by Carola Dunn
“I shall hold you to your promise, mind. You must write it down immediately lest you forget.”
“I shall not forget!” Alison vowed. She asked the footman, Henry, who opened the door where Lady Emma was to be found.
“Her ladyship’s in the drawing-room, miss.” He grinned at her. “You’ve had good news, looks like?”
She nodded, beaming, and sped to the drawing-room. Lady Emma looked round as she entered.
“Such a famous thing, ma’am. Lord Fane has engaged me for the supper dance!” She realized that a gentleman, seated with his back to her, was rising politely. “Oh, I beg your pardon, I did not know anyone. . . How do you do, sir. Is it not beyond anything great?”
Mr. Trevelyan bowed and said mockingly, “Beyond anything. I’m off, Emma. I shall bring you the book I spoke of in the morning, early, after my ride.” His face a mask of boredom, he nodded to Alison and strode from the room.
Crestfallen, she dropped into a chair.
“I am sorry Mr. Trevelyan was not pleased for me,” she said plaintively.
“I daresay he is feeling a trifle downpin for some reason quite unconnected with you. So Lord Fane has done his duty, has he?”
Alison laughed. “I do not mean to boast but I believe he thought it a pleasure. He claimed that all the gentlemen in the Park envied him for driving me in his carriage. Was not that a pretty thing to say?”
“Most gratifying.”
“There was one gentleman—at least I suppose he is a gentleman. Lord Fane said he was a rackety fellow. Kilmore is his name, do you know him?”
“Lord Kilmore? Yes, we are acquainted. I believe I sent him an invitation to the ball.”
“You did? I thought perhaps he was not quite respectable.”
Lady Emma shrugged. “He is received everywhere. His manners are charming, and he is always ready to oblige by standing up with young ladies who are not in great demand.”
“Wallflowers? I hope I shall not be one. Lord Fane did ask for a second dance as well so I have three taken already. Unless Mr. Trevelyan means to cry off his?”
“Why ever should he do that?”
“He looked at me as if he did not like me, just now.”
“Nonsense, my dear. His mind was elsewhere. Besides he is by far too much the gentleman to do such a shocking thing. You may count on four dances, for my father has offered to lead you out for the first set since the ball is in his house.”
“Lord Edgehill?” Alison’s eyes grew round. “I do not deserve such an honour.”
“He, too, considers it a pleasure. A ‘fetching puss’ was how he described you to me. My parents have both taken quite a liking to you—I know you will strive to earn their approval. Mama means to come to our tea-party tomorrow. Your aunt is to be relied upon to supply the cakes and biscuits, is she not?”
“Oh yes, ma’am. She was so pleased and proud when you agreed to let her provide them. I expect she will be up all night baking. You can count on Aunt Cleo.”
* * * *
Alison remained confident of this claim until approximately half past nine the next morning, when Aunt Di arrived, accompanied by Midnight. Admitted to the breakfast parlour, where Alison and Lady Emma were discussing the plans for the day, she burst into tears.
The acutely embarrassed footman who had let her in waved helplessly at Midnight. “She says as she’s miss’s auntie, my lady, and I can’t stop the dog.”
“You acted perfectly correctly, Henry,” Lady Emma assured him, her wary gaze on the dog, while Alison sat the visitor down at the table, passed her a handkerchief and poured her a cup of tea.
“What is wrong, Aunt Di?” she asked in alarm. “Is someone ill?”
“Cleo wishes she was dead,” sniffed the miserable old lady. “That wretched maid Zenobia would hire left the kitchen door open and the terriers gobbled everything in sight.”
“The cakes for the party?”
“The cakes for the party. I’m so sorry, Alison dear, I don’t rightly know what to say.”
“It was not your fault, Aunt Di.” She glanced for help at Lady Emma, whose eyes never wavered from Midnight. The dog was advancing on her, tail waving gently, nose quivering, a plea in his deep-set eyes. Lady Emma involuntarily reached for a muffin.
“Midnight, behave yourself,” said Aunt Di sharply, recalled to her surroundings.
“We try to avoid feeding him at the table,” Alison explained.
“But he did not steal the cakes. Is there nothing left?” her ladyship asked, tearing off a piece of the muffin and holding it out in a slightly nervous hand.
Midnight took the tidbit from her with a delicate nibble. He laid his heavy black head on her lavender cambric lap and looked up at her in adoration. She fed him another morsel as Aunt Di answered gloomily.
“Nothing but crumbs, my lady. Cleo ran out to buy more flour and sugar and such, but she won’t have time to bake everything again, not with one oven and one pair of hands.”
There was silence as they contemplated the disaster. Midnight ate the last scrap of muffin, gave Lady Emma’s hand a polite lick and followed his nose to the sideboard, under which he stretched out for a snooze surrounded by the heavenly aroma of bacon and eggs.
“I doubt my kitchen is as large as yours,” said Lady Emma with a sigh. “I shall have Cook do what she can, and I daresay Gunter’s will have something, though they make a sad fuss if you do not give them adequate notice.”
“Gunter’s?” Mr. Trevelyan stepped into the breakfast room. “Here is the book I promised you, Emma. Good morning, Miss Di, Miss Alison. What is this talk of Gunter’s?”
Three voices explained at once. He seemed to have no difficulty untangling the tale.
“If my chef cannot provide sufficient confections for a tea-party at five hours notice, I shall want to know why. Send your footman round with your orders, Emma. Now, Miss Di, may I offer you a ride home?”
“Thank you, sir, but I brought the dog. I was so flustered I didn’t think to take a hackney.”
“One of the culprits, eh?” He caught sight of the big dog under the sideboard. “No, it’s Midnight. I have every confidence in Midnight’s behaving like a gentleman in my carriage.”
Hearing his name, the Newfoundland lurched to his feet and paced over to greet Mr. Trevelyan.
“Will you really take him in the tilbury?” Alison asked with a giggle. “I hope he will not overset you. I shall watch you driving down the street. Sir, I do thank you for coming to our rescue, and for taking Aunt Di home.”
“My pleasure, Miss Alison.”
“Poor Aunt Cleo must be sadly disappointed,” she said with a sigh.
He smiled at her. “Perhaps I can do something about that as well. Will your aunt like, do you think, to supervise my kitchen staff while they bake to her receipts?”
She clasped her hands, eyes shining. “You would let her?”
“I daresay my chef will leave in a dudgeon but I shan’t regard that.”
“He will? I hope you are roasting me! Aunt Cleo will be aux anges. Give her my love, Aunt Di, and tell her I shall come tomorrow to tell her how everyone enjoyed her pastries.”
From the window she watched as Mr. Trevelyan courteously assisted Aunt Di into the carriage and with a snap of his fingers summoned Midnight to lie at his feet. The urchin holding the horses’ heads let go—she noticed with surprise that it was Tarry Joe—and Spaniard and Conqueror trotted off.
In his teasing way, Mr. Trevelyan was as chivalrous as Lord Fane. And she seemed to be in favour again, though she had no notion what she had done the day before to lose his good opinion. She sighed deeply, though she was not sure why.
Lady Emma returned from dispatching Henry with her order for Mr. Trevelyan’s chef, and sank into her chair.
“Pour me a cup of tea, there’s a dear. What an exhausting morning!”
Alison complied. “I did not know Mr. Trevelyan had a large house. At least, I suppose he does as he had no doubts as to his kit
chen being adequate.”
“Yes, the house is a good size. In fact, he has a small ballroom, and if Mama had not offered hers I should have begged the loan of his. It has not been used since his younger sister married, though he often entertains his parliamentary colleagues with dinners. I have acted as hostess for him on occasion, when he wished to invite their wives also.”
“He has sisters?”
“Two, married to country gentlemen, and two brothers. One is a naval captain and the other a clergyman.”
“How odd. Somehow I always thought of him as. . .rather alone.”
“He is closer to his family than to anyone else, but he sees little of them during the parliamentary terms. I am fortunate in being a sort of surrogate sister, having known him so long.”
Alison found she was envious of that good fortune.
At half past two that afternoon, a pair of liveried footmen turned up at the servants’ entrance bearing napkin-covered trays. When they departed, Lady Emma’s Henry went with them, and all three returned ten minutes later with another three trays. It took them one more trip to bring all the confections from Mr. Trevelyan’s house just round the corner in Green Street. Shortly thereafter, silver platters and cake-stands laden with biscuits and pastries and petits fours began to make their appearance in the drawing-room.
All Aunt Cleo’s favourite receipts were there. Thanks to Mr. Trevelyan she had after all been able to do her part to make her niece’s debut successful.
Two of the first guests to arrive were Lady Witherington and her pretty blond daughter. Alison and Lady Emma had called on them since the episode at Schomberg House, and Alison was strongly drawn to the lively and amiable Fanny Witherington. The feeling appeared to be mutual. Alison was most relieved to have a friend to lend her confidence in the face of the rest of the guests, a dozen debutantes and their critical mamas.
Fanny was also one of the last to leave.
“Their opinions are about equally divided,” she whispered to Alison as her mother and Lady Emma exchanged compliments. “Half of them will not dare let their daughters go near you for fear of comparisons in your favour. The other half realize that the gentlemen will flock to your side and that their daughters may profit from the overflow. If you see what I mean.”
“I see, but do you really think so?”
“I am certain of it. Fortunately, Mama is one of the latter group.”
Alison laughed and shook her head. “Fustian. I am as likely to profit from your ‘overflow’ as you from mine.”
“We shall see. Your ball is the day before mine, so we can compare. I must go, Mama is calling. Oof, I can scarcely move, I have eaten so much. Do not forget that I shall call for you tomorrow afternoon to walk in the Park.”
As soon as the last guest disappeared, Lady Emma turned to Alison in triumph.
“Seven invitations!” she announced, “and Lady Witherington wanted to know where I found such delicious cakes.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“And Lady Witherington wanted to know where Lady Emma found such delicious cakes,” Alison reported to Aunt Cleo, who beamed with pride. “She invited me to Fanny’s ball, too. It is the day after mine.”
“Do you think,” said Aunt Polly, aghast at her own daring, “that you could use my flowers to decorate the ballroom? I do so want to help.”
Alison kissed her. “Lady Edgehill is seeing to the. decorations. I shall have to ask her.”
Aunt Polly’s face fell. “Oh no, dear, you mustn’t do that. I thought your Lady Emma was making the arrangements. She seems such a kind person.”
“Lady Emma told her mama all about us, so you need not fear she will be shocked.” Alison could tell by the unwonted spate of words that the opportunity to, contribute meant a great deal to her aunt. “I shall certainly ask her about the flowers. Oh, and I nearly forgot to tell you, Aunt Cleo—Lady Edgehill came to tea yesterday, and she sent her compliments on your baking.”
****
The very next day, to his own surprised disapproval, Mr. Philip Trevelyan found himself offering to convey Miss Hippolyta Larkin to see the Edgehills’ ballroom and consult with the countess.
“You will be gentle with her, will you not?” Alison begged him, her pixie face anxious. “She is sadly timid.”
“I rarely indulge in fisticuffs with elderly ladies,” he said drily, somewhat affronted at her lack of confidence in him.
“You know that is not what I mean. I wish I could accompany you, but Lady Emma insists that I go for a fitting of my ball gown.”
“I trust it is to be tartan, to please Mrs. Winkle, or have you chosen cherry stripes?”
“That is what I mean. If you speak to Aunt Polly in your teasing way, she will not know where to look.”
“Miss Larkin will come to no harm at my hands or my tongue, I promise you. And I shall guard her from that dragon, Lady Edgehill, with my life.”
“You will always be joking,” she said crossly, but he thought he saw relief in her blue eyes.
Was he really such an ogre in those same eyes? How had young Robert described them—stars shining in the midday sky, or some such thing. He was not so far off at that.
Philip was amused to find that her aunts thought of him not as an ogre but as a hero. He was the gentleman who had saved the day for Cleo’s cakes. Aunt Polly went with him quite happily, if wordlessly, and seemed to enjoy the ride in his tilbury.
Lady Edgehill, a tall, stately woman who dwarfed Polly, was expecting them and greeted her graciously. She showed them into the ballroom.
“My daughter tells me. . .Why, whatever is the matter, Miss Larkin?”
Philip swung round in alarm. Big, silent tears were welling up in Aunt Polly’s faded eyes and her mouth was a picture of tragedy. He took her hands in his, noting for the first time the ridges and bumps. His mother’s hands had been twisted by rheumatism.
“What is troubling you, ma’am?” he asked gently.
“I thought the room would be smaller. I haven’t got anywhere near enough flowers. I did want to do something for Alison,” she wailed.
Lady Edgehill looked as if she was sorry she had ever involved herself in the business. Her sniff was a masterpiece of reproach.
“We shall work something out,” Philip promised. “What flowers do you have?”
“Daffodils and narcissus and jonquils.”
“Spring,” he said, “Alison’s—Miss Alison’s favourite season.” He glanced about the room. The walls were cream, picked out in gold, with green velvet-draped window bays along one side and matching conversation bays opposite. In the piers between the bays there were niches holding vaguely classical statuettes. At the far end was a small dais for the musicians. Tradition dictated that this should be hidden by banks of flowers. “Greenery, spring greenery everywhere. Not evergreens, not potted palms, but fresh leaves from the country. There must be something out already.”
“It would be different,” said Lady Edgehill cautiously.
“And then, ma’am, you fill the niches with spring flowers. Vases of daffodils, blowing their trumpets to announce the arrival of spring.”
“Heavens, you sound like Robert!”
“And narcissus and jonquils,” Aunt Polly added, hope in her eyes.
“Are the narcissus scented? Only think, my lady, of the delicate perfume greeting the jaded nostrils of the ton.”
“Until they have been dancing for half an hour,” she grumbled, but she was convinced. “It will be different.”
Philip drove the joyful and touchingly grateful Miss Larkin home. She reminded him of his mother, now that he had seen a connection. Mrs. Trevelyan, though not shy, had had the same somewhat vague air, and she had enjoyed dabbling in gardening. He. dredged up memories of the flowers she had grown, and kept Aunt Polly entertained until they reached Great Ormond Street.
“I shall see if I can get you some seeds,” he offered.
She was too overwhelmed to thank him.
His next impulse
was to drive straight to Park Street to tell Alison of his intervention in her aunt’s behalf. He was half-way there when he decided it would look too much like bragging. She would find out soon enough anyway.
Instead he went to Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon for a bout of fisticuffs. Philip was well versed in the Corinthian sports of boxing, shooting, driving and riding, and his skill at fencing was superior. He did not consider himself a Corinthian, any more than he was a gamester because he occasionally took a hand at piquet, whist or faro. Leading a young lady into a country dance or cotillion, lending his talents to his country in a government post, all these were aspects of being a gentleman. He might enjoy some aspects more than others, but he had been bred up to do his duty, and occasional boredom was the price one paid for the advantage of superior birth.
Boredom? His thoughts arrested on that word. He had rarely suffered that particular malady since Miss Alison Larkin had entered his life.
He doubted she knew the meaning of the word.
* * * *
At that precise moment, Alison might have disputed the point. Shivering in her shift while Lady Emma and the modiste argued over the propriety of the décolletage of her ball gown, she wished for a fairy godmother’s magic wand. If only all her new dresses might appear in instantaneous perfection, instead of the tedious business of tapes and pins and endless fittings.
She chided herself for ingratitude. High neck or low neck, the gown was heavenly—except that she did not want to shock Lord Fane.
“I should prefer it a little less décolleté, if you please,” she requested.
If Philip Trevelyan knew he would tease her for her desire to indulge his lordship’s taste for decorum. It was only natural, she thought indignantly, to want to please the gentleman she hoped to marry.
He really had been most particular in his attentions, and she was not yet even properly out.
She spent the rest of the day with Fanny Witherington. They had a delicious cose about ball gowns and beaux and favourite novels, on all of which subjects their views coincided exactly. Nothing could be more delightful, they agreed, than to have a lord at one’s feet professing undying love. By the time the Witheringtons’ carriage took Alison home, her head was a-whirl with romantic fancies the more vivid for being shared.
