The lady glanced fleetingly at the pomander with distaste, put it down on the table, and then ignored it. Likewise, she paid no attention to the letter in her hand but instead took a seat across from Ariana on a matching sofa. She gestured to the maid who was standing nearby, and the servant poured tea for them. Afterward, Mrs. Bentley dismissed her help and then sat sipping her tea, asking Ariana questions about the family, and trying not to openly study her niece while she answered.
Ariana eyed the letter uneasily, wondering if it would be rude to remind her aunt to read it. Meanwhile, her relation was congratulating herself for finally having got a niece to sponsor. During the season the need to secure advantageous matches for sons and daughters was hidden beneath a veneer of hospitality and party-going. Mrs. Bentley now had something to offer the mama looking to make a match for a son. This gave her the assurance of being included on more invitation lists than if she was alone.
Of course there was always the option of marrying Mr. Pellham, her dearest and most valued friend—who had proposed to her more than once—but he was merely a retired banker. And despite his wealth, retired bankers were not at all the sort of people admired by the ton. He, in turn, disdained any man who even faintly resembled a “fashionable,” insisting they were all fops or dandies. This led him to treat nearly all of the beau monde with undisguised contempt. While Mrs. Bentley knew many of the elite were tolerant of eccentricities (most of them were eccentrics themselves) this tolerance did not extend to receiving condescension from a retired tradesman.
This was Mr. Pellham’s only fault, but unfortunately it was a dire one for Mrs. Bentley, who had to choose between her dear, faithful friend, or involvement with the ton. During much of the year Mrs. Bentley was happy to forgo social climbing. Randolph Pellham was a frequent visitor, a deft opponent at cards, and kept her amused with accounts of exotic lands and destinations gleaned from a large collection of travel literature—his favourite reading material.
Meanwhile, Ariana was waiting to be offered a biscuit, wondering if she ought to volunteer to read the letter to her aunt. She was also quite desirous to see her bedchamber and to get a good night’s sleep. Posting-houses were comfortable, but not the quietest of establishments, and, coupled with her excitement upon going to London, she hadn’t slept a great deal since leaving Chesterton.
She was disappointed with her relation at this first meeting, but scolded herself for it. How blessed she was to be given this opportunity to experience a different lifestyle! She could not expect her aunt to be as comfortable as a dear old friend, or one’s favourite gown. The two would need time to grow accustomed to one another. And surely she would have opportunity to make other acquaintances while in London. She was pulled from such thoughts by an unexpected voice at the door.
“You see, Mrs. B., all your worries were in vain. Your niece is well-mannered and much handsomer than you hoped, I warrant.” The voice was male, and Ariana turned in surprise, unaware that someone had been beholding the meeting from the doorway. An elderly gentleman stood on the threshold with a friendly, “I told-you-so” sort of smile on his face, and he looked from Ariana to her aunt.
He was dressed gracefully in a rich black embroidered frock coat and buff trousers. He came toward them leaning on a golden-handled cane but walking with a great deal of dignity and with a smile on his moustached face. Ariana liked him at once; even before he said to Mrs. Bentley, “I daresay she is beautiful, in fact, and will make you proud to be her relation, and her chaperon.”
The man then strode toward Ariana, who rose to her feet.
Aunt Bentley smiled at her visitor, but said to Ariana, “Did I not tell you a young lady remains seated when company enters the room? You do not rise for a gentleman, it is the other way round.” The rebuke in her voice made Ariana blush and she quickly reclaimed her seat. The gentleman, who had come and stood before her, bowed politely and reached for her hand. He introduced himself as “Mr. Pellham, retired banker, reformed gambler, and the devoted gentleman-friend of this lovely lady, whom you call ‘aunt.’ ” Ariana nodded (being unable to curtsey as she was sitting down), and said, “Miss Ariana Forsythe. How do you do?”
“Welcome to London, my dear,” he said gravely, and then, noticing the pomander upon the table took it, sniffed, and said, “Lovely; I shall recommend your aunt hang it in her wardrobe.”
Mrs. Bentley, however, had stopped with her teacup in midair, and was looking at Ariana strangely. “You are not Alberta? You are not my brother’s eldest child?”
Ariana’s face grew instantly rosy. “I am Ariana, the second eldest, Aunt.” There was an awkward silence, except that her aunt took the sip of tea she had begun to take earlier, and then put down her cup.
“Why did you deceive me?” she asked, with one hand on her heart.
Ariana’s expressive eyes grew larger. “Aunt Bentley, I gave you a letter from Papa, which I asked you to read directly. He explains everything in it; you would have understood the matter if you had read it at once.”
“Would I indeed!” She looked at Mr. Pellham and remarked, “The young lady is quite outspoken, is she not?” Ariana’s eyes dropped to her lap. Her aunt, if she chose, could send her right back to Chesterton.
“I beg your pardon, Aunt.”
“Mm,” was her reply, but her face lightened and she took up the letter and pried open the wax seal so that it did not crumble at all, and began to read. Mr. Pellham turned to Ariana.
“Allow me,” he said, taking up a plate of biscuits and offering it to her. Ariana thanked him. She enjoyed what she ate, and when her aunt had read the letter she folded it and then looked at Ariana afresh.
“Well! At least I know who I have in my drawing room, now.”
Ariana ate lightly and sipped tea, while listening to the two adults.
“I warrant I shall see less of you in the next few months than I have been accustomed to,” said Mr. Pellham.
“Do you indeed think so?” She sounded highly gratified, understanding that he was referring to how busy she might be during the season.
“With Miss Ariana as your charge,” he said, with a wink at Ariana, “I expect you shall be the toast of the town!” Another wink came Ariana’s way, while her aunt gave a surprisingly feminine tinkle of laughter.
“You cannot think so!”
Ariana was amazed at the transformation in her relation. The hardness of her face melted and she looked exceedingly less formidable, even younger, than she had moments earlier. Mr. Pellham was the perfect antidote for Mrs. Bentley’s sharp edges.
He looked at Ariana. “Is your niece aware of your grand plans for her?” Mrs. Bentley took a small sip of her tea but said nothing. “Under the aegis of your aunt,” he said to Ariana, “you will attend the most fashionable dinner parties with the cream of society. You will meet more blue bloods I think, than you will wish to remember, and,” he added, in a mischievous tone, “I would not want to be in your shoes for all the spices in India!” He paused and looked appraisingly at Ariana. “Do those plans agree with you?”
They both paused to hear her answer. “I suppose so,” she stated, carefully. “Though I believe my parents wished me to see mostly the sights of London.”
Mr. Pellham chuckled. “You will see sights among the ton like nowhere else on earth!”
“Randolph! The child is not referring to people, as you well know.”
He gave her a patient look, but twirled his moustache and then whispered to Ariana, “I must behave myself.” In a louder tone he said, “So you are referring, I take it, to museums and such?” He looked sideways at Mrs. Bentley to offer an expression of utter innocence, and Ariana bit her lip in order to hold back a giggle.
“Yes.” She paused, thinking. “And St. Pauls, and the Royal Academy, and the British Gallery; a special exhibition of portrait artists is going on, you know!” Her eyes lit up as she spoke. “My papa had it from The London Gazette!”
“Capital!” he exclaimed. “Did you hear, Mrs
. B.? A special exhibit of portraits!”
Mrs. Bentley nodded. “I did. If there is time,” she added in an imperious tone, “Ariana may do such things. But social calls are given first consideration. The season is practically upon us, and we have precious few invitations. Fortunately,” she added, smugly, “I already have an ace in hand! An invitation from Mrs. Royleforst for a picnic at Aspindon!” She paused, having expected to impress her audience, but her smile vanished as she realized the utter failure of the present company to appreciate the pleasure of receiving an invitation from the Paragon’s only relation.
Both faces remained politely interested, however, so she went on. “The other few invitations are also impeccable, from the best families. The Hendersons, Lord and Lady Sherwood, Countess D’Amici.” Her voice trailed off. “I think that’s all I’ve had so far. We must procure more!” Looking earnestly at the others she added, “Without invitations, we are nothing.” She smiled at Ariana with a self-satisfied expression. How fortunate for my niece, she was thinking, that I am utterly capable of manoeuvring her successfully into society.
“We can go to Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, and all of the popular haunts.” With a finger waving expressively and an earnest expression, she continued, “Being seen, my gel, is as important as a dozen calls, if the timing is right! Being seen! But without invitations we are nothing.”
Mr. Pellham was looking fondly at Ariana’s aunt. “The three of us could make a fine company, and show your niece all she longs to see. We needn’t care a fig for another invitation all season!” Ariana met his eyes and smiled her agreement, but Mrs. Bentley was shaking her head.
“My niece did not come to London for the company of two old crows! She is a debutante, Randolph. And I intend to see her debuted. Indeed, I am eager to do so.” And she took a bite of a biscuit as if she had just settled the war with France.
“Will I go to court, then?” asked Ariana, surprised. She had heard that Queen Charlotte had stopped the practice of allowing young ladies to be presented, now that her son was Regent.
“If not, my gel, your first appearance at Almack’s or any other place of social importance will be considered your debut. In fact, now I think on it, we must assure that you receive a proper notice; I will begin introductions as soon as your wardrobe is in hand.”
“But there must be an agreeable time for cultural exhibits,” Mr. Pellham inserted, hopefully. Mrs. Bentley made an uncomfortable sound in her throat.
“You know, Randolph, that I dread museums! So many old things. In addition to which Ariana may have no time for such. I have plans, things that she and I must do. Places we must go!” She stared at him a little wide-eyed, and he patted her hand soothingly.
“Of course, Mrs. B., of course. I shall escort your niece to cultural sights only when you have given your explicit leave. As for your balls and routs and assemblies, I am certain Miss Ariana will enjoy those with you. Neither of us is intent on depriving you of these pleasures.”
“No, ma’am,” added Ariana. “But I must say, my parents do expect me to avail myself of the sights while I am here.”
“Oh, yes, I know!” her aunt sputtered, holding up the letter from her father. “I will not promise you—” she began, then stopped.
Mr. Pellham hurried to say, “You and I have enjoyed many days of touring town together, Mrs. B., and I recall that you much admired the interior of the Pantheon on Oxford Street, though we were not together when you saw it.”
She registered the thought with a brief smile, but replied, “It burned down, which was a shame, and is now a theatre, I believe.”
“You see, you do recall!” he persisted, pleased.
Mrs. Bentley sniffed. “I cannot say but there will be no time for such. But we shall see.”
Ariana hoped there would be time. She longed to visit a museum or attend an art exhibit. Such things could stir her soul profoundly. Moreover, it would provide much to write home about and please her parents besides.
Mrs. Bentley stood up and reached for the bellpull. “I daresay you are tired, Ariana,” she stated, in a way that Ariana knew she was being dismissed. She wasn’t sorry. Mr. Pellham rose and gave her a fine bow.
“We will discuss an itinerary at a future time,” he confided, in a loud whisper, and then Mrs. Ruskin was there to escort her to her chamber.
Mrs. Bentley watched her go with a gratifying sense of having done the right thing in sending for her. The gel was a pleasure to look on, sat up straight, held her teacup delicately, and made not a sound as she ate. In addition, beneath the flickering light of the candles, her niece’s eyes shone golden. Unusual for eyes, but quite becoming, her chaperon decided.
It was more than she had hoped for.
Five
After breakfast the following morning, a seamstress and her girl arrived to measure Ariana for the all-important wardrobe. Mrs. Bentley wished to speedily outfit her niece, a thing she deemed doubly imperative after taking inventory of what Ariana had brought with her. Pretty fabrics, to be sure, but plainly cut and nothing out of the way. Mrs. Bentley dressed richly and with good taste; her niece must do so as well. Only the latest fashions and accoutrements of the first water, and all to be bespoken as speedily as possible. Why? Because Mrs. Royleforst’s outdoor party was merely one week away, and it had taken on the significance—at least to Mrs. Bentley’s mind—of ushering in the season.
The modiste brought fabric samples—more than existed in the entire linen draper’s shop back in Chesterton, Ariana noticed—but exhorted Madame to visit her shop on Bond Street to see more. Heedless, her aunt turned pages of Le Beau Monde, a highbrow journal of fashion Ariana had never seen before, jumping from that to La Belle Assemblee, or, Lady’s Fashionable Companion, stopping to order this morning dress, or that evening gown. Ariana tried to peek as often as possible, hearing such tantalizing names as “watered silk, beaded bombazine, printed muslin or calico or cotton, satin, net, chintz, sarsnet, or lace,” but she was not once called upon for an opinion.
Mrs. Bentley gave long and detailed instructions on how she wished the gowns to be altered so they did not exactly mirror the ones on the pages. Her niece must appear as an Original. She specified changes in fabrics, trimmings and linings, buttons or sashes or lace; even which sort or colour of thread to be used.
Ariana shortly began to grow dumbstruck at the quantity of dresses her aunt was bespeaking. It was fascinating to hear her instructions, too, for she was no less than a genius at costume. She studied her aunt in astonishment for a clue as to why this woman, who seemed to be of sound mind, was spending a king’s ransom on a niece she barely knew. Mrs. Ruskin stood nearby with pencil and paper in hand, listing every order and instruction and writing as fast as that poor woman could manage. As her hand moved down the paper, Ariana could do little more than watch, fascinated, and yet with a faint unease.
Had her parents realized that a London season could require so much? What if they knew of all this? She was certain her papa could never approve such an expenditure.
“Take note of this bonnet, Ariana,” her aunt said suddenly, pulling her from her thoughts. Ariana obediently surveyed the page open before her aunt, and exclaimed, “How lovely!” It was a novel and elegant little piece of head wear, trimmed in Brussels lace and ribbon and sporting a dashing little ostrich feather. She instantly forgot her qualms and noted, boldly, “None of my bonnets has a real feather!”
“We shall look for one just like this,” Mrs. Bentley said. “But we do not bespeak bonnets from the seamstress. We shall go to Pall Mall or Bond Street. Even Oxford Street or to a warehouse down on Piccadilly. Some very respectable shops are there, and I want a certain style of Grecian head wreath for you which I feel certain we shall find on Oxford Street.”
When the modiste and her samples and catalogues had gone, Mrs. Bentley wrote a list of items that still needed to be purchased, saying each aloud as she thought of it. Ariana was again bewildered. Besides silk slippers and leather hal
f-boots, fans and handkerchiefs, there were chemises and bonnets, gloves and stockings, ribbons, turbans, a shawl, a new pelisse, and perhaps a parasol or two. A proper corset might also be required, she said, staring thoughtfully (and to Ariana’s acute discomfort) at her chest, which, she said, needed more of an uplift to fully benefit from the fashion.
“Aunt Bentley, please recall that I brought quite a few of these items with me from home. There is no need to—”
Mrs. Bentley looked up from her list with an absent expression, in thought, but then waved away what her niece had said. “You can use them if necessary, but I prefer you will use what I provide.” She spoke quickly, in a tone that said to leave her to her thoughts and Ariana did not cavil again. But she sat there with the beginnings of a tiny, dark cloud above her head. Despite her delight at the beautiful house and her own agreeably comfortable bedchamber; and even at the prospect of wearing all the finery, she felt an unhappy discomfort.
Mrs. Bentley finished her list and summoned Haines to fetch the carriage. “We will shop directly,” she informed her niece, who nodded from where she sat, in a lacy cambric morning dress and cap. “You need to change quickly. Put on that…er…pretty gray silk you had on yesterday.”
“Wear it again?” she asked, surprised.
“Do you have a finer one?”
“No; that is my finest walking-out dress.”
“Then wear it.”
She called Harrietta, a servant just promoted to the position of lady’s maid expressly for Ariana until she could hire a good French one (for they were best at fashioning the intricate hairstyles that were all the rage) to help her niece dress.
Although Ariana was wary of the enormousness of her aunt’s expenses on her account, she was nevertheless delighted when the carriage let them off in Pall Mall for shopping. The busy avenue bustled with carriages of all styles and sizes, and with crowds of pedestrians going in and out of fascinating highbrow shops. When they reached Harding, Howell & Co.’s Grand Fashionable Magazine, Mrs. Bentley turned decidedly and entered. It was a huge, high-ceilinged place with a great circular glassed dome in the centre of the ceiling which let in a good amount of light. On either side the walls were lined with large shelves holding all manner of haberdashery and millinery. Everywhere, they saw furs and fans, lustrous silks, muslins, lace, and gloves. Further inside another shop sported shelves of jewelery and ornamental articles, many in ormolu.
Before the Season Ends Page 4
