“Bobo?”
“Well, yes. You know he is rusticating with his mama. I danced with him at the Finley-Bourns’s ball. Oh, I think you were discussing that tiresome fence with Mr. Offitt at the time. And you were out with that man Jake at the horse auction when he came to call yesterday. He stayed to tea,” Nadine said around another macaroon.
“Did you count the silverware?” Emilyann moved the dish. No wonder Bobo appealed to the girl: they would both soon be fat as flawns.
Nadine pouted. “Well,
I
think he’s very nice. He’s looking top of the trees, too. You don’t have to smile. Just because you are skinny does not mean it is fashionable,” she preened, wriggling her rounded dumpling of a body. “And Bobo knows everyone in London. You should hear him tell about the fireworks displays and how the streets were all lined with people when the tsar arrived and how there are more fetes every night than anyone can attend.” Her fan waved furiously in her enthusiasm. “And I am stuck here in the country, where nothing ever happens. Emmy, I am nearly seventeen! I’ll be on the shelf soon if I don’t get to London and find a husband! Why, you were already married when you were my age. Of course, your aunt Ingrid says—”
“Aunt Ingrid has been entertaining some very odd notions lately,” Emilyann put in hurriedly. “She hasn’t been feeling at all the thing since Uncle Morgan’s last visit; she’s even complaining that her tooth powder tastes peculiar.”
“But Bobo says even she is considering returning to London before the end of the victory celebrations.”
Emilyann turned the page of her journal, tired of the discussion. “Yes, well, perhaps we shall get there, too, if Smoky comes home in time.”
“He’s been gone over a year this time,” Nadine wailed, throwing down the fan. “All the other officers are returning. I don’t see why Stokely can’t.”
Emilyann stood and picked up the fan. She smoothed the feather tips between her fingers and tried once more to stay patient with her sister-in-law. “He explained it very carefully, that it was an honor to be asked to help establish the peacekeeping forces in Belgium. Lord Wellington himself asked Smoky to stay on until a new command staff can be assembled. There were so many losses at Toulouse, you know, that experienced officers are in short supply. The Congress of Vienna will be convening shortly, anyway, and then it is just a matter of time before the peace is finalized and all the troops can come home. Since Smoky will be selling out, it only seemed fair to let the other officers have leave first, before they rejoin the army or go off to the American conflict.”
“You know what I think?” Nadine asked with a sneer. “I think you’re glad. I think you are going along just as you please, managing everything and everybody, and you don’t even care if the war lasts forever. I bet you’d be happy if Stokely never came home!”
“Hateful little shrew!” Emilyann shouted back, shaking the fan under Nadine’s nose. “Don’t you ever, ever say such a thing! I have been waiting forever for Smoky to come home. And he will; he promised me. Just because he’s the finest, bravest, most honorable officer there ever was, and won’t go back on his responsibilities so some foolish little girl can attend her silly parties ...”
The fan didn’t last long.
* * * *
Nadine apologized sweetly. How could she have been such a wretch to dear Emilyann, who had done so much for her and the family? She would be content to stay in the country, she swore, even if all the local boys did have hay in their hair, except Bobo, of course.
And Emilyann bought her a new fan, with turquoise ostrich feathers this time, to dazzle the rustics. And she threw her first large entertainment, to encourage Nadine’s local swains, except Bobo, of course. And she did a lot of serious thinking.
She was almost nineteen now, and she had never had a London season either. She would like to see the spectacles, too, and all the other evils Aunt Ingrid was always nattering on about, like the theater and Vauxhall Gardens. The lands were prospering, her investments were earning returns, her remodeling projects were nearly accomplished— and where the deuce was Smoky? If she felt a trifle guilty for enjoying herself too much in his absence, she also reasoned that she had worked very hard on his behalf. Now she wanted to show him the fruits of her labors, convince him that he hadn’t married such a ninnyhammer and an antidote to boot.
Of course he had responsibilities, and of course the peace treaties would be signed soon, but perhaps, just perhaps, he could have come home for two weeks in the past year or so if he wanted to. Which was the rub, naturally. It was perfectly reasonable that she was not overeager to become a wife in deed as well as name, and understandable that she might be nervous about his return. But if he was not returning because he didn’t want to return, if he would rather stay in some bloody war rather than come home and be her husband, if he was ashamed of her—then she would show him a thing or two. The Countess of Stokely did not have to vegetate in the backwaters growing pigfeed and crocheting, as if she knew how, during the biggest celebrations of the century, not on any overbearing soldier’s selfish whim
.
Dear Smoky, I hope this finds you well. Thank you for the package of Brussels lace you sent. Did you really watch the women making it? Nadine is busy steeping hers in tea for the aged look she swears is all the crack now. Nanny is helping me use mine to retrim a boring gown. See how frugal I have learned to be?
Speaking of saving money, I have been thinking of refurbishing the London town house so that it might be rented out rather than sit empty for years, growing stale and shabby. I understand houses are being let at remarkably high prices now, with so many dignitaries and hangers-on in town. I would have to supervise the work myself, of course, which would involve moving the rest of the household to London for a brief time, which I cannot but think would be to everyone’s benefit, despite your worries.
I know you felt we should do better in the country for the time being, but I think you might not have considered all the facts of the matter. To wit, your sister is growing into a beauty, and unfortunately knows it. She really needs a bigger pond in which to swim, the local swains offering no challenge. I fear she is fixing her interest with Bobo, of all people. I cannot decide if he loiters about the place for Nadine’s sake or Cook’s excellent pastries, which interest they have in common.
Geoff, meanwhile, is in danger of turning into the complete farmer, as you feared. It is all we can do to get him to change for dinner. I myself would not find a little town bronze amiss, between visits to the warehouses and linen drapers. I have been most eager to view the new British Museum with Lord Elgin’s treasures, and to hear that soprano everyone raves about. La Catalani. You see, nothing exceptional.
Aunt Ingrid is thinking of returning to town now that she is recovered from the carriage accident, so we shall have the most rigorous of overseers. Aunt believes the peace talks need her blessing.
How are the treaty negotiations going anyhow? We hear so little, here in the country. Oh, and Nanny is sending you some handkerchiefs. Nadine says that I should write that I embroidered the monograms myself, but you would not have believed a word of it, would you? Which is by way of saying you can trust me.
There, I am sure I have overcome all your objections. Do you have any preferences for colors for the London drawing room, and was there any of the old staff you wished to see rehired?
Of course if your orders are changed, we would naturally be delighted to await your homecoming in Arstock, so do keep us informed. I hope that day comes soon, Smoky. As ever, Sparrow.
* * * *
The mails were more reliable now that hostilities were over, and a letter could reach Smoky in Brussels in less than two weeks, Emilyann estimated, especially since he was no longer moving around with a marching army. He had won promotion to major, too, and the higher the rank, she was sure, the quicker the mail was sorted and delivered. So there were perhaps ten days before he had her letter, another ten before his response. She foresaw no difficulty; they would be making their curtsies at Almacks long before that.
As she told Nadine, it was all a matter of timing.
* * * *
Major Lord Stokely thought bald men looked silly, otherwise he’d tear his hair out. He was drowning in paperwork, choking on conflicting orders, and being nibbled to death by the ducks of diplomacy. And his little peahen of a wife was going to London! She had dirty-dish relatives, a near-scandalous marriage, no looks, and about as much sense of self-preservation as a kitten. She would hate all the petty strictures and she’d flaunt whichever didn’t suit her.
Gads, those dragons of the ton would eat a spirited girl like her alive, and spit her reputation out in shreds. With no proper sponsor but a psalm-singing fanatic, and no chaperone except Aunt Adelaide, who could be counted on for a season-long swoon, Sparrow wouldn’t be received in the polite world. The impolite world, filled with hardened libertines and fortune-hunters, would welcome a fresh-hatched chick like her with open arms. His baby-faced brother could be counted on to outrun the constable, and that sad romp of a sister needed a lot heavier hand on the reins than Sparrow’s if she wasn’t to disgrace them all.
To top it off, Stockton House in London was a moldering pile that would take a king’s ransom to restore. He would have sold it long ago if he could have found a buyer stupid enough. Of all Sparrow’s cork-brained schemes, this one took the prize. Those unprotected innocents had no more business in London than he did behind a desk in Brussels. He couldn’t leave Belgium; they couldn’t leave Northampshire, period. That was it.
Do not go to London,
he wrote. How much more explicit could he make it? He sent Rigg to dispatch the letter at once, then he came back to his office, loosened his collar, and put his feet up on the battered desk. He shook his head, smiled, thought how he’d ought to have taken a switch to the chit when she was nine, and wrote the letter over. This copy he sent to Stockton House, Portman Square, London.
So he thought they were innocents, did he? From his letters, with all of his do’s and don’t’s, Emilyann gathered that Smoky thought she was still a nine-year-old scamp with a soiled pinafore. One mustn’t gallop in Hyde Park, one must always be accompanied by a maid at least, one must not speak to a gentleman unless formally introduced to him. Goodness, one might think she hadn’t learned anything at all at Miss Meadow’s Academy. She surely had not been instructed in how to keep accounts, or how to trace a broodmare’s bloodlines, or when to invest in consols or futurities, so what did Smoky think they taught there, anything practical?
No, she had a head full of paltry rules and trifling data, such as how to greet each level of the peerage, how low to curtsy to each dignitary, and which fork to use at dinner. She knew how to discourage an overheated beau, and how to hold polite conversations with half-deaf dowagers. If she did not always choose to use this education in inconsequentialities, that was a minor point only.
I
did not just sprout from under a cabbage leaf, you know,
she wrote back to her doubting husband, meanwhile thinking that if Smoky was so sure they would land in the briars without him to watch over them, he should dashed well be there.
Emilyann had intended to keep a quiet profile in London: visit the modiste shops and booksellers, see the historical sights, look up some of her school friends, and take in a few concerts and plays. She would have to see about a presentation at court and their vouchers for Almack’s for Nadine’s sake, but she truly meant to stay on the outskirts of the ton, more an observer than a participant.
That was before receiving the reams of orders and advice from Major Lord Stokely. Now she was determined to make a splash.
When Emilyann and her entourage arrived at the Pulteney Hotel for a week’s stay while the city mansion was being restored to glamour, the hotel staff sniffed as if the aroma of Geoff’s hogs had traveled with them. A bit of name-dropping, a lot of largesse, and the little countess became a favored guest, and she hadn’t even needed Smoky’s instructions. Soon the best couturiers and the premier employment agencies and caterers to the elite were sending emissaries, leaving gratuities for the porter for the references,
certainement.
Bankers and merchants and carriage makers filed through her suite, and then, after she began making morning calls and leaving cards, dowagers and debs.
Many of her former schoolmates were easy to locate; anyone not already married was in London for the season, hunting. They wholeheartedly welcomed Emilyann back to their friendships as someone who was wealthy, titled, fun-loving—and absolutely no threat to their capturing a
parti
of their own. She even had a charming brother-in-law, a bit young but sweet. Of course they would be pleased to extend invitations to their balls and Venetian breakfasts.
To her father’s friends, the diplomats and politicians who used to attend house parties at Arcott Hall, Emilyann was a cherished recollection, Aylesbury’s moppet. She was as dear to them now as any young woman they did not have to feed, clothe, or provide with a dowry. They made sure their wives and secretaries put her on the lists for state dinners and soirees.
Even Aunt Ingrid was moved to do her part. Back in town for the Peace Celebrations, surely a praiseworthy occasion, Ingrid was convinced her cachet was all-important to Emilyann’s success, not that being accepted by the leaders of the ton was on a scale with being welcomed to heaven by a band of trumpeting angels, Ingrid disdained such worldly pursuits for herself, of course, but her harum-scarum niece was just as likely to set the town on its ear if not guided properly.
Lady Aylesbury shuddered to think of even more scandal and shame touching her family. It was her duty to see that Emilyann had the proper introductions and supervision. If, in the meantime, Ingrid was pressured into purchasing new gowns and wearing the Arcott emeralds now and again, it was all toward a higher good. She had to attend that tiresome marriage-mart at Almack’s and those insipid come-outs anyway, if she was to find Bobo a suitable mate. Her husband might not be welcomed at routs and receptions and ladies’ teas, but no one refused a duchess, no matter how eccentric.