A London Season

by Patricia Bray

  The bodice was square-cut and low. Much too low. Jane started as she realized just how much creamy white bosom was exposed.

  “There’s been a mistake,” Jane said, tugging irritably at the neckline. “This is much too low. I can’t possibly be seen like this.” There were simply acres of bosom showing.

  Sally examined the neckline critically. “It looks fine to me, Miss Jane. But if you’d like, I could tuck in a fichu,” she added doubtfully.

  Jane examined her reflection again. A fichu wouldn’t do the trick. She felt more like wrapping herself in a shawl. She knew she was being irrational. Lady Barton had approved all of her gowns. Surely Lady Barton wouldn’t let her appear in anything improper.

  “I suppose this is not all that daring,” Jane ventured.

  “You look lovely. Just the way you ought. Lady Barton will be so pleased.”

  It was not Lady Barton’s opinion that she worried about. What would the gentlemen think? Lord Glendale, for instance. Well, one thing was certain. After seeing her in this dress, Lord Glendale would realize that she was very much of a woman. The thought gave her a shiver of anticipation.

  There was just one thing lacking. “Bring me the lacquer box,” Jane ordered. Sally obligingly fetched the box. Jane opened it and drew out her mother’s necklace. The strand of pearls glistened softly in the lamplight. Jane had not wanted to bring the pearls to London, but her mother had insisted. “My mother gave them to me for my presentation, and now they are yours,” Lady Alice had said.

  Jane had been touched by the gift, and frightened by the responsibility. What if she lost them? The pearl necklace and earbobs were the only inheritance that her mother had received from her parents. When Lady Alice had defied her family to marry Arthur Sedgwick, a modest landowner, her parents refused to acknowledge the marriage and cut all connection.

  Lady Alice remained hopeful that her parents would reconcile themselves to the match over time. She even named her first child Cornelia, after her own mother. But there was no reconciliation. Lord and Lady Wolcott died within a few years of the marriage, still bitter. With no sons, the title went to a distant cousin. Everything that was not entailed was left to “their only true daughter, Letitia, Lady Barton.”

  In Jane’s mind, the pearls were forever tied up with her mother’s gay youth, when she had been the toast of London and fell in love with the worthiest of her admirers, Arthur Sedgwick. And although a set of pearls worth several hundred pounds was a luxury they could not afford, Jane had never even considered selling them. Selling the pearls would be like denying her mother’s heritage.

  Sally fastened the triple strand of pearls around her neck, and Jane had to admit that they added just the right touch. Lady Barton swept into the room just as Jane was preparing to go downstairs.

  “Well, now, let me have a look at you,” Lady Barton commanded.

  Jane stood obediently still.

  “I must thank you for your kindness, Lady Barton. This gown is the most wonderful thing I have ever worn,” Jane effused.

  “Of course it is,” Lady Barton said, examining Jane’s appearance with a critical air. “Your height is unfortunate, but there must be some gentleman who will be prepared to overlook that defect.”

  Jane clenched her teeth. Lady Barton was a puzzle that she could not fathom. On the one hand, her sponsorship of Jane was very generous indeed. Jane winced every time she thought of the money that her aunt was spending for this Season, for garments of all descriptions, dancing lessons, and even a coiffeur to style Jane’s hair. Not to mention this lavish come-out ball.

  It should have been easy for Jane to feel grateful, but it was not. In Lady Barton’s hands, each gift was a weapon. She took every opportunity to remind Jane that these were things that her own family couldn’t provide for her. It was as if she was revenging herself on Jane for some past slight.

  Lady Barton peered closely at the pearls around her niece’s neck. “I see you have my mother’s pearls,” she said peevishly.

  “No,” Jane said firmly. “I am wearing my mother’s jewelry.”

  Lady Barton sniffed disdainfully, but forbore to argue. “Well, Cornelia, are you ready? Or do you propose to keep our guests waiting while you wool-gather?”

  Lady Barton swept out of the room, and Jane followed, muttering under her breath as she counted to ten for patience. It was going to be a long evening.

  But even Lady Barton’s criticisms couldn’t dampen Jane’s enthusiasm for long. Jane knew that she looked her best this evening, and this knowledge gave her the courage to meet the Polite World on equal footing.

  Lady Barton had invited a few select guests to partake of dinner before the ball. Although Jane was nominally the reason for the event, the guests tended to ignore her in favor of conversing with each other. This suited Jane just fine. She only needed to converse with her dinner partner, a Mr. James Whitmore.

  Mr. Whitmore was an older gentlemen, in his late thirties or early forties. From Lady Barton’s introduction, Jane gathered that he was a man of importance in the City, London’s financial world. His face was kind, and his manners unassuming. Jane found herself warming to him at once.

  “Lady Barton mentioned that you were from Yorkshire?” Mr. Whitmore asked.

  “Yes,” Jane replied, as the footmen began serving the first course. “My family resides in Barkhamsted. It’s just a short distance from York,” she added, at his look of incomprehension.

  “I visit York on occasion, to check on my investments there. The countryside is beautiful, but wild. London must be quite a change for you.”

  Why did gentlemen always feel it necessary to comment on the obvious? “It was overwhelming at first, but I am beginning to feel more at home.”

  “And your parents? Will they be joining you for the Season?”

  The question was bland, but behind his polite facade Jane sensed a keen intelligence. Mr. Whitmore was wondering why Jane was being sponsored by her aunt, instead of by her mother, as would be the usual case.

  “My father has been gone for several years now, and my mother prefers to stay at home with my brothers and sisters.” Having no wish to spread the news of her relative poverty, Jane had grown adept at such half-truths.

  “My sympathies for your loss. I know that you and your brothers and sisters must be a comfort to your mother,” Mr. Whitmore said. He was looking in her direction, but the wistful expression on his face made her realize that he was thinking of something or someone else.

  “I am afraid that we are more often a trial than a comfort, but I know that Mama would be desolate without us.” Jane paused, taking a sip of the clear soup. “Of course, it is easier now that Michael, the youngest, is out of leading strings. Although I don’t know how much of a blessing that is. In her last letter, Mama reported that Michael had taken it in his head to present the Vicar with a large green frog, as a token of the high esteem in which the children hold him.”

  Mr. Whitmore smiled, and she knew that she had succeeded in luring him out of his brown study. “I was raised in the city myself, but I can imagine no truer gesture of friendship.”

  “Fortunately Mr. Poole, the vicar, took it in stride. He has known us forever, and is accustomed to the occasional prank.”

  “You miss Michael,” Mr. Whitmore observed, breaking into Jane’s recollections.

  “Yes,” she said. “And Jonathan. And Ellen. And Bobby and Dick and Emily and Katherine and even Rosemarie.”

  Mr. Whitmore shot her a look that Jane could not interpret. Had she managed to offend him? Lady Barton had warned her not to talk too much about her family, as it was considered common. But he seemed to be enjoying the conversation.

  “I came from a large family myself,” Mr. Whitmore said, after a moment’s consideration. “My wife and I had hoped for children of our own, but it was not to be.”

  “I am sorry,” Jane said awkwardly. Mr. Whitmore was still in mourning for his wife, who had died earlier in the year. “It must be sad to
be so alone.”

  Mr. Whitmore acknowledged her sympathy, then turned the conversation to less personal topics.

  After dinner Jane stood beside her aunt in the receiving line, greeting a seemingly endless stream of visitors. She soon gave up trying to remember them all. The few faces that she did know stood out like welcome beacons. Even Miss Blake received an enthusiastic greeting.

  Guests continued to arrive for well over an hour, until Jane felt ready to explode with anticipation. Finally Lady Barton signalled that it was time to enter the ballroom.

  Jane caught her breath with wonder. The dusty, unused ballroom had been transformed for the occasion. White trellises draped with garlands of silk flowers gave the illusion of an outdoor fete. The room glittered under the lights of the chandeliers, while the throng below was no less magnificent. The cream of society was here, young ladies in their pale muslins, married ladies in vibrant silk gowns, and gentlemen in the dark colors favored by Beau Brummel, or the more brilliant plumage of the dandy set. Never could she have imagined such splendor.

  Jane’s gaze swept the room, wondering how anyone could possibly find anyone else in the confusion. She gave a start when Lord Glendale appeared, as if summoned by her thoughts.

  “I believe this is my dance, Miss Sedgwick,” Lord Glendale said. He signalled to the musicians, who obediently began to play.

  Jane nodded, nervous now that the moment had arrived. She was grateful that Lady Barton had arranged for Glendale to open the ball with her, rather than some stranger. The floor, which had seemed impossibly crowded a moment before, began to clear, as couples formed on the sidelines.

  Jane placed her gloved hand on Lord Glendale’s, and he led her to the center of the floor. The musicians began to play. Jane froze, unable to remember a single step of the dance. Lord Glendale must have sensed her panic, for he squeezed her hand sympathetically. “Relax,” he whispered. “Just pretend that it’s only the two of us, and that Mancini is providing the accompaniment.” He gave her a conspiratorial grin.

  The memory of that lesson made her smile, and she had no difficulty following along as Glendale led her through the first measures. Gradually other couples joined in, until the room was a sea of dancers. Now that she was no longer the center of attention, Jane’s nervousness gave way to rising excitement. Tonight was turning out to be everything she had hoped for. The gown that had seemed so daring in her room now made her feel the height of sophistication. For the first time since she had come to London she felt elegant, able to hold her own with any woman in the room.

  Lord Glendale smiled at her again, setting her stomach to fluttering. The admiration in his gaze showed that he approved of her transformation. Even through her gloves she could feel the warmth of his hand, and the solidness of his frame that owed nothing to padding. She tilted her head slightly so she could gaze into his eyes, conscious of how Glendale’s own height made her feel delicate.

  As they twirled through the ballroom, Jane overheard someone saying how well-matched she and Glendale appeared. Their words echoed her feelings precisely. She wished that the music would never end, and that she could go on dancing with Glendale all night.

  After the dance was over, Lord Glendale returned Miss Sedgwick to the care of her aunt. For appearances’ sake he led out another lady of his acquaintance, a married woman known to be fond of her husband. No risk there. But he was not in the mood for further frolicking, so after helping himself to a glass of champagne, he leaned against a convenient pillar and observed the scene.

  There was no reason for him to stay. Miss Sedgwick was doing quite well without his help. Lady Barton introduced Miss Sedgwick to a series of unexceptional gentlemen, making sure she had a partner for each dance. Just now the orchestra was playing a waltz, and Miss Sedgwick was sitting on the side, as befitted a young lady who had not yet received permission for the still controversial dance.

  Should he go over there and join her? No, she seemed absorbed with her companion, Mr. James Whitmore. What could the two of them possibly have to talk about? Mr. Whitmore was at least twenty years her senior. A tradesman who had turned the one mill he inherited form his father into a pottery empire, Whitmore was an odd choice for Lady Barton to have invited. Whitmore’s fortune made him acceptable to the lower ranks of the ton, but that didn’t mean that Lady Barton should encourage him to pay attention to Jane.

  “Stop scowling. You’re frightening the children,” Lord Frederick greeted him.

  “Hullo, Freddie. I thought you had turned coward, and weren’t going to make it this evening.”

  “And go back on my word? Never,” Freddie declaimed. “Besides, I had to see how our rustic miss was faring.”

  “Observe for yourself, my friend.” The orchestra had begun the cotillion, and Glendale saw Miss Sedgwick take the floor with her partner.

  “I don’t see her,” Freddie complained, his eyes sweeping the room.

  “There she is.” Glendale nodded to indicate the direction. “With Lord David Cartland.”

  Freddie raised his quizzing glass. “Good lord, you’re right. Who would have guessed she’d turn out so pretty?”

  Lord Frederick’s admission should have pleased Glendale, but it did not. Glendale’s concentration was fixed on the couple on the dance floor. Lord David Cartland was an amiable young man, but a full head shorter than Miss Sedgwick. They made an awkward couple, but Lord David didn’t seem to mind, fixing his attention on Jane’s bosom, instead of on her face.

  “You’re scowling again,” Freddie said, breaking into his thoughts. “If you keep that up, people will think that you are serious about the chit.”

  “I was not scowling,” Glendale said pettishly. “And I am merely looking out for my interests.”

  Lord Frederick bowed and smiled at a passing acquaintance. “Next time we wager, remind me to be more precise in setting the terms. It won’t do at all to have you influencing the outcome.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come now, there are no secrets in the ton. I heard all about your drive in the park with Miss Sedgwick. Not to mention that you’ve practically run tame here in the last week, calling every day.”

  Glendale thought furiously for a moment. “Priscilla! Your sister Priscilla was here the day I called.”

  “Exactly. I must admit I admire your tactics. People are beginning to talk. They’re wondering if you are just doing your duty by a cousin, or if your interest has been truly captured. The speculation will ensure that Miss Sedgwick is a sensation. If I didn’t know you better, I’d wonder the same myself.”

  Lord Frederick was coming too close to matters that Glendale didn’t want to think about. “Lady Barton is bearing our way, with Miss Webster in tow. I believe she plans on making you do the pretty,” Glendale lied.

  “Time to disappear then, before I am forced to stand up with that squint-eyed antidote. You will excuse me,” Freddie said, before beating a hasty retreat in the direction of the card room.

  Glendale smiled. He had concocted that story on the spur of the moment, but perhaps Lady Barton would be willing to make it true. Miss Webster had been striking terror into the hearts of gentlemen since her debut ten years before. Back then she had been a plain, ill-favored girl, with a disposition to match. Time had not improved either her looks or her temper. She was the despair of hostesses everywhere, who invited her in order to secure the presence of her most eligible brother.

  Glendale made his way across the room, intending to drop a word in Lady Barton’s ear. Freddie’s pointed comments had made him uncomfortable, and it would feel good to pay him back in some measure. Miss Webster ought to be a satisfactory penance.

  As he approached the gilt chairs where Lady Barton was holding court, he saw Jane seated next to her aunt. Several gentlemen surrounded the ladies, and Miss Sedgwick glowed under their attentions. Unfortunately Sir Peter Verney was one of their number.

  Glendale reached them in time to hear Sir Peter request a dance. “Terribly so
rry, but Miss Sedgwick has promised this dance to me,” he said blandly.

  Miss Sedgwick looked up, her face breaking into a welcoming smile. “Lord Glendale, I have been waiting for you,” she said, following his lead. “I was afraid you had forgotten.”

  “I never forget a promise to a lady,” Glendale said, conscious of the eyes that were on them. Taking Miss Sedgwick’s hand, he helped her rise. “If you will excuse us, gentlemen, Lady Barton.”

  He led her to the floor.

  “That was quite rude of you, to do that to Sir Peter,” Miss Sedgwick said. “But I am glad you did.”

  At least the chit hadn’t forgotten his instructions to stay away from Sir Peter.

  “I didn’t have a chance to thank you earlier,” Miss Sedgwick continued on. “This is the most wonderful night of my life, and I have you to thank for it.”

  “Me?” Why on earth would she be thanking him?

  “Yes. You’ve been so kind to me. Without your help, I would have been too nervous to enjoy myself. As it is, everyone’s been so nice.” Miss Sedgwick laughed, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. “Would you believe Lord David Cartland actually called me beautiful?”

  Kind. She thought he was being kind. She trusted him as a friend. He felt his heart twist at the thought of that damnable wager. He could only hope that Miss Sedgwick never learned of it. For all her newfound elegance, she suddenly seemed fragile to him. Learning of the wager could destroy her.

  “Of course he was only being gallant, but still it was nice to hear,” Miss Sedgwick confided.

  “Are you saying that you are not beautiful?” Glendale asked gruffly.

  “Now that sounds like I am fishing for compliments, my lord. Let us just say that I’ve seen myself in the glass often enough to know my own looks.”