~*~
“Have you ever noticed that London is exceedingly strange?” Charlie asked her friend. She had just entered the small parlour of the house in Cheapside, which contained both the grocery shop of Emma-Louise’s parents as well as their living quarters.
Emma-Lee busied herself with the tea-things that a little maid had brought up from the kitchen. “I can’t say that I have,” she murmured.
“Well, take the footman.” Charlie plopped down on the sofa. “Did you know that I cannot leave the house on my own? Instead, I am obliged to take a footman along. That is excessively strange, if you ask me.”
Emma-Lee raised her brows. “I didn’t see you arrive in the company of a footman.—Tea?” She held out an old-fashioned tea bowl.
“Bah, the footman!” Charlie waved her hand dismissively, then accepted the offered tea. “Thank you.” She took a sip. “I lost him,” she finally admitted.
“Ah,” was all her friend said, but there was a wealth of meaning in her words.
Charlie shifted on her seat. It was, she found, near impossible to hide something from the girl with whom you’d shared a room and all your secrets for the past eight years. “I stepped around a corner, then around another corner, and then he was gone. It wasn’t design or anything like that.”
“Hmm.” Emma-Louise eyed her shrewdly. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that your aunt and uncle wouldn’t approve of your friend in Cheapside, would it?”
“No. No, it is nothing like that!” Charlie protested. At the sight of a quirked golden brow, however, she caved in. “Well, yes.” She sighed. “They wouldn’t approve of me coming here. And I might have walked rather quickly and turned around the corner rather—”
Her friend’s mouth curved. “Oh Charlie!”
“—fast, and that’s another thing that I simply do not understand: for nearly half of our lives we went to the same school, yet now I am not supposed to know you?”
“That is London.”
Charlie gave an unlady-like snort. “It is ridiculous!” Smouldering, she drank from her tea. “Back at St. Cuthbert’s I thought of this—” She waved her hand around to indicate the whole of London. “—as a wonderful, exciting adventure. I craved adventure, you know I did. And now? Pish!”
“Oh Charlie!” Emma-Lee gave a helpless laugh. “Didn’t you remember—”
“—about London? Of course I didn’t. My childhood was spent in Italy, and afterwards…” She shrugged. “I spent only a few days, a fortnight perhaps, in my uncle’s house before I was sent to dear, old St. Cuthbert’s. That time is all a blur and I don’t remember anything, not really, and—”
“Oh Charlie!” Emma-Louise exclaimed a third time. She stood and walked to the sofa to sit down beside Charlie. Putting an affectionate arm around her shoulder, she pressed a kiss on her cheek. “Do not glower at the carpet in such an alarming fashion, dear,” she said lightly. “You wouldn’t want it to catch fire.”
“Hmph.”
“It will be alright, sweeting. Once you get used to London ways, it will be alright. And now show me what you’ve brought in this bandbox of yours.”
Charlie decided to fall for the diversion, for, after all, Emma-Louise was her dearest friend and she seldom could resist her. So she put the tea bowl and saucer onto the small side table and reached for the bandbox. “It is a dress.” Taking it out, she stood up to show the whole length of the garment to Emma-Louise. “A ball gown, really.” She held it against her chest. “What do you think?”
Her friend eyed the gown up and down. Dismay flickered over her face. “Oh dear.”
“What?” Charlie looked down. “What is it?”
“It’s hideous; there is no polite way of putting it, I fear.” Anxiety clouded Emma-Lee’s eyes. “I do not wish to give you any pain, but it doesn’t suit you at all. The colour makes you look washed out, and the bodice! Dear heaven, the bodice!” She stood and leaned forward to examine the offending piece of needlework more closely. “It was made for somebody with a much larger…” She cupped her hands in front of her chest. “…altogether, was it not?”
“Is it really that bad?” A knot of apprehension began to form in Charlie’s stomach. “I feared it wasn’t all that sparkish, but…” She sighed. “It was my cousin’s. My aunt said it would suit me quite nicely after the seamstress had done a few alterations.”
Emma-Lee snorted. “A seamstress? What kind of seamstresses do they have in London? If any of the girls at St. Cuthbert’s would have produced such botchy work, Miss Riggs would have had her head, I assure you!”
“To be fair, Aunt Dolmore impressed upon the seamstress that the alterations of Cousin Caroline’s dress were of the utmost importance.”
Emma-Lee looked up sharply. “Ha.”
“They were of the utmost importance, I assure you. Caroline will turn five-and-twenty this spring, which places her almost squarely on the shelf.” Clutching the dress to her breast with one arm, Charlie scratched her nose. “Or so I understand.” She glanced down at the brilliantly white gown. “This used to be one of hers. Did you know that a new ball gown is frightfully expensive?”
At this, Emma-Lee’s lips thinned. “I see.” Not looking at Charlie, she went to one corner of the room and returned with her sewing basket.
A knot of apprehension formed in Charlie’s stomach. Had she inadvertently hurt her friend with her talk about fine balls Emma-Lee wouldn’t and couldn’t attend? Drat her wayward tongue! “Em?” she asked tentatively. “You don’t mind me talking of Mrs Feather-something-or-other’s ball, do you?”
“Don’t be daft!” Shaking her head, Emma-Louise turned around. “I wish you to enjoy your first grand social event. With all my heart, I wish you to enjoy it. But as to this—” With her chin she pointed at the offending dress. “There really is only one thing to do.” With a triumphant smile she produced a thin, flat blade. “Employ dexterity, creativity, and good fashion sense.” She put her head to the side. “And some pretty ribbons. Green, I think. Shall we start?”
Chapter 3
in which our heroine attends a ball
& our hero is enchanted by a pair of green eyes
Charlie’s first ball was an enormous success (she thought). Thanks to the friends’ combined efforts, her gown had undergone a beautifying transformation. The bodice now fitted beautifully, and a thin band of delicate, moss-green crochet lace accentuated the neckline and the sleeves. A ribbon of the same colour had been threaded around the high waistline and the hem had been decorated with swirling florals, embroidered in green silk. “You look as sweet and fresh as a snowdrop,” Emma-Lee had said with a satisfied smile at the final fitting.
Aunt Dolmore, by contrast, had been anything but satisfied when she had set eyes on Charlie coming down the stairs in the transformed dress. After having demanded an explanation how this transformation had come about, she had informed her niece that so much knowledge of plain sewing was vulgar and did not befit Charlie’s station in life.
Yet after this unhappy start, the evening had improved in heaps and bounds, as quite a number of the young gentlemen present at Mrs Featheringham’s ball had shown a decided interest in this new addition to the flowers of the London Season. One after the other the gentlemen had been led to Charlie by Mrs Featheringham, that esteemed London hostess who prided herself on the splendour of her balls and the useful connections she made for the advancement of her husband—and who thought she was doing Mrs Dolmore a favour. Therefore a veritable flock of eligible gentlemen had been duly introduced to Charlie and had been obliged to sweep her into round after round of musical gaiety.
Though Charlie was still undecided whether she approved of being called a flower, she thoroughly enjoyed the dancing. Oh, the dancing! It was so much more exciting, thrilling, than the dancing lessons in the hall of dear, old St. Cuthbert’s, with Mr Bernstone, their music-cum-dancing master, counting the rhythm aloud and trying to steer a horde of giggling girls through the steps of a
country dance.
This, this wonderful ball, was magical by contrast—from the candles blazing from the chandeliers, bedecked with crystals that glittered like icicles, to the sweet sounds of the small orchestra.
Imagine that! An orchestra playing the music for a ball! It was so much more… refined than Miss Riggs’s efforts on the piano during the dancing lessons at St. Cuthbert’s.
And best of all: to dance with a gentleman instead of a fellow student! Why, her insides had been all aflutter during the first few dances (even though she had told herself sternly that such silliness was the first step of becoming an utter henwit).
She had stood up with a respectable number of gentlemen, she thought; most of them fine, dashing fellows. London men looked so different from the men she had met before. Somehow, they shone like ever so many polished pennies. Nicely perfumed pennies at that, which had been a most unexpected discovery.
Cleanliness at St. Cuthbert’s smelled of soap and beeswax. Here in London, it smelled of flowers and sweetness and dark, exotic scents she couldn’t even name.
In a word, Charlie was bedazzled. She didn’t even mind that evening that Aunt Dolmore kept insisting on calling her “Charlotte” because in her opinion “Carlotta” sounded far too Italian and hence must be considered vulgar and coarse.
Indeed, she was so immersed in the wonders of London that the fact that most gentlemen seemed rather… well, short did not bother her in the least. After all, she was used to towering above the rest of the world, even if Aunt Dolmore—rather small and plump herself—considered height a great affliction.
Another round of dancing ended, and during the confusion following upon the bows and curtsies, Charlie’s partner disappeared. This was not the first time this had happened that evening, which she thought most puzzling—after all, Mr Bernstone had always insisted that the gentleman ought to lead his partner back to her dear mama or some kind of chaperone. But perhaps, Charlie reasoned, Mr Bernstone was a little behind the current fashion. Besides, she did not mind finding herself at the other end of the ballroom, far away from Aunt Dolmore. She could easily make her way back to her aunt, after all.
And in a moment she would, yet the dancing and all the excitement—giddy nitwit!—had rendered her decidedly breathless.
Spying a row of chairs at the wall, she walked towards them, and with a grateful sigh sank down onto one of them. As she now wriggled her toes, she became aware how much her feet hurt. The soles positively burnt.
Charlie scowled at the tips of the flimsy slippers that peeked out from under the hem of her dress. How aggravating that such light things were deemed suitable footwear for dancing the night through! Why, they were so flimsy that a brisk walk through the grounds of St. Cuthbert’s would probably shred them to pieces!
“What a beautiful dress you are wearing,” somebody said.
Charlie raised her head and only now became fully aware of the young woman who sat two seats down from her in a wicker chair and was studying the hem of Charlie’s dress with obvious admiration.
“The embroidery is exquisite.” She looked up, and Charlie caught sight of a pair of sparkling brown eyes under a mop of corkscrew curls. “You must tell me where you had it done!”
Charlie gave a surprised laugh. “Well, nowhere. I did it myself.”
The brown eyes rounded. “You don’t say! How extraordinary.”
“Oh dear.” Charlie clapped her hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have told you this, should I? My aunt tells me that too much knowledge of plain sewing is most indelicate in a young lady. Though why it should be indelicate I don’t know, do you? I daresay it is one of those curious things about London.” She nodded to herself. “Yes, most likely.” Then she focused her attention on the other girl again. “Do you find London curious?”
The brown eyes seemed flabbergasted. “I… I can’t say…”
“Ah well, you probably are from London, aren’t you? Then it would be different for you, of course. How exciting!” Charlie slipped onto the chair nearer to the girl. “Have you lived in London all your life, then? You probably have, and I envy you most dreadfully. It is such a thrilling place!” She slid onto the next chair so she finally sat side by side with her new acquaintance. “Absolutely smick-smack, if you ask me. I am Carlotta Stanton, by the way.”
“Lady Isabella Griffin,” the other girl said in somewhat faint tones. “How do you do, Miss Stanton?”
“Oh dear,” Charlie sighed. “I shouldn’t have said that either, should I? I should have called the hostess or somebody to introduce myself. How very vexing!”
At this Lady Isabella smiled, a genuine smile that lit up her pale face. “Pray don’t vex yourself. You are perfectly charming, and where in this… this…” She indicated the crowded room.
“Mêlée,” Charlie provided helpfully.
A surprised giggle. “Mêlée—I like that. Where in this mêlée would you have started to search for Mrs Featheringham?”
“Quite.” Charlie nodded in what she hoped was a wise fashion and tried to hide her relief. Navigating the social niceties of London had proven to be full of pitfalls. “Pray, would you care for some refreshments? I am rather famished myself, I have to say.”
Which, alas, seemed to have been the wrong thing to say, as a grimace flickered across her new friend’s face. “Thank you, no. I don’t partake of refreshments tonight.”
“You don’t?” Flabbergasted, Charlie stared at her, trying to think of a reason why somebody would want to abstain from food and drink. “Is it,” she asked in an undertone, leaning towards the girl, “is it for religious reasons?” She knew from experience that some Catholics were very strict in their customs. Rather like Puritans, only with incense.
Apparently that was yet again the wrong thing to say because Lady Isabella stared at her in the most flabbergasted way.
“Oh dear.” Charlie sighed. “I have put my foot in, haven’t I? My Aunt Dolmore tells me that I am very clumsy indeed when it comes to polite conversation, and unfortunately she appears to be right.”
Rosy colour shone on Lady Isabella’s cheeks. “Oh, please don’t overfret on my account. You see, it is my chair. I am… ah…” Her colour deepened. “I am bound to it. I can’t walk. Not properly, that is.”
“Oh.” Charlie felt her own cheeks heat. How stupid of her not to have seen that this was a wheeling chair! “But…” She cleared her throat. “But hasn’t it got wheels?”
“Of course it has.”
“So you can roll about in it?”
“Only if somebody pushes me.”
By now, both their faces must be scarlet with mortification. “Oh. How very vexing for you!” Charlie exclaimed. “But I could, you know, push you to the refreshments room, if you would like.”
Lady Isabella studied her hands, which she held clasped in her lap. “I thank you most sincerely, but I am afraid I must decline.”
Frowning, Charlie stared at her and tried to figure out what she had missed. She must have missed something, that much was clear. “I am afraid I don’t understand,” she said finally. Was the other girl weary of her company, perhaps?
Lady Isabella looked up and caught Charlie’s puzzled, slightly hurt gaze. She sighed. “The ladies’ withdrawing room is on the first floor. Upstairs.”
Understanding dawned. “And with your chair… you can’t…”
The girl shook her head. “I hate stairs!” she burst out. “I hate them most dreadfully!” Becoming aware of her violent outburst, she clapped her hand over her mouth. Her startled gaze flew up to Charlie’s. For a moment she stared at her, dismay written on her face, but then, suddenly, she giggled. She let her hand fall into her lap again. “I have never told anybody about this before.” Another giggle. “But it’s so… so… refreshing!” She beamed at Charlie and held out her hand. “You are refreshing.”
Charlie laid her hand in the girl’s cool palm and let her squeeze her fingers. She felt absurdly glad that even if she was a failure where
polite conversation was concerned, she had nevertheless managed to make her new friend happy.
“You must accompany me on my drive one day. Please say you will!”
“Certainly,” Charlie readily agreed.
“Tomorrow? Or perhaps the day after? The day after will be better, won’t it? When tomorrow we will probably be most terribly fatigued from the ball.” A shadow crossed over Lady Isabella’s face and she dropped Charlie’s hand. “You must want to continue dancing. I am keeping you from finding a partner.”
“No, you’re not. You—”
“Oh, but I am. I know it. See, there’s Mr Daicles and Lord Archibald.” Lady Isabella’s voice dropped to a whisper as she discreetly pointed out two young gentlemen who were strolling towards them, punch glasses in hand. “Shall I introduce you? I am sure one of them would want to dance with you.”
“No, no, please do not trouble yourself,” Charlie whispered back. She had already danced with one of the gentleman, and while this had not been an unpleasant experience, she found she would rather remain where she was and continue chatting with her new friend.
Fortunately the two gentlemen didn’t show any inclination to dance and instead stopped almost in front of the two girls, sipping their punch and looking idly at the couples that went through the motions of a country dance.
“Beastly drink, this,” one of them muttered, none too quietly.
The two girls exchanged a glance.
“Indeed. Too much lemon, I say.” Though this didn’t keep him from taking another deep gulp from his glass.
“All-round beastly affair, this ball.” The first speaker shook his head, making his carefully combed curls bounce. “The Featheringham keeps pressing chits on a fellow in a most dreadful fashion. This year’s crop is shockingly disappointing if you ask me.”
Isabella’s fingers dug into Charlie’s arm. The girl’s face was suffused with indignation. How dare they! she mouthed noiselessly.
Springtime Pleasures Page 3
