Authors: Sherry Lynn Ferguson
“He told me at the New Year that he might have his grandmere aid me this spring. But, given his hurried departure, I
suspect he forgot to propose it.” Billie concentrated hard
on observing the bustling afternoon activity on the street
about them. Many people had been filtering into town from the countryside, intent on protesting the proposed higher prices
for grain, an issue to be debated in Parliament. The mood of the
crowds of small farmers, laborers, out-of-work tradesmen, and
former soldiers grew increasingly threatening. “His father, the
duke, probably recommended the invitation,” she continued
with a frown. “‘Tis our fathers, after all, who forward the
match”
“Now, Billie, do not start again! When you speak so, you
sound much too bitter for eighteen.”
“Nineteen, Auntie. Saturday.”
“I know very well when your birthday is, missy. We have
that special supper laid in after the Loomises’ tea.”
“Yes, ma’am. And I am most achingly appreciative of your
generosity. But my point was that I am old enough to know
my own mind. And I am certainly old enough to understand
my circumstances. You mustn’t carry on as though-as though
this is some grand romance! Or as though we now attend an
audience with the Prince Regent”
“‘Tis close,” her aunt muttered, before turning to look pointedly out the window.
They completed the rest of the journey in an obstinate absence of conversation. Billie was in no mood to placate her
aunt. But as they stepped out at the foot of the duchess’ front
steps, Billie leaned to kiss Ephie quickly on the cheek.
“Do not fret so,” she urged her aunt softly, by way of insuring her own composure as well.
“Ah, Billie!” Ephie said, in a tone that Billie could have interpreted as either fond or exasperated.
The Dowager Duchess of Braughton chose to live almost
year-round in town, in the house that had sheltered the Dukes
of Braughton for the previous two hundred years. The mansion had been rebuilt twice, and now evidenced all the sturdy
elegance of which one of the country’s oldest and most illustrious families could boast. From the busts of distinguished
ancestors in the hall to the sweeping velvet drapes, oiled wood, and glistening silver in the drawing room, all the appointments were rich and exquisitely understated. And the elderly
woman who greeted them from the fireside was, though frail
and wrapped in the depths of a wing chair, as splendid as her
surroundings.
Billie’s quick glance noted the traces of the duchess’ youthful looks-the white hair that had once been blond, the high
cheekbones, and the clear, sky-blue gaze. An openness, a charm
of expression, lingered. As Billie curtsied, she thought again,
as she had thought at the New Year, that David’s grandmere
appeared to shimmer, in some lively, gemlike manner.
“So I have here two Miss Caswells,” the duchess exclaimed
with her pronounced French accent. Her smile was warm and
happy. “May I call you Miss Wilhelmina?”
“You must call me Billie, Your Grace”
“Billie.” She pronounced it more precisely and elegantly
than it had ever been spoken before. “Yes, it suits you. How
charming you look today, my dear.”
And Billie thanked her before glancing triumphantly at
Ephie.
Refreshments must have been ordered the minute they arrived, because a number of servants, laden with various trays,
entered the room as Billie and Ephie took seats near their
hostess.
“We might have other callers while you visit with me,” the
duchess said. “I hope you do not mind. Town becomes occupied, most busy, here in March”
It was, of course, not their place to mind in the least.
“You left Leicestershire when, then, Miss Billie?
“Just one week ago, Your Grace”
“And what have you seen, what have you done, in that
week?”
The answer sounded rather exhausting to Billie’s own
ears as she listed her activities-never had she been so measured and primped and squeezed in her life. But most of the expenditure of energy and money had been directed to what
was yet to come.
“You will dance at Almack’s?” the duchess asked.
“We await the vouchers, Your Grace,” Aunt Ephie said.
“Wilhelmina has yet to be presented at court”
“I shall see that you receive your vouchers shortly, Miss
Caswell,” the duchess said with a wave of her tiny white hand.
“Such a system! Absurd!” She looked rather imperious as she
dismissed the most selective process in town. “And are any of
your brothers here, Billie, to escort you?”
“My oldest brother, Moreton, is here, Your Grace. And my
next-to-youngest, Christopher-Kit-is in town, but he spends
much of his time at his … at his clubs.”
“Does he? Ah! The gaming! My own brother was most enamored of it! Phillipe was-I regret that Phillipe was often
very bad, though I loved him most dearly. And you have more
brothers?”
So Billie told her of Captain Jack, now a married gentleman in Staffordshire, and of Edward’s hopes to obtain his university degree in June.
“You are fond of your family, Miss Billie.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I am”
“And your parents, Sir Moreton and your mother, must be
most proud of you. You are, perhaps, their favorite-yes? As
the youngest, and the one daughter?”
“No, Your Grace” Billie could shake her head with some
conviction. “I am not the favorite.”
“Perhaps there is no favorite, then. As I am equally fond
of all my grandsons.” The comment reminded Billie that it
was most certainly strange that, given the situation, David’s
grandmere had not once mentioned his name or the supposed
engagement.
All three ladies turned toward the hall door at the sound of
new arrivals.
“I know that you know Hayden, Miss Billie, but perhaps your aunt has not yet met my eldest grandson?” As the famously
fair Marquis of Hayden entered the room, with his confident
manner and dressed in his usual dark-garbed splendor, Billie
read obvious affection in the duchess’ gaze. But she read
something else as well-a sadness, or a concern-that shadowed the elderly woman’s welcoming smile.
“Grandmere,” Hayden acknowledged, bowing gracefully
before her and kissing her hand. He bowed to Billie and Ephie
as well, then presented the two gentlemen accompanying him,
Lord Knowles and Lord Demarest. “M’friend Gillen is due to
be wed in a fortnight, ladies, and is runnin’ about like a demented chicken, else I should have had the pleasure of presentin’ him to you. And Demarest here has just announced his
betrothal to Lady Constance. I swear these weddings and betrothals are a positive contagion! Soon I shan’t have a single
soul to whom to speak! I must rely upon my friend Knowles
here to fill the gap. The gap with the gape, eh grandmere?”
The company laughed. One could not spend more than a
few days in town without hearing of Lord Knowles’ loquacity.
And indeed, Lord Knowles, taking no offense, proceeded to
regale the company with the circumstances of Demarest’s offer to Lady Constance, in such detail that Billie noticed that
only Aunt Euphemia remained entranced.
“Miss Billie”-Hayden leaned close to address her-“will
you step aside here a moment?” He was indicating one of the
window embrasures, where the afternoon sun warmed an oak
sill and highlighted the gold tassels upon the drapes. The window opened upon a small side garden alive with jonquils. As
they stood apart, Hayden drew a letter from his watered-silk
waistcoat. “I have been tasked”-he did not look at her but
at the company as he handed Billie the sealed paper-“with
delivering this.”
Billie recognized the hand, with its direction to Miss Caswell.
She had last seen that writing in January, but on heavier paper.
She knew because she had kept the earlier note.
Quickly she broke the seal and read: I shall be in town the
first week in March. Will I see you? D. Trent
Billie’s lips firmed as she passed the open page, empty save
for that one unsatisfactory line, back to Hayden.
“‘Tis an outrageous waste of paper,” she remarked. “And
much too cryptic.”
“Cryptic?” Hayden’s eyebrows rose. “M’ brother is invariably direct, Miss Caswell.” He scanned the note, then looked
up at her. “I rather think, Miss Billie, that you should comprehend that he sends you a question. It is up to you whether he
sees you or not.”
“He might more properly have asked, `May I see you?”’
“Ah, but David sometimes forgets to be proper.” Hayden
smiled. “And he never begs”
“Are you often your brother’s interpreter?” she asked sharply.
“He has rarely needed one. But, yes, when he is inarticulate.
As he seems to be lately.”
She did not understand his look, and glanced away. Myles
Trent, Marquis of Hayden, had always mystified her; she believed it too late to unravel him now.
“Perhaps,” she ventured softly, as her gaze sought the other
visitors, “he should also have tasked you with explaining why
he left so abruptly in January.”
“He is a soldier, Miss Caswell. No explanation is necessary.”
“We are at peace. My brother Jack sold up last summer.”
“How happy for him.” At Hayden’s ironic tone and slight
bow, Billie’s gaze was upon him once more.
“You would have me believe that your brother, Lord David,
must `soldier on’?”
“Certainly not. He follows his inclinations.”
“Oh, that is too obvious! You might tell him for me, my
lord, when you happen to see him, that I am determined he
will not see me!”
Her temper merely drew a grin, and she left the alcove with
a great deal of pride and no real satisfaction.
Two days later, on Saturday the fourth of March, Billie celebrated her nineteenth birthday with dancing and supper for
almost sixty guests. She had little doubt that her imagined
link to Lord David and the house of Braughton had much to
do with the perfect attendance, because she simply had not
been in town long enough to encourage many beyond a few
old school friends. Thus, the group was a most curious mix of
those few young misses from Mrs. Seton’s boarding school,
her brothers’ variable acquaintance, and a range of younger
ladies and some gentlemen in the charge of Aunt Euphemia’s
circle. That Lords Hayden, Demarest, Knowles, and several
other pinks of the ton deigned to appear at short notice assured the gathering much-elevated cachet. Their presence
could only feed the accepted speculation regarding Billie’s
prospects.
Lord Hayden’s graceful presence in her home on such an
occasion, and just after the coveted vouchers to Almack’s had
arrived, had sent Ephie into the boughs. Indeed, Billie suspected that her aunt’s satisfaction had led her to forget the reason for hosting such a supper party-namely, her niece’s
birthday. Billie wondered wryly if she might slip away entirely, leaving the assemblage to bask in the Marquis of Hayden’s splendor. Instead she moved on to another dance and
watched anxiously for Kit’s arrival. He had promised, to the
extent that he was ever capable of promising, that he would
not forget her birthday. But Kit had ever been Kit.
When her partner, the Earl of Windover, future brother-inlaw to Lord Demarest, asked if anything were wrong, Billie
forced herself to rally. She smiled as she denied any troubles
at all, and was still making an effort to smile as Major Trent
entered the doorway from the hall.
She missed the next step and immediately apologized. She
had to rely upon Windover, a very skilled partner, to see her
through the remainder of the dance, as her attention was so entirely fixed upon the unexpected scarlet coat and broad shoulders at the hall door. She could not meet David’s gaze. But she
felt the relief of knowing he was well.
Hayden had to have told him of the event, though it puzzled
her that David should not have come with his brother’s entourage. Had he just arrived? Billie’s gaze at last sought his.
But he was speaking animatedly with two young ladies, two
of Billie’s newest acquaintances, May Sanders and Charis
Athington. Billie did not truly feel at ease with either, but she
was too new to town to be overly particular, and both were
deemed excellent ton. May Sanders was an admired beautya petite blond who trailed a wake of suitors whatever the venue.
Her friend, tall and elegantly stylish Charis Athington, was reputed to be the catch of the season-wealthy, lovely, and with
every proper connection. The perfect Miss Athington was at
that moment gazing raptly up into Major Trent’s face.
Billie bit her lower lip.
“Miss Caswell.” Lord Windover was frowning. “You are
certain you are quite well? Perhaps we should sit out the rest
of this set”
“No-no, my lord. This tune nears its end. I am only a bit
thirsty. I shall take some punch at the break”
In truth she was parched. In truth, she felt she had been
dancing for days without end. The room seemed very crowded
and extremely hot, though all the fires had been lit earlier to
ward off the pervasive March chill.
The dance ended. Billie thanked her patient partner. She
wished only to escape into the empty supper room. But Kit
had appeared from that very room-he must have entered the
house from the mews-and now he handed Billie her muchdesired glass of punch.
She thanked him and tried not to gulp the drink.
“When did you arrive?” she asked. “I’ve been watching-”
She realized she’d been watching only Major Trent.
“Came around back to surprise fusty old Withers and leave
my gift for you in the kitchen.”
“Whatever have you brought me?”
He laughed. “Come and see”
She was so relieved to have Kit sober, and to have an excuse to leave the party, that she let him lead her by the elbow
through the drawing room and down to the kitchen. Cook and
several startled servants abruptly ceased talking and looked at
them in astonishment.
Kit left Billie’s side to stride to the back door and open it to
the cold night air. When he returned, he was holding a dripping,
moving lobster above a copper pot.