. True, it had only been for a short time, but could they not be even a little bit happy for her?
Would Society be any less fickle? She doubted it. She had already seen the evidence before her own eyes of how people pandered to the wealthy and titled.
“Naturellement, those colours that are best for you a young mademoiselle cannot wear. Black and darker colours must not be done. We must try the cream, silver, lighter greens and such.”
“But I will look washed out!” Maili protested.
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