“Very much so.” Angella’s gaze held a faraway look. “Yes. I scarcely knew how to go on. The birthday party Spensor’s father, the old, beloved earl, threw for him with the assistance of your mother, was quite the thing. Overwhelming really.”
“Don’t I know it? I was all of thirteen. Even then the young people my age found it more entertaining to bait and put me down for my gracelessness....”
“Except on the back of a horse.”
“Of course,” Betsy agreed. “Which was part of the problem that day.” She remembered all too well the hurt she had felt that day and her surprise when a girl she’d never seen interceded, acting as her long-lost friend. “What you did that day took courage, Angella. I was so glad to get away for a while when you asked me to accompany you and your father back to the vicarage.” Remembering the rest, Betsy knew she’d led herself right down the wrong path. She lowered her head so Angella would not detect the pink in her cheeks. She should have known better.
“I remember how you gazed at our family portrait.” A teasing grin lifted Angella’s lips. “At least you kept gazing at one member of the family and asking lots of questions about my handsome, if I do say so myself, older brother.”
“Argh!” Betsy’s hands covered her flaming cheeks. “Please, Angella.”
Angella stopped immediately, her tone kind. “It has always been my brother, Edward, hasn’t it?”
Betsy closed her eyes for a moment. “I know he’s on his way back from India. Do you think...” She let the words trail.
“That Edward might arrive in time for my wedding?”
Betsy gulped. She might as well be truthful. “For my coming-out.”
A soft expression darkened Angella’s eyes. “I hope so. I certainly hope so. But I am not sure where he is at present or when he’ll arrive. He doesn’t know about me or Spensor or anything but that our folks are gone. I wrote him that I had no place to go, which I didn’t have at the time.” Angella caught Betsy’s hand.
“I don’t want you to pine for Edward. This is your season. Give some of those young bucks a chance to steal your heart, at least a chance.”
“We’ll see,” Betsy told her. “All I want is for a fairy-tale ending like you have.”
“But without all the nightmares in between.”
“True,” Betsy agreed.
“Enough of this.” Angella got up and pulled Betsy up beside her. “We have a coming-out party to plan.”
“And an engagement party.”
Together they chorused, “And a wedding to plan.”
The two girls grinned at each other, as Betsy added, “All that and more. Come on. Let’s find my mother and Lady Alistair and begin planning.”
Angella rolled her eyes. “If Lady Alistair and Lady Carrington haven’t already gotten together to plan it all for us.”
Betsy laughed ruefully, well aware of how her mother, Lady Carrington, and Winter, Lady Alistair, were enjoying the season launching the two young women.
* * *
Betsy watched Angella stand, turn and turn again as the dressmaker poked, tucked, nodded and grumbled as she fitted the gown to her friend’s petite figure.
Angella nodded, but her expression showed the strain of an afternoon of shopping for material, fripperies and accessories that Lady Carrington and Lady Alistair declared were absolutely necessary for the bride-to-be. They’d returned home only to have the dressmaker show up with a host of underlings to turn ideas into confections of perfection for Betsy’s coming-out and Angella’s engagement parties as well as the host of other events to which they had been invited. The girls exchanged a glance of perfect understanding.
Betsy rolled her eyes, as tired of this round as Angella. Her response caused Angella to swallow a giggle with a forced cough. “I do think it high time you get fitted now, Betsy.” Angella touched the dressmaker’s shoulder to garner her attention. “I need a rest. Are you not almost finished for now?”
The dressmaker muttered something in French too low and quick for Betsy to comprehend, but she guessed the phrase was not something she intended innocent young women to hear. The woman, an émigré from France, was one of many who came to England to escape Napoleon’s domination. Like many others, she had stayed even after he was safely deposed.
A moment later, she switched to accented but clear English. “Yes. I have take the measurements. This will do.” She moved back, allowing Angella to step off the stool on which she’d been standing. Too long it appeared, as Angella tottered when she tried to step down. Betsy reached out a hand to steady her and almost brought them both to the floor. “Oh, Angella, I am sooo sorry. I only meant to help.” Her cheeks burned with mortification.
Recovering quickly, Angella shook her head. “No, Betsy. It was my fault. I didn’t realize my leg had gone to sleep.” Angella rubbed her thigh as she grimaced. “Let it go, Betsy. We’re both right and tight.” Angella pushed Betsy toward the dressmaker’s stool. “Go on. I’ll rest and let you do the pretty for Madame Dubois for a while.”
Betsy merely nodded, thankful her friend understood. She also understood Angella was not about to let her take full responsibility for the incident. Nonetheless, Betsy bit her lip, frustrated that, once more, her gracelessness caused a problem. Only this time it didn’t just affect her.
She could imagine Angella with a broken leg, hobbling down the aisle on her wedding day. That wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do by half. She could see her cousin determinedly carrying his bride-to-be up the aisle, and that brought a smile. Still, she did not wish to cause more problems for the two, who had already been through so much.
A small voice inside told her, But Angella did not fall. You did not fall. Mayhap you dwell much too much on all this. Did she? She had always been told by her peers, in graphic detail as they laughed, pointed and made fun, just how awkward and clumsy they considered her to be. Not that she needed witnesses to her gracelessness. Betsy sent her prayer heavenward. Am I truly not the antidote I have always believed myself to be?
Though she heard no voice, a peace settled deep inside. Mayhap, just mayhap, there was hope for her. With that heady thought, Betsy stepped onto the stool. Betsy turned, lifted an arm, put an arm down and tried not to tumble off the stool as the dressmaker adjusted, pinned and clipped. Up and down, on and off the stool, Betsy followed directions as the dressmaker worked with several different gowns and patterns for jackets and capes. Twice she stumbled but caught herself.
The dressmaker muttered under her breath as she worked and seemed a whole lot less enthusiastic about her fittings than those of Angella. But then, she was tall with not much of a figure, while Angella was petite but nicely curvaceous. Betsy sighed and shoved down the jealousy that threatened to rise.
Betsy’s exhaustion and boredom faded as Madame Dubois began fitting her for her coming-out gown. It came together as she moved at the dressmaker’s terse directions. “It will be so beautiful,” she all but breathed to the delight of the dressmaker, who even managed a smile and nod.
Angella surveyed her in the pieced-together creation. “You’ll be bang up to the mark in that gown.” Getting to her feet, she acted out the scenario. “Why, you will leave them all dropping their quizzing glasses.” Even the dressmaker managed a thin smile.
The dressmaker straightened shoulders usually bowed with her labors. The woman should be proud. Betsy could not wait to see the completed creation. The gown consisted of a sleeveless shell of muted peach with a fine lace o
verlay, which filled in the scooped neckline with lace and added lacy sleeves that finished with a ruffle at the wrists. The whole would be a gown Betsy would not soon forget. Excitement rose. In this gown, even she would look stunning.
Angella agreed. “Truly, Betsy, it is a lovely gown for you.”
A maid brought in a tray at that moment and Angella sat down. As Betsy continued to follow directions, her friend popped a large strawberry dipped in chocolate into her mouth.
Moments later, her stomach growled embarrassingly loud as she watched Angella, who sat on a rich brown-textured settee eating miniature sandwiches and slices of fruit purchased fresh that morning and drinking lemonade. With a decided sparkle of mischief in her eyes, Angella exaggerated her enjoyment of the repast. “Delicious. Want a strawberry? How about this?” She held up a sweetmeat she then popped into her mouth. Then she giggled.
Betsy wrinkled her nose at her friend. She was so distracted she all but fell off the stood. The dressmaker grabbed her arms, just in time, much to Betsy’s mortification.
Chapter 3
The next day found Betsy, Angella and Lady Carrington far away from London’s glitz, glamour and high society. Angella sat beside Lucashire, who handled with a deft hand the matched black horses pulling the carriage. Behind them in the second seat of the well-sprung carriage sat Betsy and her mother. A tiger, perched in back, waited to take the horses when Spensor and the ladies entered the small mission in a part of town few ladies ever visited.
This day, they passed out clothing for a host of young children whose parents scarcely kept body and soul together. Most worked jobs that demanded long hours for little pay.
It broke Betsy’s heart to see the delight of the children when they received a new outfit or two and to watch parents who struggled between wounded pride at needing the assistance and the excitement of their children. It embarrassed Betsy to think the lovely clothing from the children of her mother’s friends had been cast off after being worn but once or twice. Still and all, she sent up a prayer of thanks the parents passed the clothing on to her mother instead of simply discarding them.
Her mother knew how to treat the parents with a dignity that, at least somewhat, eased their tension. Afterward, Betsy, Angella, Lady Carrington and Lucashire stayed to listen to a short, wide preacher who spoke the Word true enough, but who also made it so dry Betsy had difficulty staying awake. Still, those from the neighborhood listened, slightly forward, as though searching for something. Searching for hope? Betsy knew they hungered for God and prayed. Her mother told her those who supported the concept of the mission, such as the Reverend Avery Jeremiah, a minister of some note, ensured that someone—often ministerial students or missionaries back from the field—filled the pulpit as needed.
Betsy always felt a bit depressed after visiting the mission. Lady Winter pulled her out of it by suggesting the ladies ride in the park the next morning. Lady Carrington begged off. Her excuses did not surprise Betsy. Her heavyset mother never did understand her daughter’s fascination with riding, though, like her deceased father, her mother took pride that their daughter cut quite a dash on horseback.
* * *
The next day when they mounted their horses, which were held by grooms looking smart in Alistair livery, Betsy glanced around. She waited until both Winter and Angella gathered their reins. It appeared they were riding alone except for a lone groom on a tall bay.
Winter caught Betsy’s look of speculation. “It is all right. I am a matron of an age to chaperone two gently bred young ladies.”
Angella spoke up. “Everything else is so prescribed in London society, I thought we’d not be allowed out without a male escort.”
Besty nudged her mount into a walk. “Any chance we can find a place to test the mettle of these animals?”
Winter laughed. “I understand how you feel, Betsy, truly. While I’ll shrug off some of society’s stringent dictates, I will not do anything to harm your chances for the season.”
Angella grinned. “I’m already taken.”
“Betsy is not.” Winter led the way. “My job is to show my charges off to advantage. And since we’re all horsewomen, we show off well on horseback.” She paused. “Besides, I was getting quite resty to get back on a horse. I miss my morning gallops with Alistair at home.”
The three remained silent for a time as they negotiated through busy traffic to the relative quiet of the park. They entered under a canopy of trees that Betsy guessed had graced the area for hundreds of years. The hooves of the horses clip-clopped against the hard-packed path. The relative quiet gave way to a clatter of people, horses and vehicles. Women in the latest styles flirted gaily with men in breeches, highly polished boots and fitted jackets.
More than one gentleman acknowledged their presence, and the ladies found themselves scarcely able to move forward at times. Betsy’s mare shook her head, while Angella’s champed on the bit.
A shy, thin peer in a chocolate-brown coat that matched that of his gelding rode up. Winter introduced him as Baron Fritton. He bowed so low, Betsy stilled a giggle, fearing he’d fall off his prime cattle and giving silent thanks he did not. As he addressed them, his gaze kept gliding toward her. His manner was gentle and Betsy, to her surprise, quite liked him. Before she had time to consider the matter, she found she had agreed to a dance at the ball to which they were promised the next evening.
After he moved on, Winter grinned. “Betsy, I think you made a conquest.”
“Oh my. That happened all too quickly.” Betsy felt her cheeks grow warm and couldn’t even glance toward Angella. What would she think about it all? It mattered not, for at that moment the wheel of the carriage ahead of them on the path snapped and crumbled. While the occupants appeared fine, Betsy’s less-than-docile mount was not. In an instant, the mare threw up her head and tried to bolt. It took all of Betsy’s considerable skill to settle the mount down. Once she was in control again, she glanced up to find her performance applauded by several gentleman, who knew enough to remain silent during her struggle, but who stayed alert and on the ready to come to the rescue should the need arise.
A broad-shouldered peer raised his hat and nodded. “Magnificent, Miss...”
Winter supplied, “Miss Elizabeth Carrington, the Marquis of Beddinlong.”
Betsy did not know how to deal with the man’s attention. Her success on horseback was more than what she’d achieved in all her outings so far in London. She did not wish to consider how they would view her when they interacted with her without the horse. Still, she rather enjoyed feeling worthy of such attention.
As they slowly walked their horses through the park, Betsy remembered another ride in a London park. She forgot the gentleman who so recently flattered as her thoughts spun back to the second and last time she’d seen Edward.
It was in London, at this very park. At least, she was almost sure it was him, if her heart hadn’t made her see what she only wished to see. She’d thought about that day many times since and still wasn’t completely sure. The memory was less than satisfactory. Yet she held it close.
Edward probably never knew she’d actually seen him in the park just before he’d left for India. But where was Edward now?
* * *
Though flagging with exhaustion, Edward pushed himself to locate his sister. His first stop was Little Cambrage, where he had grown to manhood. The townspeople sent questioning glances his way as he drove by. He doubted anyone recognized him. As he stopped in front of the vicarage, memories flooded his mind—his mother’s smile, his father’s gentle strength, Angella’s mischievous grin. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Edward jumped to the ground.
Fastening the reins to the post, Edward straightened his shoulders and walked up the path to the door.
From his first glimpse of Reveren
d Carter sitting behind his large kidney-shaped desk in the paneled study, Edward felt reserve. There was something about the man’s eyes, something cold and calculating that gave Edward pause.
Reverend Carter’s gaze narrowed when Edward introduced himself. “Sit down, Reverend Denning. You are a reverend, are you not?”
Edward nodded curtly. It seemed strange to be addressed as Reverend Denning here in the vicarage. Edward almost glanced around, expecting to see his father behind him. His heart sank. He’d never again hear his father’s footsteps or feel the palpable power of his prayers. It was a deep loss, and the young man felt it keenly.
Before he could ask about Angella, Reverend Carter rang for afternoon tea, tea and nothing more. Edward was forced to mouth polite conversation when he wished to ask after his sister. The delay made him nervous.
He waited until the sullen maidservant briskly removed the tray. “Now, Reverend Carter, I’m sure you understand my concern about my sister. I came here hoping you might give me her direction.”
The man’s lips tightened. “That I can, though being a man of God as you are, I am certain you will not care to hear the truth of the matter.”
Fear ate at Edward, but he let nothing show on his face. “Is she well?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Reverend Carter sat forward, obviously relishing his role of informer. “Let me explain that I offered for your sister, but she turned me down.”
Edward did not blame his sister for turning down this pompous bore. He did not voice this opinion, but from the look on Carter’s face, the vicar understood the direction of his thoughts.
“If you’ll provide her direction, I shall be on my way.” He put a conciliatory smile on his face.
“She’s not in the village, has not been since soon after the passing of your parents. It didn’t take her long to throw herself at the Earl of Lucashire.”
“The earl is a good man. I don’t see—”
“You mean the last earl. His profligate son bears the title now.”
The Lady's Hero Page 3
