Connie (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 3) (11 page)

So she would enjoy herself, and store up memories to take back to Lower Brinford, pleasant remembrances to sustain her through countless dull evenings at home, or when fending off the attentions of the brothers from High Frickham at assemblies. And if there was a little knot of unhappiness deep inside whenever she looked at the Marquess or Jess, she was determined to pretend it did not exist.

12: Cards And Fans

Even before her death, Lady Harriet’s mother had not been well enough to travel to London for many years, so the role of chaperon and mistress of Marford House for the season had fallen to one or other of the late Marquess’s sisters. This year it was the turn of the Dowager Viscountess Moorfield, a large lady with a booming voice, who wrapped Connie, Jess and Lady Harriet in perfumed embraces in a rustle of bombazine and crepe.

“How adorable this will be! Two debutantes to introduce, although I have heard just a whisper that my matchmaking skills will not be required. As for you, Harriet, I am sure we shall find someone to your taste this year. I almost had a match five years ago, did I not, Harriet? But somehow he slipped through my fingers and married that wretched Stowercroft girl. Ha! A merry dance she is leading him, too, so he has got what he deserved. But since then, we have had no luck at all. Not that I would expect anything from Patience, she is a little goose and has not an ounce of common sense where matchmaking is concerned. It is an art requiring the utmost delicacy, I must tell you, and not a matter for blundering about. But I did think that Theodosia or Beatrice might have managed to get you safely wed. Now you are almost an old maid, I declare. Never mind, for I am here to take care of you this season, and I have one or two prospects in view, my dear, you may depend upon it.”

“I beg you will not concern yourself over me, Aunt,” Lady Harriet said, laughing. “I am perfectly happy as I am.”

Lady Moorfield took not the slightest notice. “Now, the Earl of Limpole’s eldest is to be in town this year, back from his grand tour at last, and that business at Brighton all forgotten, I am sure. That would be a good match. Or the Duke of Cherton’s son. Only a third son, but he stands to inherit a fine estate in Norfolk from his uncle, and a handsome fellow, by all I have heard. A little younger than you, but you cannot be
too
choosy at your age. Or that boy from Westmorland — so rich, my dear, you cannot imagine.”

She rattled on in the same vein for some time, to Connie’s amusement. Lady Moorfield seemed to know everybody who was worth knowing, and although they were merely names to Connie now, she hoped to meet all of them, so she listened and tried to learn them and work out how they were all related. It was difficult, but years of her father’s strict teaching methods had left her well able to memorise details. With a few judicious questions to Lady Moorfield, she soon began to untangle the web of family links that connected the highest levels of society.

The responsibility for introducing Connie and Jess into society was one to which Lady Moorfield accorded the utmost seriousness. The first day at Marford House was entirely taken up with inspecting every gown, bonnet, brooch, hair comb, pair of gloves or stockings, necklace or fan they had brought with them, every item to be tried on and approved. Connie’s clothes brought forth a tilt of the head to one side, and a “Hmm, that will do for now”, whereas all Jess received was a tilt of the head in the opposite direction, and a “Hmm, we could do something with that, perhaps”, in a dubious tone.

Lady Harriet had brought boxes of her old gowns from a season or two ago, which could be altered to fit and brought up to date, so there was an enormous amount of pushing and tugging and measuring and pinning. Two seamstresses were brought in to ensure all was made ready before the season’s round of engagements was underway.

With these important preparations in hand, the next step was to drive to the houses of all the Marfords’ acquaintance leaving their cards, to tell the world that they were in town. Jess knew nobody, but there was the matter of Lady Sara’s family to be considered. Lady Moorfield insisted on leaving their cards at Heatherington House.

“We are only on nodding acquaintance with the Earl and Countess, but we know the Melthwaites well, of course.”

“I do not believe they are very pleased with me after I visited them at Tambray,” Connie said. “Perhaps we should not—”

“Nonsense! Emma may or may not be pleased with you, but what does that signify? She knows perfectly well what is due to you as a relative, and one moreover a guest of the Marquess. She is a stickler for protocol, so you need not worry that she will cut you, or anything of that nature. She will be all complaisance, you may be sure.”

So cards were duly left at Heatherington House. Connie sat in the carriage watching the butler accept them, his face revealing no emotion, and wondered how the Viscountess would react. They were bound to meet at social occasions, so perhaps she would consider it prudent not to make a fuss. Still, her reaction at the mention of Aunt Tilly suggested that she would want nothing to do with the daughter of a woman who stayed with such a person.

When the delivery of cards palled, there were shops to be visited. Connie had no wish to spend her limited funds on frivolities, and she was now very well provided with clothes and the like, but there was still much to enjoy on these expeditions. When she tired of looking at the displays within the shop, she could watch the fashionable passers-by through the window.

The Marquess and Lord Reginald generally accompanied them on these outings. Somehow the presence of the two men made shopping a more serious and important occupation, and since Connie was now established as the artistic arbiter, her advice was frequently sought on the matter of a snuff box or a cravat pin. When she decreed that one was superior to another, the Marquess or his brother would buy the chosen item instantly. It was immensely flattering.

Lady Harriet and her aunt seldom asked for advice, and even when they did, took no notice of Connie’s opinion. They thought nothing of requiring the assistant to spread half the shop’s wares on the counter, discussing the merits of each item in disparaging terms and then, after an hour, when the assistant’s smile was beginning to fray, deciding there was nothing at all that they liked. Occasionally, however, they would spend vast sums of money on something Connie thought hideous.

Jess was unusually quiet on these occasions. She had no money of her own to spend, and seemed uninterested even in examining the goods on offer, sitting demurely on a chair near the door. Once or twice, when a prospective customer entered and looked around seemingly at a loss, Jess jumped up and offered him assistance, guiding him to the required display or counter. Once she entered into a lengthy conversation with a gentleman, before he was caught up in the business at hand, and she slipped back to her seat. Connie wondered at it, for it almost seemed as if she were putting herself forward to be noticed by these gentlemen, yet how could that be so? Yet the Marquess made no protest, and made not the least effort to keep Jess by his side, as one might expect.

Connie preferred to look at all the pretty trinkets and baubles laid out for examination. In one shop, a lacquered fan caught her eye, and she kept returning to it, admiring the workmanship in the design, which was of the finest execution.

“Do you like it, madam?” the assistant said.

“Oh, indeed! I have never seen one so beautiful.”

“Try it,” said the Marquess, appearing at her side just then.

“Oh — may I?” she said to the assistant.

“Of course, madam. It is a lovely piece, is it not? And light enough to be not in the least tiring to use.”

Gently she lifted it up, turning it over in her hands. Her only fan was an old one of Mama’s, given to her when she first came out, and she liked it well enough. But this was exquisitely made, displaying quite superior artistry. Flicking it open, she fanned herself, smiling for the pleasure of holding such a magnificent ornament.

“Do you like it?” the Marquess said.

“How could I not? And the colour! It would be perfect to carry when I wear my ruby bracelet.”

“Oh, yes, madam!” the assistant cried, sensing a sale. “Nothing could be more perfect. You have such an eye for colour, if I may say so.”

“You may,” said the Marquess, “for it is quite true. Miss Allamont is going to redesign my house for me.”

“Oh, no, I do not think—”

“You may wrap the fan.”

“Oh, no, my lord,” Connie said, paling. “I cannot afford anything so lovely. I am sure it is too expensive.”

“Then I shall make you a gift of it, for I insist that you have it.”

“No, no! That would be most inappropriate.”

“But why should I not—?” He stopped abruptly, catching sight of his brother glowering at him.

“It is for
me
to buy gifts for my
betrothed
, Dev,” Lord Reginald said.

“Oh. I suppose so, yes.”

“You may buy something for
Miss Drummond
, if you wish.”

For a moment, the two brothers glared at each other, in the most unsettling way. Then the Marquess nodded once, curtly, and strode off to join Jess at her chair near the door, while Lord Reginald paid for the fan, which was indeed very expensive. Connie blushed and stammered her thanks awkwardly. She could not quite decide on the propriety of the matter, for although it was certainly proper for a man to buy gifts for his future bride, she was only too conscious that she was no such thing. But it was such a delightful fan, and she wanted it quite badly, so she made no protest, and only her stumbling words betrayed her confusion.

As for the Marquess, he never did buy anything for Jess, not on that day, or any other, as far as Connie could tell.

~~~~~

The cards scattered so industriously in all the better parts of London began to bear fruit. A little stream of interesting cards were left in return on the polished table in the entrance hall of Marford House, and before too long they began to make and receive morning calls. The cards were succeeded by invitations and within a very few days of her arrival in London, Connie attended her first ball. It was not, Lady Moorfield, informed her in disapproving tones, one of the more superior occasions, such as she might expect to see later in the season.

“However, it will be a good place to begin,” she said. “There are not so many families here just yet, so you will show to advantage. Connie, you may wear the pale green with the gold trim, and one of your Mama’s little necklaces. Jess, the lemon silk with the silver overskirt, if it is finished, and nothing round your neck. It is not your best feature, so let us not draw attention to it. We will do something striking with your hair, I think, for that is where you are blessed. Such lovely curls! I will have Marte trim the front a little.”

Evening engagements could be quite chancy affairs in the country, whatever the time of year, for rain or snow could make the roads impassable, and then there was the anxious business of hoping for a clear night to provide moonlight. In London, Connie found, the difficulties were quite different. The roads provided no obstacle, and street lamps lit the way, but the crowds and noise and smells that assaulted her senses, and the press of traffic that slowed the carriage to a snail’s pace were frightening.

“Do not look so fearful, Miss Allamont,” Lord Reginald said. “The coachman has been with us for ten years, and has managed not to overturn us once. Not yet, anyway,” he added cheerfully, thus adding to the list of worrying possibilities for Connie to fret over.

Eventually, they arrived, and bewigged footmen stepped forward to open the carriage door, let down the steps and assist the ladies to alight. Lady Moorfield descended first, and then Lord Reginald, who turned to offer his hand to Connie. She stepped onto carpet laid between lines of torches. In the gloom outside the circle of flickering light they cast, white faces gazed impassively at her.

“Who are these people?” she whispered.

“Poor people,” he said with a shrug. “They come to see the upper class at play. Ignore them. Ah, here is Dev’s carriage now.”

The Marquess leapt down almost before the wheels had stopped moving, helping his sister and Jess to alight. There was another lady, too, a mousy creature whose name Connie had forgotten, a cousin or aunt of some sort. It seemed the Marquess had forgotten her very existence, for he turned away before she descended, and she had to wait for a footman to assist her.

Connie smiled at her. “There you are,” she said brightly. “Now we shall all go in together.”

“Oh, no, no!” the mouse said in dismay. “All in the proper order. The Marquess and Miss Drummond, then the Dowager and Lady Harriet, then you must enter with Lord Reginald, you see, and I go last. The proper order, Miss Allamont.”

The next carriage was arriving, so Connie was obliged to move onwards — in the proper order, naturally — without making any response, but she stowed the exchange away in her mind to consider at a later time, when she might have the leisure for philosophy. Something jangled in her brain, but she could not quite work out what it was.

They followed the carpet up broad steps and into a pillared hall filled with displays of white flowers, their heady perfume erasing all the noxious smells of the street. The hall was lit by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of candles, and as they processed at a stately pace through the house, every room was just as bright, although the flowers were different colours — one room yellow, another pink, and one red. Ahead of them, the stream of guests was marked by a line of waving turban-feathers, with more following on behind. Then the ballroom appeared, and the stream stopped, inching forwards as each party was announced. Their turn came, their names were called out, they moved forwards into the room.