Before the Season Ends (5 page)

One week later
Mayfair, London

N
umber 49 Hanover Square was posh and exclusive, which, being in Mayfair, was to be expected. Though Ariana had visited as a child with her family, she remembered nothing of the atmosphere of stolid wealth that pervaded the tree-lined street of Georgian brick homes, or the gleaming black iron railings which flanked doorways all the way down it, as far as one could see.

The railings of house number 49 fanned out toward the pavement in two graceful arcs. They were intricately designed and polished to a shine. Equally decorous black lamps sat elegantly above the railings on both sides of the door, and above the threshold, jutting out slightly over the steps, was an angelic sculptured awning.

Two cherubic faces smiled benignly down from the sculpture, and Ariana stopped and smiled herself. She, provincial Ariana Forsythe from the country, was about to embark on a London season of the sort that she had never imagined would come her way.

The journey to London by post chaise had indeed taken three days, including two stopovers at roadside inns. Mrs. Bentley had specified how to proceed right down to the littlest details, so that even Ariana’s
meals at these places were largely according to her suggestions. Dory had often dozed off in the carriage and encouraged Ariana to do the same, but she was too excited to sleep and chose to read whenever the light allowed.

Ariana had been forced to waken the maid upon their arrival, but true to form, Dory was instantly alert and bustled about seeing that Mrs. Bentley’s servants missed no luggage, and that Ariana was expected and welcomed. A groom had appeared from the mews, and took charge of the carriage, leading the horses around the house. At the front door, Dory whispered a hurried goodbye, giving her charge a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing down the servants’ entrance to the kitchens. Come morning, she would begin the journey back to Chesterton by herself. Ariana watched her go with a slight feeling of misgiving. Dory was her last connexion to home and family.

Ariana was ushered in by Haines, the butler, who, though he looked the part of the stern master of the staff, seemed to be a soft-hearted pretender.

“Your aunt will be pleased to learn you have safely arrived,” he said, watching her with a staid expression, the result of training and long habit. For he was, in fact, pleased to find that the long-awaited niece of his mistress was a pretty young miss.

“Much obliged,” Ariana said, while he helped relieve her of her bonnet, gloves, and pelisse. But when he reached to take her reticule, she nodded that she wished to keep it with her. It held the all-important letter explaining why she, Ariana, had come and not Alberta, as well as a small token of thanks for her aunt. The housekeeper arrived, and she curtseyed to Ariana.

“Mrs. Ruskin, at your service, ma’am. Welcome to London!”

Ariana thanked her and explained that from the time they had entered the outreaches of the city, she had been all eyes.

“Nothing like our busy city back in Chesterton, eh?” the housekeeper chuckled.

“Not at all,” Ariana conceded. In fact, the strange sights and sounds—and smells—of busy London fascinated her. She had never
seen such vendors, buildings, stalls, criers, carts of wares, or the manner of pedestrians and equipages as she had since they passed through Hampstead. Market day at home was crowded, of course, but nothing like this. Dory had been asleep when they entered the city, and Ariana was forced to keep her excitement to herself, even when the coach turned onto Fleet Street, a wide thoroughfare choked with traffic and well-dressed pedestrians.

An astonishing number of inviting shops lined both sides of the street as far down as the eye could see. Men and women of high fashion were coming and going about their daily affairs and Ariana marveled at them and their fine clothing. The coach made but little headway for a time, stopping every few minutes due to the traffic, and she had time to look and admire to her heart’s content.

Then, while they sat waiting for room to manoeuvre, she noticed a pair of street waifs begging from door to door, only to be turned away again and again. A person here or there would give a coin, but her heart broke at sight of the poor little things.

One of them, a little girl with enormous brown eyes and raggedy hair, scrawny and unkempt, suddenly spied Ariana’s compassionate gaze and started toward the vehicle as if on cue with a hand outstretched. Ariana hurriedly felt for a coin in her reticule—she had a few pounds of her own as well as a small sum from Papa for pin money, and she eagerly desired to help this poor child. But a passing gentleman saw the child’s intent and stopped her with a cane, barring her path, and the little ragamuffin ran off. The gentleman tipped his hat and bowed, as though he had done Ariana a service. She looked away. She would not nod or acknowledge him; instead her heart felt heavy as the coach’s wheels began to turn, moving them on.

After enduring more traffic, the carriage turned onto Oxford Street, a wider and less congested avenue, and they began to make headway. Finally they turned onto a smaller, quieter road. Ariana was admiring the rows of neat houses with their wrought-iron fences when the road widened into Hanover Square.

And now, here she was, inside her aunt’s house. Mrs. Ruskin led her
toward the staircase while Ariana’s large eyes sparkled with pleasure, surveying the welcoming interior of the hall. Above her head was an elegant chandelier dripping with a score of candles, and to her right, a colourful tapestry on the wall. A gilt-edged, decoratively framed mirror hung elegantly above a little japanned table against the wall to her left.

“This way, my dear,” said the housekeeper, after they climbed the stairs, and she escorted Ariana into a well-appointed parlour.

“Is there anything I can get you? Tea, perhaps?”

“I’d be obliged, thank you,” she said, for in fact Ariana was hungry and thirsty. The housekeeper eyed her thoughtfully and added, “Perhaps a bite as well? A young lady must get an appetite from such a journey as you’ve had.”

“That will be lovely, thank you.” Ariana reflected with relief that kind servants usually meant the master—or mistress—was also kind.

She surveyed the light buff-yellow room, pleasantly illuminated with numerous wax candles, the good, expensive kind. Another rich chandelier was overhead, though unlit at present. There were two comfortable-looking sofas with embroidered flowers on them, a divan and two wing chairs, and a mound of hot coals in the hearth. An oval wooden table of a rich hue sat in the middle of the circle of furniture, and rested upon an oriental carpet. There were portraits on the wall of people dressed in old-fashioned, eighteenth-century styles, but still very pleasing to the eye.

The effect of it all was so warm and pretty and inviting that Ariana thought surely her Aunt Bentley must be warm and inviting herself. Perhaps not pretty, since she was Papa’s elder sister, but warm and inviting would be very agreeable, indeed. She sat gingerly upon a sofa, placing her reticule lightly upon the table, careful not to disturb anything.

Moments later, she heard voices in the hall. The door opened and there was a swift change in the atmosphere as Mrs. Bentley, with a servant behind her, entered the room. Thoughts of her relation being
warm and inviting flew away. Ariana came to her feet and beheld the woman who was her aunt.

Agatha Bentley was dressed richly in a heavy gown that reached the floor. It was adorned with sparkling gold-threaded embroidery at the wrists and hem. She had a shawl around her shoulders and tucked under her arms. She wore two very large jeweled rings on her hands, a multitude of heavy gold bracelets, and a jeweled headband. As if this wasn’t enough to enlarge Ariana’s expressive orbs, her relation’s eyes were sharp and cold and her skin was very white. There was nothing in her face to remind one of Mr. Forsythe, Ariana’s father; and unlike his sturdy features, hers were small and surprisingly delicate.

The house felt suddenly unwelcoming despite the fact that the servant carried a china tea service on a tray, with biscuits and small cakes on little plates. She placed the tray carefully upon the table near Ariana. The china was pretty, with fluted edges, delicate—and breakable, Ariana thought, for some reason.

Trying not to appear as if she were hungrily studying her niece, Mrs. Bentley smiled tremulously. It was not a warm smile, more like one the wearer hoped would be warm, but Ariana smiled in return and curtseyed. Her aunt felt infinite relief that the girl was attractive. All the finery she had in mind could not have hidden a pallid complexion or dumbness of expression. In fact, the girl had a calm, intelligent demeanour, rich blonde hair, and a rosy complexion. Her face was finely featured, with a lovely, chiseled nose, smooth cheekbones, and, most striking of all, light bluish-brown eyes that sparkled prettily, though they held a look of what? Mild alarm?

Perhaps she is peaked from traveling,
thought Mrs. Bentley. She hoped it was not a permanent feature. She often found the best looking fruit invariably had the rottenest interiors and she supposed this applied to people as well. Would her handsome niece prove to be overly shy or inept at conversation? These faults were as fatal, in her social
circle, as being ugly, or worse—poor! Aloud she said only, “So this is my niece! Welcome to my home,” with an arm motion instructing Ariana to take her seat.

“You shouldn’t have risen, you know,” she added. “Ladies do not rise when company enters the room, unless it is royal company, of course.”

Ariana nodded politely, and then said, “I am instructed to give you the best regards of my father and mother, and to say how very much obliged we are to you for sponsoring me.” Having relieved herself of this speech restored her confidence somewhat, and she even remembered to give her aunt the small aromatic pomander fastened to a silk ribbon that she and her mother had fashioned as a present.

“For you,” she said, handing it to Mrs. Bentley. “It’s just a token, of course. Oh, and this letter, from Papa. Please read it now.” She reached into her reticule and pulled out the sealed missive, handing it to her aunt with the pomander. Ariana could not feel quite at ease until Mrs. Bentley read the explanation of why she was there instead of Alberta.

The lady glanced fleetingly at the pomander with distaste, put it down on the table, and then ignored it. Likewise, she paid no attention to the letter in her hand but instead took a seat across from Ariana on a matching sofa. She gestured to the maid who was standing nearby, and the servant poured tea for them. Afterward, Mrs. Bentley dismissed her help and then sat sipping her tea, asking Ariana questions about the family, and trying not to openly study her niece while she answered.

Ariana eyed the letter uneasily, wondering if it would be rude to remind her aunt to read it. Meanwhile, her relation was congratulating herself for finally having got a niece to sponsor. During the season the need to secure advantageous matches for sons and daughters was hidden beneath a veneer of hospitality and party-going. Mrs. Bentley now had something to offer the mama looking to make a match for a son. This gave her the assurance of being included on more invitation lists than if she was alone.

Of course there was always the option of marrying Mr. Pellham, her dearest and most valued friend—who had proposed to her more
than once—but he was merely a retired banker. And despite his wealth, retired bankers were not at all the sort of people admired by the
ton.
He, in turn, disdained any man who even faintly resembled a “fashionable,” insisting they were all fops or dandies. This led him to treat nearly all of the
beau monde
with undisguised contempt. While Mrs. Bentley knew many of the elite were tolerant of eccentricities (most of them were eccentrics themselves) this tolerance did not extend to receiving condescension from a retired tradesman.

This was Mr. Pellham’s only fault, but unfortunately it was a dire one for Mrs. Bentley, who had to choose between her dear, faithful friend, or involvement with the
ton.
During much of the year Mrs. Bentley was happy to forgo social climbing. Randolph Pellham was a frequent visitor, a deft opponent at cards, and kept her amused with accounts of exotic lands and destinations gleaned from a large collection of travel literature—his favourite reading material.

Meanwhile, Ariana was waiting to be offered a biscuit, wondering if she ought to volunteer to read the letter to her aunt. She was also quite desirous to see her bedchamber and to get a good night’s sleep. Posting-houses were comfortable, but not the quietest of establishments, and, coupled with her excitement upon going to London, she hadn’t slept a great deal since leaving Chesterton.

She was disappointed with her relation at this first meeting, but scolded herself for it. How blessed she was to be given this opportunity to experience a different lifestyle! She could not expect her aunt to be as comfortable as a dear old friend, or one’s favourite gown. The two would need time to grow accustomed to one another. And surely she would have opportunity to make other acquaintances while in London. She was pulled from such thoughts by an unexpected voice at the door.