Marjorie Farrell (10 page)

And so, when Sam arrived, she was eager to know how soon he thought Jeremy would come to his senses.

“Did you have no second thoughts, then?” queried Sam.

“I must admit I found Miranda charming, if still quite ineligible,” replied Lavinia from the chaise longue on which she was reclining to rest her “poor tired feet.”

“And her mother?”

“Opaque,” she answered flatly.

“Yes?”

“I could not get one leading bit of information out of her.”

“Perhaps she thought it was rude to be questioned so soon. She did not, I notice, ask about your lineage or birthplace.” Sam smiled.

“It is obvious my background is impeccable,” Lavinia started huffily, until she saw the twinkle in Sam’s eyes. “Oh, all right, I know you think I am a snob, but you don’t seriously consider her appropriate for Jeremy?”

“I don’t know. Before meeting them, I had no doubts. But I must confess I liked the young lady very much and can understand Jeremy’s infatuation.”

“And you still think that is what it is? Infatuation?”

“That remains to be seen. After all, he has yet to see Miranda at a disadvantage, which is why I suggested a large dinner party to him. Of course, I know the work involved for you,” he continued apologetically, but Lavinia dismissed his apologies and sat up immediately.

“That is just the thing. I will invite Miranda and Mrs. Dillon and the most intimidating of our friends who are still in town. The Dillons will immediately see that Miranda will not do.”

“That is just the ticket, Lavinia. But somehow, I feel sorry to have to do this to the two of them.”

“Do you really believe this woman has her own objections?”

“After yesterday, I think she is one of the most honest women I’ve met, although I know nothing of her reasons for disliking the match.”

“You sound quite emotional, Sam,” Lavinia replied. “Could it be that you are interested in this Mrs. Dillon?”

“Oh, I am interested, but not in the way you mean,” replied the viscount.

“She would not do at all for you, even though your taste seems to run to widows.”

“Well, do not add me to your worries, Lavinia.” Sam grinned. “Maria Hill has seemed quite open to my advances these past two weeks.”

Lavinia blushed at Sam’s openness and at her own forwardness. Sam’s retort had been rather cool, and he took his leave shortly, leaving Lavinia to wonder which was more painful, her jealousy over Jeremy’s friendliness with Mrs. Dillon or the fact that Sam, whom she still regarded as a rejected suitor, had never made advances to
this
particular widow.

* * * *

Miranda and Nora received their engraved invitation to Lavinia’s dinner and dance from the hand of her first footman. They looked at each other and giggled after they closed the door, and decided that if they had been able to withstand his haughty look, then they could meet anyone’s.

The main question in Miranda’s mind was what to wear. Although they certainly were not recluses, and socialized frequently, Miranda’s best silk was not appropriate.

“You will have a new dress,” Nora said, unwilling to send her daughter out into society looking out of place.

“No, we will both have new dresses, Mama,” Miranda said determinedly, and Nora acquiesced. For some reason, despite her usual offhandedness about clothes, she wanted to look her best. It would become clear enough in the course of the evening that they didn’t belong, but there was no need to announce it immediately, she thought.

They had no need to travel into London for a modiste, because Madame Didier, a member of the immigrant community of Hampstead, was as much a genius with her needle as Keats was with his pen, Nora remarked. Although they usually made their own dresses, the Dillons patronized Madame’s shop for any fabric other than kerseymere and muslin.

They set off down High Street the day the invitation arrived, for it was only six days to the party. Madame Didier, a tall, angular, gray-haired woman, greeted them with surprised pleasure. Her English was excellent, and unlike the English-born modistes, she had no need to pepper her conversation with French phrases. That she was French was clear from her slight accent, and that she was Parisian, from her exquisite taste. She had accepted the drastic changes in her life with grace and strength, and Nora greatly admired her. They were acquaintances rather than close friends, but occasionally took tea together and drew wordless comfort from each other as women in similar positions.

“So, you are to be introduced into society, Miranda,” teased Madame.

“Just a small dinner dance, Madame,” Miranda replied.

“A small dinner dance could mean over a hundred guests,” warned the modiste. “Let me see what I have for you,” she said as she started to sift through silks and muslin. “Here is a pale blue silk which would compliment your eyes, Miranda, and I would make it up with an overdresss of spider gauze.” Both mother and daughter nodded their approval, and Madame turned to Nora. “But for you, my friend, I must think a bit. Not blue, although I have an aqua which would be perfect for you…” Madame stood for a moment, gazing at Nora. “I have just the thing,” she exclaimed, and disappeared in back, emerging a moment later with a bolt of apricot muslin shot with gold thread.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t wear anything so rich,” Nora protested.

“Mama, it looks beautiful,” Miranda sighed as Madame held the fabric up against her mother.

“But I should be trying to look…” Nora paused, searching for the right word.

“Older?” offered Madame.

“Perhaps a turban, Mama,” added Miranda.

All three laughed. “You will look old enough next to your beautiful young daughter, my dear. No need to add to your years, only to celebrate them.”

Nora and Miranda selected scarves and gloves and slippers and made an appointment for the final fitting.

“Are you sure you can afford these dresses?” Miranda asked. “I got so excited I forgot to look at the price.”

“I received a generous advance for
Cordelia’s Conquest
,
so do not even worry about them. We have little enough frivolity in our lives, so we may as well enjoy it.”

“It
is
fun, isn’t it?” Miranda smiled, giving a little skip as they walked along.

The week passed quickly, and on the night of the dinner, both women were dressed and waiting. Nora had intended to hire a carriage, but Jeremy insisted on sending his chaise. When it arrived, the groom, looking as haughty as the invitation-bearing footman, handed them in.

“I feel like Cinderella going to the ball,” whispered Miranda. “But Lady Whitford’s chaise would not dare turn into a pumpkin!”

When they reached Mayfair, however, Miranda became subdued. She had been to London off and on over the years, but usually for visits to her mother’s publishers, to the theater, or to tea with another writer. Their visits had never taken them into the more fashionable parts of town, and so this view of the town houses of the
ton
were her first. By the time they had passed several houses whose steps were crowded with guests, both were silent. When they reached Lady Lavinia’s, the crush was not as bad as others they had seen, but there were enough carriages waiting to make Miranda gasp.

“I thought this was to be a small dinner dance.”

“I think that ‘small’ means one thing in Hampstead and another in Grosvenor Square,” replied her mother, feeling quite sympathetic to her daughter’s fear. She was not looking forward to the evening herself. While she had attended many dinners as formal, the guests had been quite different: literary types like herself, and those of the nobility who were more interested in discussing art or politics than sharing the latest gossip about Prinny.

The butler who greeted them at the front door was much friendlier than any servant they had met so far. He had been with the family since before Jeremy was born and was quite sympathetic to his young master. He had a footman take their wraps and announced their arrival, watching Jeremy hurry over with something like a twinkle in his eye.

Nora and Miranda were both so dazzled by the blazing chandeliers, the jewels and dresses and gleaming boots and winking diamond studs, that they were almost blinded to the men and women wearing them. They were able to utter only conventional phrases in response to attempted conversations. Unable to take in the whole, they were dazzled by the parts. They were separated at the table, Lavinia having given in and placed Miranda next to Jeremy. Nora was on the other side and quite a few spaces down, between a young man whose shirt points were so high and cravat so starched that he could not turn his head more than an inch or two and appeared to be addressing the elaborate centerpiece instead of Nora whenever they spoke. On the other side was an elderly gentleman with whom Nora tried to converse, only to find that he was hard of hearing. She would have had to shout to make herself understood, and so she gave up. She would have been insulted at Lavinia’s seating arrangement had she not been amused. So she concentrated on her food and surreptitiously observed those across from her and attempted to eat only a little of each. How can they eat so much? she thought as she watched the footman serve yet another course, the last, thank God.

Across the table and a few places up to her left sat the viscount, who was obviously occupied with the lady to his right, an attractive blond. Nora was very happy when the dinner was over and they could join the ladies in the drawing room. “The dancing will follow after the gentlemen have had their port,” announced Lavinia as she led the ladies off.

Miranda seemed to be holding her own with two young women, although Nora could tell she was nervous by her subdued expression and lack of gestures. When Miranda talked, she talked with her eyes and hands as well as her tongue, and tonight both were very still.

Lady Lavinia started over to Nora, accompanied by a rather fierce-looking old lady dressed in a bright purple silk leaning on a silver-headed ebony cane. Lavinia hoped that Lady Harriet Thomas would help put Mrs. Dillon in her place. She was utterly at a loss when both ladies recognized each other, smiled, and moved to embrace.

“Lady Harriet, I am so happy to see you here. I did not notice you at the dinner table.”

“Nor I you, my dear Mrs. Dillon.”

“You know one another?” Lavinia asked.

“We have met once or twice at Miss Baillie’s house,” replied Nora. “She is a dear friend of mine, and also of Lady Harriet’s.”

“I am convinced that Miss Baillie’s latest play is a tragedy to rival Shakespeare’s,” declaimed the elderly countess. “And how is your new novel coming along, my dear?”

“What I write is nothing to compare to Joanna’s, as well you know.” Nora smiled. “But I am pleased with it.”

“Ah, do not belittle yourself, Mrs. Dillon. A good story, an entertainment, is as important as a masterwork. Many’s the night a frothy novel has saved me when my arthritis kept me awake. Much as I appreciate Miss Baillie’s serious work, I hardly think I would turn to tragedy when my joints are aching!”

Nora chuckled. “So I am better than a sleeping draft, am I?”

Lady Harriet shook her cane. “Now, don’t get huffy, Mrs. Dillon. You know what I meant. Come, take my arm and let me introduce you around.”

Lavinia was left outmaneuvered and openmouthed in surprise. How could she have known Mrs. Dillon could have met and obviously charmed one of the most intimidating old dragons of society? Instead of being interrogated, Nora was being introduced. So much for her attempt at embarrassment. And once again she was half-ashamed of herself. She did not want this match. Her son, the Earl of Alverstone, could not marry a country nobody, but she had to admit that in her own way, Mrs. Dillon was the equal of anyone here, in manner, if not in birth.

Miranda was being well taken care of by Jeremy, surrounded by his closest friends and protected from the more superficial and malicious young women whom Lavinia had invited. Miranda was still listening rather than talking, but she sat out very few dances.

Nora watched her daughter from across the room. She had been very grateful to the old countess, and had been introduced to several men and women she genuinely liked. But after the first few questions and answers, it was clear there was not enough in common to keep the conversation going. She could hardly, after all, discuss her problems with her latest novel, or trade recipes with women who probably didn’t even know where their kitchens were. She could and did answer questions about Miss Baillie, but then someone would remember a piece of gossip and Nora would stand silent, politely smiling as they chattered on about Lord So-and-so.

In the ballroom, she found herself in an in-between position, too young to be keeping the dowagers company and too old to be with her daughter, and ill-at-ease with the matrons her age. She had discovered that the blond lady next to the viscount was Lady Maria Hill.

“Now that Cynthia has remarried, I would not be surprised if Maria becomes his latest widow,” was the gossip on the sidelines.

“I wonder why he has never married. He has certainly had the opportunity,” wondered one matron.

“For many years, he was traveling, on his own or diplomatic business, and now that he has been more settled, he ignores all the young girls thrown at his head.”

“Well, most of the mothers that I know have given up on him.”

Nora, who was on the edge of this conversation, smiled to herself. So the viscount was the sort who chose widows, not young girls. That was certainly preferable, in her mind, to setting up serial mistresses from the Fashionably Impure, or marrying some naive young woman Miranda’s age. The viscount was partnering Lady Maria in a country dance, and Nora watched them curiously. The widow was certainly an attractive woman and could not be more than twenty-seven or eight, Nora thought, with a slight pang which she recognized as jealousy.

As though he felt her eyes on him, the viscount glanced over to where she was standing a little behind the gossiping matrons in their chairs. I must ask her to dance, he thought. He smiled at the memory of Nora’s vigorous strides over the Heath, and the Lady Maria smiled back at him from across the set. Sam had been most attentive and she was quite happy to have been singled out as his next
parti
.
He was not the highest-ranking of her admirers, but there was something about him, a combination of strength and a real liking for women, that made him attractive.