Angella asked a hard thing, but why not? She could not do much worse than she had been doing, and besides, Edward wasn’t here and could hardly be expected to remember her if he did show up. After all, he was returning to England for his sister, not for a wet-goose young miss who still held a torch for him after formally meeting him but one time—when she was still in the schoolroom. With that, Betsy sighed, put away her dreams, at least temporarily, smiled and nodded firmly.
Angella grinned back as they stepped forward.
Betsy had little more time to consider the matter as they were presented and soon found themselves in a sad crush. She could scarcely hear herself think, much less hope that Baron Fritton might find her, or even wish to do so. Mayhap his request was little more than polite flummery, though she hoped he had more substance than that. Tonight would tell the tale.
Her mother spoke directly into her ear, and still, Betsy scarcely made out the words.
“Lady Obermisst will brag about attendance at this party. Why, she has any number of rooms set aside for dancing, games and food.”
Betsy stared around at the opulence of the flecked walls and the magnificent paintings she recognized as the work of great masters. The well-maintained furniture in the different rooms echoed different styles of elegance from Queen Anne and Tudor to Georgian and the romance of Regency.
Betsy stood beside her cousin and Angella as they received congratulations until she wished she were elsewhere. As delighted as she was things turned out for Angella and Spensor, her frustration grew with her own situation. For tonight she moved on, but was it time to let go, permanently, of her dreams of one day meeting Edward again and having him recognize her as a soul mate? By the time Baron Fritton, correct to the shade in tan pantaloons, embroidered waistcoat and a bishop’s blue jacket, bowed before her, Betsy was more than ready to take his arm and be led out onto the dance floor.
She found him as nervous as herself about making mistakes and doing something stupid. When he said as much, she spent so much time trying to reassure him, she forgot to be nervous herself. By the time he returned her to her mother’s side, she felt quite in charity with him. A new confidence lit her face with a smile.
She found the baron a gentle, kind man who actually listened when she spoke. Something perverse inside pushed her to test him. “While this is all lovely—” she indicated the opulent ballroom, as she continued “—I can’t help thinking about all those who scarce provide enough food and clothing for their families.”
Betsy knew most of society tried to pretend “those” people did not exist. She tensed, waiting for the baron to brush off the comment with something like “You should not concern your pretty head with such things.”
Instead, to her amazement, he shifted from one foot to the other, before answering, “I am comfortable, you understand, not like some...” He hesitated, glanced at Betsy and away as though fearing her response. “To own the truth, I contribute regularly to some of the missions to the poor and needy.” He paused, cleared his throat and surveyed Betsy as though gauging her response. “On my estate, I have an orphanage and make sure all employees’ children have access to schooling.”
Betsy’s eyes widened. “I truly am suitably impressed.”
“And you think no less of me for my concerns?”
“More actually.” Betsy’s smile widened as the unpretentious peer soared in her estimation. “Mother, Lady Winter, and I also assist with the needy. In fact, Mother and I often help out at a small London mission.” When she mentioned the location, Baron Fritton straightened and paled.
Taking her hand, he spoke with such earnestness Betsy blinked with surprise. “Please tell me you ladies are not so rackety as to go off on your own without escort. It isn’t done.”
Betsy shook her head, rather enjoying the baron’s attentions. “No indeed. Lord Alistair or my cousin Lord Lucashire always accompanies us.”
“That is all right, then.”
Betsy glowed in the admiration in his gaze as he nodded.
“I would be most happy to offer my services should they be needed.”
The two spoke until a broad-shouldered peer cut through the crowd to her side. He bowed. “Miss Carrington.”
“Lord Beddinlong.”
He held out a hand and drew her to her feet even as he spoke. “You will join me for this country dance, will you not?”
Before she could object or even get nervous, Betsy found herself in the confident arms of the peer. His steps were so sure and his hold so secure, she found herself not worrying about falling at all. All she need do was follow his lead, and he made it easy. By the time the fast country dance was over, Betsy giggled with exhaustion and pleasure. She’d actually had fun. Heady with her success, she allowed the marquis to walk her outside where lanterns lit a beautifully sculpted garden.
The opulence of the house echoed in the carefully trimmed trees and bushes, the Chinese lanterns to light the walkways, the multicolored fountains and the sculpted benches. “This is beautiful!”
She started at the marquis’s serious, deep tones. “Not as beautiful as the woman on my arm.”
Betsy halted on the pathway. “What!” Was the man foxed? “What flummery is this? Why, you scarcely know me.”
“Ah, but I am getting to know you. Besides, anyone who can handle a horse with the firmness, control and gentleness as you did yesterday is a person I admire, respect...and more.”
Betsy blushed as he lowered his voice.
Not used to such flattery, Betsy was at a loss as to how she should go on. Her cousin and Angella saved her from replying as they found her. Stepping forward, Angella took her arm. “Time to come back inside. If you stay much longer, people will talk.” Angella winked at Betsy, drawing a blush. “Cannot start gossip, now....”
Betsy watched the silent interplay between her cousin and the marquis, who backed down quickly. “My apologies, Miss Carrrington. I fear your presence quite set me in such a spin I forgot propriety.” He bowed his head toward her. “I trust you will forgive my lapse. Unintended, I assure you.”
“La, yes, you are forgiven, my lord.” Betsy noted her cousin’s glare almost with glee. She shot him a grin that brought a look of confusion to his face. Protecting her was on his mind. What tickled Betsy was that this time he tried to protect her because a peer showed marked attention, not because someone was trying to tease her.
Leaning toward Spensor, she murmured, “Thanks, but he meant no harm.”
She smiled and agreed when the marquis asked, “I trust you will grace me with another turn on the floor.”
Betsy floated through the rest of the evening. With the marked attentions of two eligible bachelors, other eligible bachelors, too, seemed to view her in a more positive light. Mayhap, she thought, it was because, for once, I didn’t trip over my own feet.
With a grimace, Betsy recalled the time her mother decided to hire a tutor to teach her to dance. The tall, gaunt man begged off after two weeks. Betsy overheard the exchange. “I am sorry, Lady Carrington, but your daughter does not have your grace and dignity.”
Betsy rolled her eyes and murmured, “Such a toad-eater.” She had not cared for him above half, prancing around the room like some fool dandy. He acted as though her inability to keep time to the music were somehow a Cheltenham tragedy. At the time, English lads were dying on foreign land and the instructor acted as though nothing were more important than where she placed her less-than-dainty feet. “Fustian!”
The instructor continued, “I fear your daughter is not ready to apply herself to the niceties of her station. Mayhap when she is ready...” Lady Carrington sent him off with enough to put a smile on his face and the assurance that he would make no mention of her daughter’s deficiencies. Betsy bit her lip in frustration. Anger then warred with the feeling inside that she had once more been found wan
ting.
Her mother, though correct about many things, was not correct about time and maturity changing things for Betsy. Though she was doing better than hoped, she still had a tendency to trip over her own feet at the most awkward of times.
Betsy thought, Not exactly top of the trees, but not beyond the pale, either. Now, if I just manage not to fall over my feet for the rest of the evening... Mayhap that instructor would be shocked at her almost grace on the ballroom floor for the entire night.
* * *
Betsy had every intention of holding on to the memory of that perfect night. She figured it would not happen again. Yet the next morning she came down to find cards at the door and visitors, including Fritton and Beddinlong, staying the required half hour. Their conversation was light and fun and, for the first time, Betsy really began to think coming to London hadn’t turned out so badly after all.
But late at night her thoughts turned to Edward. Would he think she’d grown too frivolous? Both the baron and the marquis were good men who sought more in a wife than a pretty face. They knew her portion was only passable and did not seem to care. She sensed it would take little for either to declare himself. If she must choose, which spoke more to her heart? Her thoughts returned to Edward. How could she make such a life-changing decision without seeing him first? “Jesus, please help me know what to do.”
The next afternoon, her mother asked her to join her and several ladies of her acquaintance.
Betsy headed down the stairs and down the long hall to the south parlor. A manservant opened the door for her. She nodded her thanks. Sucking in a deep breath and praying she would not trip, Betsy entered the room.
To her dismay, all conversation ceased at her entrance. Her foot caught momentarily on the carpet, and for a moment, she panicked, thinking she was going to fall. However, her mother suddenly stood beside her, taking her hands and leading her into the room. She wished her heart would stop beating so loudly. Had she really thought she might be over her awkward stage? Inwardly, she groaned.
“Breathe, Betsy. You are fine. Calm down. Breathe.”
She followed the soothing tones of her mother, who spoke too softly for anyone else to hear. More loudly she said, “I would like you ladies to meet my daughter.” Lady Carrington turned to Betsy. “Come sit down, dear.”
Lady Carrington thrust a plate of sweetmeats into Betsy’s hand and poured out tea. Betsy felt the distant rumble in her stomach and hurriedly took a bite of a particular confectionery that happened to be one of her favorites. Her mother wisely let her eat after she nodded and greeted the other women in the room.
Betsy smiled and let the conversation flow around her. The parlor held a warmth that made it one of Betsy’s more favored rooms in the Alistair house, outside of the library. The room combined forest-greens and subtle reds on the walls and furnishings, along with delicately carved pediments, that created a warm yet airy feeling about the room. No wonder her mother seemed to prefer it when entertaining guests—some of whom she had not visited with in years.
Betsy soon realized these women had known each other since their own London season many years earlier, if not before. Unexpectedly, the conversation caught her attention.
“Miss Denning’s mother’s season was a success, yet she chose to marry a man of the cloth,” said one lady, shaking her head. Her neck, even during the day, dripped with jewels.
Another in a shockingly yellow gown replied, “But he was a gentleman and quite handsome at that.”
“But no prospects.” The woman touched the jewels at her throat.
Lady Carrington sipped her tea before replying, “He became the vicar of a living near Lucashire. He was a good man. Too bad about his passing.”
Betsy flinched at one lady’s less than kindly tone. “Their daughter landed on her feet. Rather a blessing in disguise.”
What a way to speak about Angella? How callous of them. The women behaved more like Billingsgate fishwives than gently bred ladies. But for her mother’s glance and slight shake of the head, Betsy would have defended her friend. Instead, she bit her lip and listened, curious about Edward and Angella’s parents.
“Miss Denning’s grandfather disowned her mother for her choice to marry a lowly vicar with no prospects.” The woman added, “Though he was from a good family.”
Lady Carrington entered the conversation. “Do not seek to fault Miss Denning. Her parentage is better than many who claim society roles.”
“True, but then you would defend Lucashire’s choice since he is a close connection.”
Betsy watched her mother’s eyes narrow. The afternoon was not going as her mother had hoped, having tea and conversation with old friends. The women would not be silenced.
“Miss Denning’s grandfather is of note,” a tall, elegant woman agreed. “He was furious when her mother turned down a marquess for the vicar.”
Betsy silently cheered.
The lady in the yellow gown leaned forward. “Did you hear about their son? He was all set to enter the church like his father. Heard tell, his prospects were very good.”
The lady with the jewels smiled a sly smile that made Betsy’s insides clench. The woman enjoyed her tales much too much. “Instead of cutting a dash in London, the young man, Edward, I think his name is, threw in with the dissenters.”
The other ladies sighed almost as one. “No!”
As though, Betsy thought, choosing other than the state church is tantamount to treason. She guessed it seemed so for these ladies.
“Baptists,” whispered one. “Some missionary called William Carey. Hear tell he went to India.” She paused dramatically before continuing with a certain horror in her tone. “To be a missionary to those heathen. I mean...”
Lady Carrington pursed her lips. Betsy knew how much her mother disliked conflict. Yet she sensed her mother did not approve of the direction of the conversation. “Baptist or not, we need good men willing to share God’s message with those who’ve never heard.”
The women stopped and stared at her mother as if Lady Carrington had sprouted two heads. Betsy tugged on her sleeve, wishing she could get up and leave. She sensed her mother wished the same. Still, Betsy softened a bit when the women continued gossiping with less venom. Few wished to say ought against her kindly mother.
Betsy knew of William Carey, of course. She’d even read some of his writings. She did not dare explain that Carey’s works not only helped draw her closer to Christ, but also turned her purpose from dwelling on her social situation to reaching out to other hurting people.
The woman in yellow asked, “What of Edward Denning? Does he know about his parents...his sister?”
“Indeed.” Betsy’s mother poured tea into now-empty cups. “The Reverend Edward Denning is even now on his way back to England, mayhap even London.”
Edward. The name sounded in her mind and caused her heart to beat a bit more quickly. Now Betsy silently willed the gentlewomen to continue on with this particular topic, but with the gossip aspect spent, they moved on to other revelations.
So much for moving on. Betsy silently vowed to continue to make “Edward” a matter of prayer. If her mother noted her blush, she gave no sign.
“Lord,” she prayed later that night after getting ready for bed, “take care of Edward. Bring him home quickly and safely.” Once again she thought back to that night where she met him for the first time and he was everything she’d dreamed he would be when she’d first seen his portrait in the family home.
But that was then and now she was in London enjoying a season with Edward’s sister. She smiled as she tugged the sleeve of her nightgown in place.
Chapter 5
Angella sank down into a flower-embroidered sofa. “That was quite the walk, Betsy. I fear Baron Fritton would never turn and bring us back. I say, I think he is quite smitten. Y
es indeed, quite smitten. Why, he has shown up almost every day to visit or take you for a walk or some such thing.”
Betsy wiped sweat from her face. “I can’t believe how much I dreaded coming to London, at least until I knew we were going to be brought out together.”
She smiled her appreciation as a maid in black gown, white apron and mob cap poured out lemonade for her and Angella. After taking a long sip, she leaned back with a contented sigh. “That is delicious. I’ll have to send my compliments to the kitchen.”
For a few moments the girls rested. Betsy turned to her friend. “I was so excited when Spensor asked us to come to Lucashire Hall to get reacquainted with you before the season began. La, when meeting you again here in London, it was like no time at all had passed since 1805 and your brother’s reception when we last spoke with each other.
“I was excited about coming to London, but not so much the reason. We both know where my heart lies, but I also felt—and still feel to some extent—I need to find an eligible parti to assure Mother she need not worry about my future.”
“Now, with at least two gentlemen at your feet, what do you think of the season?”
Betsy sucked in a deep breath and opted for honesty. “Excitement, confusion...hope.”
Tugging down her sleeve, Betsy stared into her glass. “The season is not turning out so bad after all. I mean, I had visions of stumbling, tripping, falling...so far...not too bad.”
Angella took off her shoes and rubbed her feet. “I know. Not the thing to do, but those shoes hurt. Next time, I’ll let you walk alone with one of the maids as chaperone.”
“No. Wear different shoes.” Betsy raised her hand. “I don’t want to be out walking alone. Not even with the baron, sweet man that he is.”
Angella’s expression showed confusion. “Certainly you do not fear Fritton. Never saw a gentleman so eager to please.”
Betsy rolled her eyes. “A bit too much, if you ask me.”
“You don’t care for him, then?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Betsy tugged at the sleeve of her rose muslin gown in her agitation. With a start, Betsy realized that, since coming to London, she had started doing so whenever she was upset or agitated. Instead, she smoothed down the wrinkle she’d created.
The Lady's Hero Page 5
