A Lady's Point of View (7 page)

The next morning, Angela bounded
out of bed with unaccustomed enthusiasm. Vauxhall, tonight, was to be her
initiation—albeit an informal one—into the exalted realm of the
ton
.

Upon opening the wardrobe to
select appropriate apparel for the morning, Angela noticed the dresses her
sister had left behind. They reminded her that she must speak with her mother
about ordering new gowns for her come-out.

There would be a ball in her
honour! Angela whirled about the bedroom in delight. So many wonderful things
to enjoy! People arriving in carriages, dressed in their finest, and instead of
peeking down from the stairwell as she had done in her childhood, Angela would
stand with Lady Mary to greet them.

She would have to wear white, of
course—but that was so insipid. Perhaps ivory; the colour flattered her fair
complexion. And for her hair? A wreath of tiny roses, she decided.

Angela descended for breakfast in
a splendid mood, until she remembered that Meg was not here to share her
happiness. “Do you suppose it was terribly uncomfortable, spending the night on
the coach?” she asked Lady Mary, helping herself to coddled eggs and ham from
the sideboard.

“I cannot think it was the most
pleasant night she ever spent,” said her mother over a cup of coffee. In the
morning light, her face looked more creased with worry than Angela had ever
seen it. “But there was no helping it, and they should be arriving in
Manchester shortly.”

They both lapsed into silence,
each with her private thoughts. How to bring up the subject on her mind without
appearing insensitive? Angela wondered. “What shall I wear to Vauxhall
ton
ight?”
she inquired at last.

“The pink muslin,” replied Lady
Mary without thinking, as it was Angela’s only presentable gown.

“Shall we call on the dressmaker
today?” her daughter continued.

“Beg pardon?” said Lady Mary.

“The dressmaker,” pressed Angela.
“I must have gowns if I’m to come out. Do you think we’ll receive vouchers for
Almack’s?”

“One can only hope.” Lady Mary
brushed a wisp of hair back from her forehead.

Angela couldn’t understand why
her mother failed to respond with more enthusiasm. “They cannot send the
vouchers until I’m formally introduced to society, can they, Mother?”

“No, indeed.” Lady Mary was
clearly listening with only half her mind.

Her daughter toyed with the food
and poured out a cup of coffee for herself. “Is something amiss, Mother?”

“What?” A startled expression.
“No, no. I was only thinking about... things.”

“We must make plans, for the
season is almost half over,” Angela pointed out. “How many new dresses shall we
order? I can make do with some of Meg’s clothes for riding and day wear, I
think, but don’t you agree I shall need new ball gowns? And we must make
arrangements for the band, and the food, and of course the flowers.”

Finally her mother paid full
attention. “Oh, dear,” she said.

That did not bode well. “Have I
said something wrong?” Angela asked worriedly. “I’m only concerned that the
season will be over before we begin.”

“Quite right.” Lady Mary pushed
aside her cup and was about to speak when the maid returned to clear away the
dishes. “Come upstairs, Angela. We have matters to discuss.”

Matters to discuss? the girl
wondered as they ascended. Always before it had been Meg who shared their
mother’s confidences, and she felt vaguely uneasy even as she enjoyed being
treated as an adult. If only the words didn’t sound so foreboding.

Lady Mary led the way into
Angela’s bedroom, closed the door firmly behind them, and went to open the
wardrobe. She began examining Meg’s dresses. “We can have this made over.” She
lifted out a gown of silver gauze embroidered with tiny rosebuds. “The
waistline can be raised to suit the new styles.”

Angela watched in distress. “But
can’t I have my own ball gowns?” she asked. “Someone might recognize this one
and say the Linleys are woefully pinchpenny!”

Her mother turned to face her.
“Sit down, Angela,” she said with a speaking look.

The girl sat in a gilt chair by
the dressing table. “Have I been rude, Mother?”

“No, my dear.” With a deep sigh,
the older woman sat on the bed with the silver dress over her arm, forgotten.
“It is time we discussed the matter of finances.”

“Finances?” Angela knew nothing
of bank accounts, rents and investments, so surely her mother did not mean
that.

“When your father died, I was
left with a modest competence,” said Lady Mary. “Enough to keep us in comfort,
if we lived quietly in the country. But that would have meant no chance for
either of you to marry well, and so we came to London.”

It had never occurred to Angela
that they could not afford their current way of life, and she stared at her
parent in dismay.

“The expenses of a London season
are considerable,” her mother went on in the same calm voice. “Meg’s come-out
ball and her gowns were expensive. I’m afraid, my dear, that we cannot afford
the same for you.”

“We can’t?” Angela’s voice
emerged in a squeak.

“Fortunately Meg took great care
of her dresses, and they can be altered,” Lady Mary went on. “Her...disgrace
gives us good reason to avoid the ostentation of a ball. We shall seek some
more modest means of bringing you out.”

“Then I shan’t be invited to
Almack’s?”

“Although unfortunately both your
grandfathers’ titles have devolved upon distant cousins, we are still well
enough connected, and I have some old school friends who would speak in our
behalf,” her mother said. “We may yet obtain vouchers.”

Angela stared glumly down at her
hands. Much as she despised her own frivolity, she had looked forward to
selecting fabrics for her gowns and decorations for her ball. How was a
gentleman to notice her, if she were seen only at an occasional card party?

“My dear, I am terribly sorry to
disappoint you,” said Lady Mary. “Even Meg wasn’t fully aware of how straitened
our circumstances have become.”

Meg. She’d gone off to Derby
without protest, more than willing to give Angela her chance. The younger girl
lifted her chin and met her mother’s eyes squarely. “Forgive me for my
selfishness.” She managed to keep her voice steady. “I shall do my best to
acquire a suitable husband, Mother, and I shall be honoured to wear my sister’s
gowns.”

Seeing that Lady Mary still
appeared distressed, Angela distracted her by reaching for the silver gown.
“You’re quite right that we should raise the waistline, and supposing we add a
bit of pink ribbon at the neckline and hem? No one will recognize it, not even
Helen.”

The stratagem proved effective,
and soon mother and daughter were fully absorbed in devising ways to turn Meg’s
old dresses into new ones.

Gaily decorated lanterns filled
the night with dabs of colour, musicians played themselves into a seeming
frenzy in the golden cockleshell at the centre of the gardens, and the wine
flowed merrily in the reserved box at the Rotunda.

Assured that his sister, Helen,
was enjoying herself in the company of their Aunt Emily and two young cousins,
Mr. Edward Cockerell leaned back in his chair and gazed at the motley crowds
circulating through Vauxhall.

A pity that anyone could
enter—the cost was a mere pittance—he reflected, noting a pair of ruffians who
swaggered across the grass, freely eyeing the ladies. Ranelagh had been far
more exclusive and elegant, which was perhaps why it had closed for lack of
funds six years before, when Edward was three and twenty.

Helen poked her brother in the
ribs, startling him so that he nearly overturned his chair. “I see Lady
Darnet.”

Edward felt himself blush a deep
unaccustomed scarlet, aware that his sister’s voice had been heard by everyone
at their table.

“Who’s Lady Darnet?” squealed
their twelve-year-old cousin Rachel, who, with her brother and mother, was their
houseguest for the summer.

“That lady yonder.” With her
ivory fan, Helen pointed to a tall young woman walking on the arm of an older
man.

Cynthia Darnet, married at
eighteen to a count and widowed childless a year ago at seven and twenty, had
been esteemed an Incomparable at her come-out. And as Edward well knew, the
intervening years had in no way dimmed her cool beauty, which was accentuated
by dark upswept hair and glacially serene grey eyes.

“Who’s that man with her?” piped
up Cousin Teddy, with the unrestrained gusto of a ten-year-old.

“One of her suitors, I expect.”
Helen cast a sideways glance at her brother, and Edward cleared his face of all
expression.

It was no secret that he
sometimes called upon Lady Darnet since her emergence from mourning. A man had
a duty to wed, and with the great age of thirty looming before him, Edward
intended to fulfill his familial obligations. Lady Darnet was by far the most
likely prospect among his acquaintance.

“Looks cold as a mackerel to me,”
declared Rachel. “Do you notice how she barely nods to the people she knows?”

“How do you know whether she
knows them?” inquired Teddy.

Helen laughed and answered for
Rachel. “If she didn’t, she wouldn’t acknowledge them at all.”

“Nor should she,” Edward felt
obliged to rebuke, Sometimes his sister’s manner was entirely too
light-hearted. “Lady Darnet knows how to conduct herself properly.”

“Starched up.” The words appeared
to have come from Aunt Emily, although the heavy-set woman hardly ever spoke.

“Beg pardon?” said Edward, but
his aunt gave no sign of noticing.

“I didn’t mean to criticize her,”
Helen put in quickly. “I know you’re fond of her, Edward, and she’s certainly a
beauty. If only she would unbend a little! I’m sure she’s perfectly charming
when one comes to know her.”

Edward lapsed into silence,
uncertain how to respond, for he had never developed a close enough friendship
with Lady Darnet to discover whether she was charming or no.

Should he rise now and approach
the widow? Perhaps her escort was merely an old friend or relative. Could she
seriously allow herself to be courted by someone so old? But then, her late
husband the earl had been elderly, Edward recalled.

Suddenly he realized that he’d
been spotted. The countess and her companion were headed toward the Cockerell
box. An honour indeed!

“Oh, there they are! Over here!”
cried Helen, but she wasn’t waving at Lady Darnet.

Edward followed her gaze and saw
with a shock the figures of Lady Mary Linley and her younger daughter
approaching, with a groom following at a respectful distance. At the same
moment, Lady Darnet observed the pair headed in the same direction and halted.
After a moment’s hesitation, she and her escort moved off.

“You haven’t invited them to join
us!” cried Edward. “Helen, what can you be thinking?”

“Oh, hush, Edward.” It was
definitely Aunt Emily who spoke this time.

“Why?” One could almost see
Rachel’s ears prick up. “What’s wrong with them? Why is Lady Icicle turning
away?”

The Linleys were upon them, and
with a flurry the group shifted about. Additional chairs were sent for to
accommodate the new arrivals. Safely ensconced among their friends, Lady Mary
signalled the groom that he might wander off and amuse himself for the next few
hours.

Even Rachel knew enough not to
ask rude questions, and for a time the talk was of such impersonal matters as
singers at the Opera and the latest fashions.

The Linley chit kept her eyes
lowered and said little. Milk-and-water miss indeed, not yet properly come out,
Edward recalled. Reserve could be a good quality in a woman, as Lady Darnet
demonstrated, but insipidity was not to be tolerated.

He maintained a chill politeness
with the Linleys. Lady Mary merited one’s respect by reason of her breeding and
connexions; had she been alone, no doubt the countess and her companion would
have joined the party.

But to bring along this odious
young girl, on the heels of her sister’s disgrace! Whatever had Helen been
thinking, to invite them over?

The more he regarded the girl,
the more Edward took her in dislike. How dared she be so pretty, with
golden-blonde curls, deep blue eyes and a hint of a smile playing perpetually
around her full lips? She ought to be downcast and mousy.

Nor could he help noticing how
others of their acquaintance avoided the group, staring in amazement as Helen
and Lady Mary carried on a lively conversation.

What were they speaking of now?
Something about Meg going off to the country. And a dashed good thing, too! If
only her sister had gone along.

“Edward!” Helen rapped her
brother’s arm. “Woolgathering? If you’ve nothing to contribute to the
conversation, then I suggest you dance with Angela.”

Edward was too stunned to reply,
and before he knew what he was about, he found himself standing up with the
young lady as the band launched into a gavotte. The proposal being too awkward
to decline, he offered his arm to the simpering thing and led her onto the
grass, where sets were forming. Once again, he caught the disapproving gaze of
Lady Darnet upon them.

Not that he had developed a
tendre for the widow, but Edward prided himself on serving as a model of
respectability. He had hoped to secure a wife who would follow his example, and
Lady Darnet was perfect for the role. If he’d lost his chance with her, it was
because of this encroaching young mushroom.

Edward was hard put not to glare
as they moved through the figure of the dance. Why did Angela have to be so
graceful and dimple so prettily when she curtseyed? It must give Lady Darnet
entirely the wrong idea.

The end of the gavotte brought
with it considerable relief, until Angela said, “If you would be so kind, Mr.
Cockerell, you could do me a great favour.”