A London Season

by Patricia Bray

  “Good afternoon, Perkins,” Lord Glendale said cheerfully, tossing his hat and gloves to the butler who opened the door.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” Perkins said, passing the garments to a hovering footman before taking his master’s cloak. “Mr. Stapleton left a message that he would like to see you, at your convenience.”

  “I’ll see him now. And tell Timpkins to lay out my evening clothes.”

  Entering the study, Lord Glendale found his secretary Charles Stapleton seated at the desk. Seeing his employer, Charles began to rise, but Glendale waved him back to his seat, saying “No, don’t bother to get up,” as he dropped casually into a nearby chair.

  “And how did you find the auction, my lord?”

  “Very run of the mill, actually. Didn’t see anything there worth bidding on, although Freddie picked up a new pair for his carriage.” Glendale shook his head in remembrance. Freddie, or Lord Frederick as he was more properly called, had a weakness for showy nags. He doubted the horses would prove up to the challenge of Freddie’s high-perch phaeton.

  “So, what did I forget now?” Glendale asked, guessing the reason behind his secretary’s summons. Charles Stapleton was a paragon of secretaries, always organized, always anticipating his master’s needs, never forgetting a detail. Even if the detail was one that Lord Glendale would prefer to forget.

  “You asked me to remind you that you are engaged to dine with Lady Barton this evening,” Stapleton said. His face was carefully blank, but there was sympathy in his tone.

  “Blast!” He had completely forgotten about it. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting out of this?”

  “If you recall, last time we sent a note saying that you had the influenza, and the time before that, your carriage broke down.”

  “Hmm, I had forgotten about the carriage. I don’t suppose she would believe us if you sent a note saying that I’d been press-ganged and was on a naval warship?”

  Stapleton tried to maintain his composure, but his mouth twitched upwards at the corners. “Lady Barton is not likely to believe such a tale, but if you’d like—”

  “No, don’t bother,” Lord Glendale said. “I might as well do the pretty and be done with it.”

  Stapleton laid down his quill, seeming regretful at not having to pen the tale of the overzealous press-gang.

  “Was there anything else?” Glendale asked, rising from the chair.

  “Just this,” Stapleton said, handing over a heavily scented envelope.

  Glendale recognized the familiar scent and distinctive handwriting. He scanned the note eagerly. “Violetta complains that I have been neglecting her shamefully. Well, she is right, but I am certain that I can make it up to her.”

  “As you say, my lord,” Stapleton said, his carefully neutral tones indicating his disapproval of Glendale’s latest mistress. His secretary was of the opinion that it was time Glendale gave up his rakish ways and began searching for a bride from among the eligible young ladies of the ton. For that matter, Glendale himself was beginning to tire of the Incomparable Violetta’s vapid charms and jealous rages. He had been thinking about breaking the connection, but then he would have the tedium of having to find a suitable replacement.

  When he did search for a replacement, it would be a mistress he sought, not a wife. With a mistress a man always knew where he stood. Violetta had made it quite clear from the outset that the size of his purse and the presents he could provide were as important to her as his skill in making love. Such honesty was a rare trait in a woman, but one he valued above all else.

  That evening the streets were unusually crowded, and Glendale arrived late, a fact which Lady Barton was quick to point out. As Browning bowed him into the drawing room, Lady Barton raised her quizzing glass, peering at him from over a letter she was reading.

  “You are late as usual, Lord Glendale. Still, I suppose I should be grateful that you condescended to appear at all.” Lady Barton gave an elegant shrug, as if to express her disdain for his lack of manners.

  Glendale ignored the implied insult, and responded as politeness demanded. It was going to be a long night. “Good evening, Lady Barton. I trust that you are well?”

  “Tolerably,” Lady Barton replied. “Which is a wonder in itself, as I am much put upon by all and sundry.”

  Glendale surveyed his hostess, but Lady Barton showed no signs of failing health. Her rigidly corseted figure was covered by an elegant silk gown in the latest style from Paris. An elaborate coiffure drew attention away from the streaks of gray in her hair, while cosmetic pots provided the complexion of a woman half her age.

  Lady Barton continued her complaint. “It is always the same with you gentlemen. You have no consideration for others. Take my husband for example. First he commands me to invite my niece for the Season, and then he takes himself off to Vienna.”

  Glendale spared a moment’s thought to damn the absent Lord Barton. His uncle had some vaguely defined post in the Foreign Office. Glendale suspected that the hasty summons to the Congress of Vienna was merely an excuse for Lord Barton to escape the company of his wife. Glendale sympathized, but every time his uncle left London, Lady Barton turned to Glendale as the head of the family.

  “Perhaps Lord Barton thought that your niece would be a pleasant companion for you,” Glendale theorized.

  Lady Barton gave a delicate sniff of disbelief. “Hardly. Cornelia Sedgwick’s never been out of the country. She is certain to be a veritable hoyden.”

  Lord Glendale wracked his brains, trying to place the name. “Sedgwick. That would be your sister’s daughter?” he guessed.

  “Indeed so,” Lady Barton said.

  The sudden mention of an eligible niece set off warning bells in his mind. In his experience, when ladies began mentioning their daughters or nieces, it was because they hoped to fix his interest. “I hope you aren’t planning to try your hand at matchmaking, as I have no interest in getting married.”

  Lady Barton appeared genuinely shocked. “Certainly not!” she replied. “You can do much better than throwing yourself away on the daughter of an unimportant squire.”

  Lord Glendale allowed himself to relax, although he was by no means convinced. Lately his parents had begun to hint that at the advanced age of six-and-twenty, it was time that he settled down. Fortunately his parents were in the country, and rarely ventured into London. He hoped Lady Barton was not going to take up where they had left off.

  He decided to probe further. “The girl must be well fixed, if she’s your niece.” Lady Barton rarely mentioned her sister’s family, but he had the impression that her sister had married beneath her station. Still, as the daughter of the Duke of Wolcott, no doubt she had been well provided for.

  “Eligible enough, although I will never understand why my sister saw fit to marry that dreadful commoner. But with my sponsorship, I am certain Cornelia will be able to make a respectable match.”

  Lord Glendale felt a pang of sympathy for the unknown miss. Lady Barton was not a kind person, and would have no patience if her niece failed to measure up to her exacting standards. But she was not his concern. Eager to avoid any more talk of marriage or eligible females, he deftly steered the conversation to less dangerous waters.

  Chapter Two

  Jane breathed a sigh of relief as the coach drew up in front of the Bartons’ town house. The journey from Yorkshire had taken twice as long as expected, made more difficult by the lingering winter weather. She was exhausted and missed her family dreadfully. She had never been away from them before, and couldn’t help wondering if they missed her as much as she missed them. At least they had each other, while Jane would have only the dubious comfort of an aunt she had not seen in six years.

  An elegant footman opened the door for Jane. He informed her that Lady Barton was out visiting, but expected Jane to wait on her when she returned. Taking advantage of the reprieve, Jane allowed herself to be shown to a chamber on the third floor. It was a proper lady’s room
, all decorated in pink and white, with lacy frills everywhere. True the drapes were somewhat faded, and the wardrobe was in a different style from the dressing table. But it was a room all to herself, and that made it a luxury beyond comparison.

  Jane was still admiring the room when a cheerful redheaded maid bustled in. “My name’s Sally,” she introduced herself. “Lady Barton said I was to be your maid while you were staying with us. If it pleases you, Miss.”

  Jane eyed her doubtfully. She didn’t need a personal maid. And Sally with her youthful grin and freckled face seemed an unlikely lady’s maid.

  “I don’t know—” A knock sounded at the door. Another maid entered carrying a pitcher of hot water and fresh towels.

  “Why don’t you wash up while I unpack your things?” Sally suggested, already busy opening Jane’s trunk.

  “I can do that myself,” Jane replied.

  Sally looked shocked. “No, that’s my job,” she insisted. “Besides, you’ll want to freshen up before you see Lady Barton.”

  Jane gave in, too tired to argue the point. With Sally’s help, she made herself presentable, washing up and changing into a clean frock. It took a depressingly short time for Sally to unpack her things, and before long there was nothing for Jane to do but wait.

  It was several hours later, nearly dusk, when Lady Barton returned. By this time Jane’s initial nervousness had been replaced by irritation at the delay. Already predisposed not to like her aunt, Jane reminded herself not to make any hasty judgments.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Barton,” Jane said, as she entered the drawing room.

  “Well, gel, don’t stand there. Come over where I can see you.”

  As Jane crossed the room, she took the opportunity to study Lady Barton. She had not seen Lord or Lady Barton in the six years since her father’s funeral. The years had not been kind to her aunt. Now, as then, Jane found it hard to believe that this was her mother’s sister. Jane’s mother, Lady Alice, had been a celebrated beauty. Twenty years had passed since her come-out, and nine children, but although Lady Alice’s brown hair held streaks of gray, her figure was as elegant and graceful as ever.

  Lady Barton must have taken after some other member of the family. Not even her lavishly embroidered gown could disguise her tendency towards stoutness, and as Jane bent to kiss her aunt’s cheek, she noticed that Lady Barton’s complexion owed more to powder and paint than nature. Her aunt appeared not so much youthful as well preserved.

  Lady Barton scrutinized Jane from head to foot, and Jane felt her cheeks grow hot under the inspection. “It could have been worse,” her aunt muttered, as she waved Jane to a nearby chair.

  “Mama sends her regards,” Jane said, ignoring her aunt’s remark. “I have a letter from her in my room.”

  Lady Barton made an airy gesture with one hand, dismissing the letter.

  “I suppose Alice was glad to be rid of you. Although with six of you at home, I do not know if one less will make much difference.”

  “Nine,” Jane corrected. “There are nine of us.”

  “Good Lord, what were your parents thinking?”

  “They were in love,” Jane said sharply. She would tolerate no criticism of her family. Looking at Lady Barton’s frozen features, Jane found it difficult to believe that her aunt had ever loved anyone.

  “Now that you are here we must try to find a husband for you. A respectable gentleman, who can support you and your family.” A sudden thought seemed to strike Lady Barton, as she fixed Jane with a gimlet stare. “I trust you will be sensible?”

  “Sensible?”

  “I have no intention of sponsoring you, only to watch you throw yourself away on the first penniless nobody who fancies himself in love with you. If you’ve got some foolish notion in your head about marrying for love, then you had best pack your bags and go home now.”

  “I understand what is expected of me,” Jane replied, wondering if she would have the courage to go through with this scheme. She wasn’t looking for love, but surely it was possible to find a man she could respect, someone who would meet her aunt’s requirements as well as her own.

  Lady Barton peered over at Jane before nodding decisively. “Yes, I believe you do. You have the look of a practical girl, and you ought to do quite well.”

  “I am most grateful for your kindness,” Jane said, although she was far from feeling grateful at the moment. After meeting her aunt, she couldn’t imagine what had prompted Lady Barton’s invitation.

  She listened with half an ear as Lady Barton expounded on her plans for Jane, and the rules of behavior for a young miss in her first Season. Lady Barton’s rudeness was nothing more than she had expected. Lady Barton, and indeed the whole of her mother’s family, had never treated the Sedgwicks kindly. There was no reason to believe that anything had changed.

  Whether or not Jane liked her aunt had nothing to do with her purpose. Jane was in London to find a husband. An advantageous marriage would mean an end to the specter of poverty that had hovered over them for so long. And to save her family, she was willing to swallow her pride, and endure Lady Barton’s ill temper.

  “Am I not correct?” Lady Barton queried.

  “Yes, Lady Barton,” Jane replied, wondering what she had just agreed to.

  “Tomorrow will be time enough to start. The first thing we must do is to see that you are decently attired. I will not be seen with you until then, if the rest of your wardrobe is like that frock.”

  Jane glanced down at her pomona green muslin gown. It was one of the ones she had made herself, and while the color flattered her complexion, even Jane had to admit that the simple style was outmoded.

  “Well, Cornelia, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  Jane winced at the sound of her hated first name.

  “I prefer to be called Jane.”

  “Nonsense! Cornelia was my mother’s name. It is a far superior name.”

  “But the family has always called me Jane.”

  “Jane indeed. How common! Cornelia Sedgwick you were born, and Cornelia Sedgwick you will be. And stop frowning like that, gel, I have already sent out invitations to your come-out ball, so there is no changing things now.”

  Jane grew nervous. “My ball?”

  Lady Barton looked grimly determined. “Why, what else did you expect? This may have been Lord Barton’s idea, but it is left to me to see it through. You will be introduced to the ton properly. I will not have it said that I do not know how to do right by my own niece.” On that note she rose and swept out of the room, leaving a stunned Jane behind her.

  A ball. Fittings for a new wardrobe. She had been so wrapped up in her decision to marry that she hadn’t given much thought to what the Season would actually involve. Everything was moving much too fast. She swallowed drily, wondering how she would manage. She had never met any titled nobles other than her aunt and uncle. Would they be able to sense that she didn’t belong in their glittering world?

  There was no sense in fretting herself. She would do fine. Besides, she thought with a trace of her old humor, she wasn’t the one on display. The ton would be meeting Cornelia Sedgwick, a different girl entirely.

  The next day dawned bright and clear, and Jane’s spirits rose with the morning sun. Waking at her usual time, Jane had just finished dressing when a housemaid came in to make up the fire.

  Her head down, the maid lugged the heavy coal scuttle over to the fireplace. Jane waited till the girl had set the scuttle down before speaking.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  The girl whirled around. “Lord, Miss! You startled me,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you to be awake.”

  “Well, I am,” Jane said cheerfully. “I take it Lady Barton is not an early riser?”

  The maid looked scandalized at the suggestion. “No, miss! Lady Barton is Quality. She usually rings for her chocolate around mid-morning. Only us servants are up at this hour.”

  Jane sensed she had failed another test
. Young ladies making their come-outs were not expected to rise with the dawn. But it would be hard to change the habits of a lifetime.

  “Well, now…” Jane paused, realizing she didn’t know the maid’s name. “What is your name?”

  “Betty.”

  “Well, Betty, where can I find a cup of chocolate at this hour? Could you show me down to the kitchen?”

  “No, Miss, that wouldn’t be proper. You ring the bell and your maid Sally will come and fetch it to you.”

  “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  From the look that the maid gave her, Jane knew she had been classed as a hopeless country bumpkin. With a sigh Jane rang the bell, and in a few moments Sally appeared.

  After a short negotiation, Jane convinced Sally that she preferred to breakfast in the morning room downstairs. The small victory gave her a feeling of being in control. Sitting in the morning room, she reminded herself that this wasn’t her home. The Bartons had a town house full of servants, whom no doubt guarded their responsibilities jealously. Having servants wait on her was a luxury that she should learn to enjoy for as long as it lasted.

  It occurred to Jane that her mother had been raised in a home such as this, and at one time had taken such comforts for granted. For the first time Jane found herself wondering how her mother really felt about her present circumstances. Even at the best of times, they had never been wealthy. Her mother must have loved her father very much indeed, to brave her family’s wrath and give up everything for him.

  The thought of such a love brought a wistful sadness, as it was not likely that Jane would find that kind of love for herself. Dismissing such thoughts as idle fancies, Jane snapped open the agricultural journal she had brought from home, and determinedly turned her attention to the pages in front of her.

  “The new boots will be ready a week Monday,” the clerk said, as Lord Glendale rose to leave.