A London Season

by Patricia Bray

  “We really must do something about the state of your wardrobe,” Lady Barton said, studying her niece with a critical eye. “I will not have it said that you came to him in rags.”

  “But I already have more clothes than I could possibly need in a dozen lifetimes,” Jane protested, unwilling to place herself further in debt to her aunt.

  “Nonsense. Now that the continent is open again, travelers are bringing back the latest designs from Europe. Fashions are changing so swiftly that your frocks will soon be frightfully outmoded.” Lady Barton pursed her lips thoughtfully, before adding, “In any event, you will need a dress for the wedding.”

  The wedding! Events were moving out of Jane’s control. Everything was happening so quickly. Why it was only yesterday that Mr. Whitmore had made his unexpected offer. Jane needed time to think, to accustom herself to the idea of being a married woman.

  But there would be no leisurely engagement. Mr. Whitmore and Lady Barton had agreed between them that a wedding next month would be suitable, and Jane, mindful of her good fortune in finding any husband at all, had been unable to find any reason to object.

  “Only Madame Cecile’s will do,” Lady Barton declared, apparently still considering the issue of a wedding dress. “And while we are there, I shall order a few of the new Parisian designs for myself.”

  Lady Barton’s sudden interest in the state of her niece’s wardrobe was now explained. From experience Jane knew that shopping with her aunt would be a tedious experience. For every article of clothing that Jane acquired, her aunt seemed to need two or three. Jane had long since concluded that Lady Barton was enjoying a subtle revenge against her husband. Lord Barton may have commanded his wife to see to Jane’s presentation, but Lady Barton was making him pay dearly for his high-handedness.

  The next morning dawned gray and rainy, a perfect match for Jane’s spirits. Her lethargy persisted at breakfast, where even the news that the notice of her engagement was in the morning papers did little to lift her spirits. Instead the announcement seemed like a death knell, a reminder that she had chosen her path, and there was no turning back.

  At the modiste’s, the dressmaker was all affability. “Good morning, Lady Barton, Miss Sedgwick,” Madame Cecile said brightly, rushing over to greet them. A shop assistant took their cloaks and bonnets, and Madame Cecile ushered them into her best fitting room.

  Lady Barton lowered herself onto a cushioned bench, and Jane perched lightly on a nearby chair.

  “Anna, bring the pattern books,” Madame Cecile ordered sharply, poking her narrow face into the hallway. Then turning back to face her clients, she beamed at Jane. “I understand that felicitations are in order, Miss Sedgwick. May I be the first to wish you happy?”

  “You are most kind,” Jane said drily. Madame Cecile’s manner was a distinct contrast to previous visits, where she had ignored Jane and lavished her attention on Lady Barton.

  “You are fortunate to find such a worthy man. One hears that he is well thought of in the City,” Madame Cecile added.

  By which the shopkeeper meant that her future husband was known to pay his debts, Jane decided. This undoubtedly distinguished him from the careless nobility whose wives formed the bulk of Madame Cecile’s clients. The dressmaker gave her another false smile, and Jane made a silent vow that once she was married she would never set foot in this shop again.

  “Yes, yes,” Lady Barton interjected. “We don’t have all day to sit here gossiping.”

  “But, of course, Lady Barton. A thousand pardons,” Madame Cecile said soothingly. “And how may I serve you? I have just received a set of fashion plates from Paris. The styles would look most becoming on milady. And, of course, we must discuss Miss Sedgwick’s trousseau.”

  “There’s no need for any anything elaborate,” Jane protested. “The wardrobe I have will do just fine.”

  Madame Cecile glanced at her pityingly. “The gowns I made for you are suitable for a young woman. But once you are married, you will need a new wardrobe to match your new station in life. Is that not so, Lady Barton?”

  “Most certainly,” Lady Barton agreed. “Pay no attention to my niece. She is sadly lacking in knowledge of how to go on in society. It is fortunate for her that I am prepared to look out for her.”

  Jane bit back an angry retort, unwilling to create a public scene. Lady Barton’s ideas of looking after her niece were strange indeed. Her aunt had been no help at all when the scandal broke, in fact she had helped precipitate it. Now that Jane had managed to rescue herself, Lady Barton was eager to take credit.

  It was lucky for her aunt that Jane was too well bred to start a quarrel in such a public setting. That, and the bitter knowledge that without Lady Barton she would have no place to stay until the wedding.

  The dressmaker took Lady Barton’s advice to heart, and ignored Jane for the rest of the proceedings. Between them Lady Barton and Madame Cecile decided everything. Jane lost count of the gowns that were ordered, the fabrics that were chosen or rejected, and which styles were selected. It was a relief when Lady Barton finally declared herself satisfied.

  As they left the shop, an elegant carriage pulled up to the steps. A young lady and her maid alighted, and with a sinking heart Jane recognized Miss Blake. She wondered if Miss Blake would follow the lead of the ton and snub her. But Miss Blake hailed her with every appearance of friendliness.

  “Oh Miss Sedgwick!” Miss Blake exclaimed. Lady Barton and Jane walked down the stairs to where Miss Blake was standing on the sidewalk. “Good morning to you, Lady Barton,” Miss Blake added as an afterthought.

  Lady Barton inclined her head gravely but said nothing. It was left to Jane to reply. “Miss Blake, it is a pleasure to see you this morning.”

  “Isn’t it marvelous? I was going to call on you, but Mama said I had better not, and here you are after all.”

  “What a coincidence,” Jane observed, wondering as she always did when talking with Miss Blake, if the flighty young woman had any idea at all of what she was saying. Did Miss Blake realize that she had just insulted Jane?

  “Yes, it is. I wanted to say how happy I was that everything turned out right in the end.”

  “It did?” Jane had no idea of what Miss Blake was referring to.

  “Well yes,” Miss Blake gave her a quizzical look. “After all, the notice was in the papers this morning. Even Mama said how lucky you were.”

  Jane clenched her fists. Why couldn’t Miss Blake just congratulate her on the engagement and wish Jane happy? Why was it that everyone referred to the engagement as if it was a stroke of undeserved fortune? Jane knew she had done nothing wrong, yet the ton seemed determined to punish her for her imagined sins.

  “It was kind of you to stop, but we really must be going,” Jane said. Another moment, and she was liable to forget that she was a lady, and slap the smile off Miss Blake’s vacuous countenance.

  “Of course, it all is so sudden. And I never expected you to choose someone like Mr. Whitmore. He doesn’t really move in our circles, does he? I can not even recall meeting him, although Mama says that I may have. And I always supposed that there was something between you and Lord Glendale,” Miss Blake started, and had the grace to blush as she realized her mistake. “Er, I mean, I thought that—Well, that is of no importance now. I am late and really must take my leave.” Miss Blake gave a nervous bob that was probably meant as a curtsey. “Lady Barton, Miss Sedgwick.” And on that note she fled.

  “An ill-bred chit if ever I saw one,” Lady Barton observed. “It is a wonder that she was let out of the schoolroom.”

  For once Jane agreed with Lady Barton. Miss Blake’s thoughtless comments had stung. So society thought that she was lucky to find any kind of husband, after Glendale had blacked her name? And she hadn’t missed the implications that Mr. Whitmore would never have been considered a catch, if it wasn’t for her disgrace.

  A pox on Miss Blake and on the whole of society, Jane decided crossly. She wanted no part of it. It w
as absurd that people should praise the callous Glendale, and despise a decent and upright man like Mr. Whitmore, merely because he happened to work for a living. The more Jane saw of the so-called nobility, the more she was convinced that marrying Mr. Whitmore was the right decision. She was lucky to have found a man whose character was beyond reproach, and she would work hard to make him a good wife.

  Glendale climbed the steps to Lady Barton’s town house slowly, his heart full of trepidation. He had no idea of what he would say to Miss Sedgwick, but he knew that he had to see her. He owed her an apology, although he wouldn’t blame her if she was unable to forgive him. For both their sakes, he hoped she would give him another chance.

  The door was opened by the imperious Browning. Lady Barton’s butler gave him his most haughty stare, and enquired, “Yes, your lordship?”

  “Is Miss Sedgwick at home?” Glendale asked.

  “Miss Sedgwick is not at home,” Browning replied in glacial tones. He made no move to open the door wider to permit Glendale to enter.

  Glendale suddenly recalled the first time Browning had uttered those words. On that occasion Glendale had paid him no heed, inviting himself in and proceeding to interrupt Miss Sedgwick’s dance lesson. Had it really been just a few short weeks ago? It seemed like Jane had been part of his life forever. And now unless he did something, she’d be gone from him for good.

  “And Lady Barton?”

  “Lady Barton is also not at home. Would your lordship care to leave a card?”

  Leave a card as if he were some casual acquaintance? Browning had never been friendly, but now he was treating Glendale with all the warmth reserved for upstart mushrooms and counter-jumpers.

  “No,” Glendale said shortly. But after a moment he reconsidered. Reaching into his coat pocket he pulled out his silver card case. “Tell Miss Sedgwick that I must speak with her,” Glendale said, extracting a card from the case.

  “I will see that she is so informed,” Browning said. With a dignified nod he shut the door in Glendale’s face.

  Glendale stood there for a moment, staring foolishly at the closed door. The butler had made him feel like a recalcitrant schoolboy. But his attitude had answered one question at least. There was no question of whom Browning felt responsible for the scandal that had enveloped the occupants of 19 Berkeley Square.

  Glendale called back later, and was rebuffed by a footman. The footman claimed no knowledge of the ladies’ whereabouts, but the sight of a golden guinea greatly improved his memory, to the point where he was able to recall that they had recently departed on a shopping expedition. The news cheered Glendale. Perhaps Miss Sedgwick had truly not been at home when he first called.

  Glendale waited till five o’clock before he tried again. At this hour the ladies were certain to have returned home. And according to the talkative footman, they were planning to dine at home, so there was no chance that he would miss them.

  The first setback to his plans occurred when the door was opened by the imperious Browning, instead of the covetous young James. “Miss Sedgwick is not at home,” Browning said, before Glendale had a chance to state his errand.

  “Indeed?”

  “Miss Sedgwick has informed me that she is not at home, that she will never be at home to your lordship.” Browning’s eyes glimmered with satisfaction as he delivered this set-down. “However, Lady Barton has no objections to your company, if you should care to step inside.”

  Blast! He had no interest in talking to his uncle’s wife. It was Lady Barton’s fault that they were in this mess in the first place. If she hadn’t held that dinner party, throwing an unprepared Jane to the wolves as it were, then he and Freddie would never have dreamed up that idiotic wager. Glendale knew he was being irrational, but there was no help for it.

  But what to do now? The idea of breaking the door down and forcing his way in held a certain appeal, even as he dismissed the idea as impractical. True, he could force his way in to see Jane, but he had no way of making her listen to him. What he needed was an intermediary. Lady Barton came to mind, but he was unwilling to ask Lady Barton to intercede for him.

  Who was there in London that Jane would trust? No name came to mind. Except for himself and Lord Frederick, she hadn’t seemed especially close to anyone. But the thought of Freddie gave him an idea. Perhaps Freddie could help. After all, he had championed Jane’s cause the last time they met, so surely he would be willing to lend his assistance. And Freddie had the distinct advantage of having three sisters in London this season. If a female accomplice was required, they would not have to look far. Crossing to the writing table Glendale dashed off a quick note, then rang the bell to summon a footman.

  “See to it that this message is delivered to Lord Frederick at once,” Glendale instructed.

  “Yes, my lord,” the footman replied.

  “You’re to put it in his hands, and no one else’s,” Glendale continued. “I don’t care if it takes all day and night. Don’t come back until you find him.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  The footman eyed him speculatively, but when no further instructions were forthcoming, he gave a quick bow and went off on his errand.

  The footman returned in the early evening, his mission accomplished, but it was breakfast time the next morning before Lord Frederick saw fit to respond to Glendale’s hastily scrawled summons.

  “Lord Frederick is here. Shall I show him in, my lord?” Fisk enquired.

  “Never mind, I’ll show myself in,” Freddie said, stepping around Fisk and entering the morning room. “Be a good chap and bring me some coffee,” Freddie added, as he seated himself at the opposite end of the table from Glendale.

  The young footman gave Glendale a nervous look, uncertain of his master’s temper.

  “Fetch us both some coffee, if you would,” Glendale instructed. “I’ve already breakfasted, but would you care for something?”

  “No, no,” Freddie shuddered at the notion. “It is much too early to be thinking about food. Just coffee.”

  Glendale watched impatiently as Freddie made a ritual out of adding cream and sugar in exact portions, sipped critically, then put the cup down to add more sugar. Finally Freddie pronounced himself satisfied, and the hovering footman left.

  “Thank you for coming by,” Glendale began.

  “How could I not? After receiving your elegant apology,” Freddie responded.

  “Apology? What apology?” The tersely worded note had merely said that Glendale needed to see Freddie on a matter of importance.

  “The one that you are about to make me.” The playfulness left Freddie’s expression, and he lowered the cup into the saucer. “I am waiting.”

  Glendale should have known that his old friend wasn’t going to make this easy for him. “Very well. I apologize. I was a fool. A cork-brained sapskull. A veritable out-and-outer. No gentleman would have acted as I did. I deserve to be drawn and quartered for my crimes. I—”

  “That’s enough,” Freddie interjected. “After all, I was part of this harebrained wager.”

  “Yes, but you weren’t the one who made it common knowledge.”

  It was the unvarnished truth. There was nothing Freddie could say that would alter the circumstances. Instead he chose to change the subject. “So when did you come to your senses, and what are you going to do about it?”

  Glendale paused, uncertain of how much to reveal to Lord Frederick. “I discovered that Miss Sedgwick’s background isn’t quite what we thought it was.”

  “Don’t try and tell me that she’s illegitimate, or that her mother eloped with a stable boy, and that is why the family is stuck in Yorkshire.”

  “No, it isn’t like that. But didn’t you think it odd that Miss Sedgwick was so ill-prepared for the Season?”

  “Of course I did. We both did. That’s why we made that silly wager and got ourselves into this coil,” Freddie said impatiently.

  So much for his attempts to hint at the truth. “There’s a
simple explanation. When Jane’s father died he left the family in a rather bad way. They’ve barely been getting by for the last few years. There was no money for any luxuries. No governess, no schooling for her brothers, no fancy ball gowns or dancing masters. They’re practically in Dun Territory.”

  Freddie whistled soundlessly at this revelation. “So that’s why.” A thought seemed to strike him. “Does Lady Barton know?”

  “She must,” Glendale said drily. “But there’s some quarrel there, and she’s never offered to help. If it wasn’t for my uncle insisting that she do right by her family, Jane would still be stuck in the country.”

  And he would never have met her. Would never have known that someone as special as Jane existed. As much as he regretted his actions, Glendale still felt fortunate to have encountered her.

  “So what does this have to do with the other night?” Freddie persisted, breaking into Glendale’s train of thought.

  “Well, things have gotten rather worse for the family. It looks like they’re about to lose everything. Jane tried to confide in me the other night, but I misunderstood.” It was painful to remember the encounter. Jane’s worried eyes, the hesitancy in her speech, her shock when he rebuffed her; how different everything appeared now that he knew the truth. “She told me that she couldn’t afford to wait any longer to make a match. I took her words amiss, and the rest you know.”

  There. It was out. Glendale felt better for having finally confessed. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” he added.

  Freddie had remained silent as the tale unfolded, appearing engrossed in tracking the patterns of the linen tablecloth with his spoon. Now he looked directly at Glendale. “Yes, you do. You were thinking of that poisonous bitch Julia Hanscombe.”

  Glendale flinched. It had been years since anyone had dared mention her name in his presence. Even now, the memory of his former fiancée still stung.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps nothing. But how could you make such a mistake? Jane is nothing like Miss Hanscombe.”