“Nonsense. Not in a Monique gown. Your cousin, she has made several patterns which will suit you very well indeed. A nice design and fit draws attention to you, not the fabric. Non?”
Margaux nodded to Maili. Christelle remained quiet. She had done her part.
“Very well. I shall have these made up and send word when they are ready for fittings.”
“Merci, Madame,” Christelle said, trying to mask her sadness. Madame gave her a sympathetic look and walked her to the door.
“They do not know what to think, chérie. And are perhaps a little jealous. When they understand you are the same in here,” she pointed to her chest, “they will do better.”
They had seen the true her, and nothing had changed. If they could not remain her friends now and be happy for her, she had little hope for future relationships when people only knew her as Yardley's daughter.
If only it were as simple as asking Joseph to send for Dr. Craig and have him sort it all out for her. Yet here she sat in the carriage with his family, feeling the distance widen between them.
“Will all of the dresses be finished in time?” Maili asked.
“They work seven days a week to make certain,” Christelle answered.
“Seven?”
“Each girl has an afternoon off a week.”
“I did not realize. Are they paid well? I suppose it is gauche to ask,” Maili said with dismay.
“I imagine one ball gown is more than a year’s wages for them.” Lady Craig looked at Christelle.
“Oui. But Madame does treat them well.”
“A small consolation. I may not enjoy the gowns as much.” Maili frowned.
“They are necessary, Maili. It provides them with work,” Margaux explained.
“I did not begrudge the patrons while I was there,” Christelle said with a smile.
Maili had a furrowed brow and did not appear to be convinced.
“Where does Seamus live?” she asked after they had passed the shops in Bond Street.
“I believe in St. James’s,” Lady Craig replied.
“May we drive by?”
“I do not see why not. We can also drive by Charing Cross Hospital, which is not far.” Margaux opened the hatch to redirect the driver.
“I hope he will come to dinner soon. I do wish he could stay with us during the Season,” Maili remarked.
Christelle's heart lurched at the thought.
“He would be welcome, of course,” Lady Craig said. “Perhaps, if Jolie asked, he might consider doing so. Seamus is not the typical bachelor who finds it necessary to keep separate quarters.”
No, he is not, Christelle thought fondly to herself. As they passed his apartments, she realized just how much she had missed him, though it had only been ten days since she had waltzed with him.
The days were longer, the air was warmer, and the daffodils were blooming all over the park. People were lingering outside longer, and the ton was beginning to descend on Town for the Season, Seamus noticed as he walked towards White’s to answer yet another summons from his family. Spring had sprung at last.
The inside of the club was crowded, much more so than the last time he had visited. The odour of cigar and aristocrat was mixed with the gentle drone of conversation. He found Lord Ashbury along with His Grace, the Duke of Yardley, Lord Harris and his father, Lord Craig. A formidable group they were, all together. They smiled at his approach and stood up to greet him.
Lord Ashbury waved his finger to request a drink for Seamus and indicated a vacant chair next to him for Seamus to sit down on.
“If only Charles were here,” Lord Ashbury mused, “then we would be complete.”
“Will they be arriving soon?” Lord Harris asked.
“It depends on the babe,” Ashbury replied. “They have not yet decided. Sarah will not leave him in the country and he is still suffering from the colic.”
Seamus almost laughed at these men who groaned in sympathy. If anyone had told him of this scenario a decade ago, he would have thought them candidates for Bedlam. He was mildly envious of these men and their families, however—if not of the colic.
The waiter placed a glass of brandy in front of him. He swirled the glass and took in the sweet fruity notes of the amber liquid before swallowing a relaxing sip of heat. Yardley discussed the available stock at Tattersall’s, and Harris told them the results of the prize-fight between Jem Ward and some unknown challenger. Then, at last, they came to the point.
“We have a reason for asking you here, my son, other than your company, of course,” Gavin said.
Seamus raised an enquiring brow.
“I dare say it is my turn to talk,” Yardley put in, setting down his glass and clearing his throat. Seamus wondered if he should be concerned. He waited for the Duke to speak.
“It would appear the ladies of the family have put their heads together and decided they would prefer it if you stayed at Yardley Court for the Season.”
Seamus stared silently, waiting for the hammer to fall. But it didn’t.
“It will not increase your distance from the hospital, and your mother and I would dearly love to have the time with you while we are here,” Gavin explained.
“It would not require you to give up your bachelorhood,” Yardley said with a smirk.
“Though they do expect you to come the pretty with your sister and cousin,” Harris added frankly.
“If it is too great an imposition, I am certain we can break it to them gently,” Lord Ashbury said.
“I confess, I was expecting something serious with all of you here, as if I had been at fault somehow.”
“So you will do it?”
“I do not have a good reason not to.” Although the moment Seamus uttered the words, he realized Christelle would be there all the while. Selfishly, he was delighted and realistically, he was heartbroken.
“That is a relief,” Yardley said, visibly relaxing. “We thought we might have to take you to a back alley in order to convince you.”
“Oh, be sure to act surprised when they ask you,” Ashbury reminded.
“I know Margaux and Beaujolais will be relieved to have help in chaperoning the girls.
Neither one of them is up to long nights in their condition.”
“Anjou is not, either,” Harris confessed. “It is a good thing you agreed.”
“She is in a delicate condition as well?” Ashbury asked. “I am both delighted and terrified,” he said with a huge grin. He held up his glass to congratulate Lord Harris.
“To my twelfth grandchild.”
“Hear, hear.” They all raised their glasses.
“Seamus, tell us of your prospects. Will you also be looking to settle down this Season? Or did I imagine overhearing that?” Yardley asked as he finished the last sip of his drink and set the glass down.
Seamus swallowed hard. “I would not be opposed to it, sir.”
He would swear Harris was laughing at him. The big seaman's shoulders were shaking, he was convinced.
“Your grandmère will have her hands full this Season, I can see.” Ashbury chuckled.
“Indeed, if you find someone of interest, I will be happy to make introductions,” Yardley offered with an amused look.
“You are too kind,” Seamus retorted to the laughter of the men.
“I still intend to do something for you, like it or not,” Yardley insisted.
“I assure you, it is not necessary.”
“You know, my son, there is always the unentailed estate near Edinburgh. You are verra welcome to it. I know the university would welcome you if you wanted to continue with Medicine, although the estate would more than adequately provide a gentleman’s living.”
“Thank you, but I still enjoy Medicine as I know you do. I have been more than busy since a certain grandfather put the word out.”
“I cannot think what you mean,” Ashbury said, his cheeks taking on a slight pink hue.
“I suppose we had best return for d
inner. We are charged with bringing you with us, Seamus.”
“It requires all four of you?” He eyed them sceptically.
“I suppose we cannot avoid returning to the house for the entire Season,” Ashbury confessed sheepishly.
“No,” Yardley agreed. “But we can stay far away from the callers and modistes!”
“Harris, stop looking smug over there. You will have your chance,” Gavin warned.
“There is no smugness behind this grin, I assure you. However, I have no doubt my boys will be the Terrors of London when their time comes.”
“I would rather that than daughters. On the Marriage Mart, anyway,” Ashbury added. “I never thought I would marry off my girls.” He gave them all a half-sympathetic, half-devilish look before leading the way out.
Chapter 17
Whirl was an understatement. In fact, it was a massively inaccurate description for complete and utter chaos. The house had been at sixes and sevens for several days, now. Christelle felt a mere spectator, as if she had been watching things happen to her and around her, rather than participating.
Three enceinte Ashbury sisters, along with their mother, were a force to be reckoned with—or not to reckon with, as Christelle preferred. She stayed out of the way.
Flowers made Margaux cry; Anjou ran from the room looking green several times each day, and Beaujolais changed her mind as often about menus and music. The nursery was relative calm in comparison.
Occasionally, Maili would dive into the foray, but she could laugh about all of it with anticipatory excitement.
The one thing Christelle did look forward to was having Seamus here. He would be moving into the house for the Season. She was not certain why. If she were he, she would much prefer to be living in his rooms, but perhaps he enjoyed being around his family. Lots and lots of family.
It was not that she was unused to being around people, it was more the unfamiliarity with her role and this new identity which unnerved her.
There were two more hours until her introductory dinner, to which Beaujolais had invited thirty-nine intimate friends in addition to the eleven adult family members present. Christelle was not certain she even knew thirty-nine people.
Sybil was ready to help her dress and complete her toilette. Christelle was very proud of her gown—and Maili's—for they were both of her design. She had chosen a pale blue silk with an organza overdress so the skirt and sleeves would flow about her when she danced. The bodice had been appliquéd with a pattern of tiny pearls to match her necklace. Sybil braided her hair in a circlet and placed small white camellia buds in some of the criss-crosses and secured them with pins.
Christelle placed her mother's pearls about her neck, and attached the matching earrings given to her by her father for her birthday. He had offered her any of the family jewels for this night, but she was more comfortable with simple embellishment.
The ring! She had not thought to give the ring back to her father. It must be his. She dismissed Sybil and went to search her trunk until she found the small stuffed doll she stored it in. She pried open the stitches and fished around for the ring.
Having located it, she went out to the hall and started towards her father's study. Perhaps he was still dressing. Christelle paused in front of his apartments. She was still too uncomfortable to knock on his door. She searched the hallway until she found a servant to do it for her.
“His Grace says you may go to his dressing room now, or await him in his study.”
The man bowed and continued on with his—no doubt—numerous duties on a night such as this.
Why was she more nervous to go to her father’s room than dance at the ball? She was only three doors away. She held up her head and knocked. No matter what she was feeling inside, she would behave with dignity, poise and grace on the outside.
“Christelle, you look beautiful beyond words,” her father said when she was shown in. His valet was helping him into his coat. He was an extremely handsome man, especially when he smiled. They shared the same golden hair and tawny eyes, and his were twinkling back at her. He was dressed in grey breeches and a blue waistcoat which matched her dress.
“Am I not supposed to fetch you from your rooms? I am unused to having a female ready before me,” he laughed.
“And I am unused to having an army of servants to wait upon me,” she replied.
The valet held out a long piece of cloth and waited for the Duke to be silent.
Christelle could see the man was becoming flustered. “I shall wait here until...”
“Rogers,” the man supplied.
“…Rogers is finished.”
The man gave her an appreciative glance and began his masterpiece around the Duke’s neck. It was rather fascinating. Christelle had never seen a neckcloth tied before. He finished by placing an onyx pin through the folds.
“Is there something you wish to discuss, or did you come to learn about the male toilette?” Yardley gave a suspicious look to the valet, who was picking imaginary lint from his coat.
“That will do, Rogers. Impeccable as always.” The man bowed and left the room with a barely perceptible click of the latch.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, giving Christelle a gentle glance. “You need not be. We have every dance arranged for you until supper. By then, I am certain your remaining dances will be spoken for. If not, your uncles will be waiting.”
“I had not considered the necessity. I do believe I am ready to have done with this ball. There has been so much fuss and I do not like being the cause.”
He took her hand and looked her in the eye. “Never fear, if it was not for you, they would create some other reason to cause a fuss. One learns to let them be.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling.
“Are you ready to go to dinner? It will be fifty of your closest friends to prepare you for the remainder of the evening,” he said dryly.
“Oui. I am ready. But first, I wanted to return this to you. I believe it is yours, non?”
She opened her hand it to reveal the large onyx ring, which was a perfect match to the pin gracing his neckcloth.
“Where did you find this? It has been missing since my father's death.”
The look on his face almost caused her to weep. Her throat burned as she watched him wrestle with his own emotions.
“It was sewn inside my childhood doll. I found it in the bottom of my mother's trunk,” she answered quietly. She dared not say her mother’s name in the presence of anyone in the house.
“Of course. Lillian. Thank you for returning it to me. Let me say, however, I am far more pleased to have you here.”
He placed the ring on his finger and he held out his arm to escort her. They walked to the next room to collect Beaujolais and made their way to greet the guests.
Only a few more blessed minutes, she thought, until she would see him again...
…Except he was not there. His seat at the dinner table was empty. Lord Craig conveyed his excuses. The disappointment Christelle felt at Dr. Craig’s absence dimmed the splendour of the occasion; and it was all for her. Well, for Maili and her, she thought guiltily. She had been so concerned about her own plight with this entry into the unknown world of London Society, she had scarcely considered how Maili was faring. She should not have worried. The girl was a light unto herself, shining with excitement and already gathering a court of admirers, by the looks of it. Christelle had designed a gown of pale green linen to complement her cousin's auburn locks and grey eyes, so similar to her brother’s. An ivory overdress with ivory gloves and a pearl necklace enhanced her peaches-and-cream complexion.
The ballroom was exquisitely decorated with floral arrangements in pastel hues, which caused Christelle to smile. Her father had cared enough to mention it. She could not think that detail was a coincidence.
One wall of the ballroom was lined with mirrors and the other with gilded chairs. Crystal chandeliers hung from the painted ceiling and glistened with candlelight. The orchestra was poised and
ready to perform on a dais at the end of the room. It was other-worldly to Christelle, the stuff one read of in fairy tales or dreamed of alone in bed at night while staving off loneliness.
She stood in the receiving line between her father and Beaujolais, greeting each guest and watching them attempt to mask their curiosity when they caught the first glimpse of her. It was amusing and horrifying at the same time.
“I do not think a single invitation went unaccepted. It will be a crush tonight,” Beaujolais said in her ear during a pause between guests.
“Perhaps some will leave when they see the crowd,” Christelle replied.
“No chance of that,” her father said, sounding amused. “Do not be fooled. A crush means success to a London hostess. Besides, they all want to know who you are.”
“Yes, indeed. I did not mean it was a bad thing. There is plenty of room on the terrace and in the card-rooms,” Beaujolais said with a laugh. “Oh, here is Cavenray.”
“My dear, allow me to introduce His Grace, the Duke of Cavenray. Your Grace, may I present my daughter, Lady Christelle Stanton.”
A clichéd tall, dark and handsome man looked at her lazily from beneath hooded eyelids, though she could see the gleam in his eye was keen as he studied her. He was dressed simply but elegantly, all in black save for his crisp white neckcloth. “Charmed,” he drawled. “May I beg the honour of reserving a set with you this evening, my lady?”
“I would be delighted, sir. Perhaps the cotillion?” She suggested her first open dance.
He bowed before moving on to his introduction of Maili and the rest of the party.
“He has been the most elusive bachelor for the past five years, ever since he came into his title,” Beaujolais informed her discreetly.
Christelle could not see why. He clearly held himself in high esteem, yet were he plain Mr. Cavenray, she doubted anyone would think him a greater catch than the next man. Although, in fairness, she granted him the acknowledgement he was handsome, in a devilish kind of way.
She did not particularly want to dance with the Duke. There was really only one person, other than her father, whom she wished to dance with tonight. He still had not arrived.
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