Lucy opened the door slowly, peering around the edge. When she saw Maris alone, she stood aside to let her in.
She was dressed in her best gown, a sky blue dimity that Maris had only seen once before. It became her well, except for a small lace trimming that made her seem a trifle younger than her years. “Your mother sent me,” Maris said. “Everyone is here.”
“I know.” She cast an anxious glance into the hall as she shut her door. “Maris,” she said intently, “do you think anyone saw what happened today?”
“Only me.”
Lucy put her forefinger to her lips and worried the nail. “What about the other members of the parish committee? They must have seen something.”
“I doubt they took any notice, if they could see well enough to see anything at all. I’ve heard the punch flows with great freedom at their meetings.”
“He didn’t seem the worse for drink.” There was still only one “he.”
Lucy had been too shaken this afternoon to answer any of the questions that had leapt into Maris’s mind. Now she ventured one. “What did he look like, close to?”
“I hardly know. Everything happened so quickly.”
“You must have taken a good look at him when he held you.”
“He didn’t!”
“Well, ‘caught’ you then,” Marisa said, choosing her words with greater care. “You must have seen him then.”
“I don’t know. I think ... his eyes were blue. The light was very bad.”
Maris could only think that if she’d had Lucy’s opportunity she should have memorized every feature. Of course, she knew in a general way what Lord Danesby looked like. She’d been stealing every chance to obtain a glimpse of him for the past two years, ever since she’d decided he possessed all the qualities of her ideal. However, she had never come within ten feet of him. It seemed more than a little unfair that Lucy, who never would have thought of Lord Danesby if not for her, should have been the one to feel his touch and look into his face. If only Lucy had been a trifle bolder! She’d had so many opportunities while engaged about the parish to observe him closely, yet had always shyly kept her eyes down.
In a few moments, after Lucy finished patting her hair into place, the two girls went downstairs. As usual the main entertainment was talking about absent friends and distant relations. Maris had never taken very much interest in the conversations of what she still called “adults.” But now, as Lucy drifted off to join the younger set, she found herself listening. As suddenly as a finger snap, what had always been background noise to her own small doings became intelligible. It was as though she’d woken up one morning gifted with an understanding of a language that had always been foreign.
“Of course it’s his duty to the land to marry and found his nursery,” Dr. Pike said. “A fine thing if the title should end with him after existing so long.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Harley said, nodding her plume at Lucy’s father. “A proper mistress for the manor would take a lead in village affairs, just as Lord Danesby’s mother did. Not that Mrs. Pike doesn’t serve us perfectly well...”
The vicar made a placating gesture. “Ah, but people are more willing to follow the lead of a titled lady. I have seen even the most acrimonious discussion turn into the lowing of ewe lambs by the sound of an aristocratic voice.”
“A family at the manor would be a better thing for the village, sure enough.” Mr. Harley, the village grocer and draper, puffed up his waistcoat as he agreed with his wife. “A bachelor doesn’t order more than a bottle of embrocation once a blue moon, so to speak. With a lady at the manor and maybe children in time, there’d be some point to carrying a choicer selection of dress material, say, or patent medicines. Yes, and ladies’ maids and nurses need somewhere to buy their ribbons and furbelows.”
He seemed lost in a dream of an endless succession of women trooping into his shop to buy trinkets. Maris thought it very unfair of him to withhold these luxuries until Lord Danesby married. What about the young women who lived here now?
“It’s nothing but laziness,” gray-haired Miss Menthrip said with a thump of her black walnut walking stick. “These young men have no consideration for the future. What right does a man of nearly thirty have to be unmarried?”
Maris reflected that if a village, the economy, and the needs of the land were all resting on her marriage, she’d be tempted to run away from home. She could hardly blame Lord Danesby for putting off the evil day as long as possible. Besides, he hadn’t met her yet, not in any meaningful way.
“Perhaps he simply hasn’t fallen in love yet,” she ventured softly, sure that these mature people would close ranks against her intrusion.
Mrs. Harley smiled fondly. “Ah, you young girls with your romantic dreams.”
“It’s all very well for people like us to marry for affection’s sake,” Dr. Pike said. “Indeed, I should hope my children marry for no other reason. Yet life on my lord Danesby’s tier of society is very different. There, mutual affection is to be expected after marriage, not before.”
“I blame the late lord,” Miss Menthrip said, the lace square on her head fluttering as she shook her head vigorously. “This matter should have been arranged years ago before the boy grew up. Our ancestors ordered this business with more sense than we do today. Earlier barons were betrothed in their cradles. There was none of this wishy-washy prattle about romantic love.”
Miss Menthrip’s brother had been a noted amateur historian who had settled in Finchley upon his retirement from the law. He had died only a few years later, hardly remembered by the younger people, but his sister had created a niche for herself among the villagers. They respected her sharp tongue and appreciated her kindly heart.
“You forget the field of courtly love,” Dr. Pike said. “When a knight would dare any danger for a smile from his ladylove.”
“A fine thing for a man of the cloth to discuss in front of his young parishioners,” Miss Menthrip said, grabbing Maris’s hand in her dry one. “You know perfectly well those ladies were married and not to their knights-errant.” She tugged on Maris’s hand. When she leaned down, Miss Menthrip whispered loudly, “Fetch an old woman a glass of lemonade. All this nattering has parched my throat.”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
When she returned, the Pikes had gone on to their other guests and Mr. Harley was deeply engaged with some other gentlemen in a discussion of pig-breeding, his hobbyhorse and passion. Mrs. Harley only stayed by Miss Menthrip’s side until Maris returned. “I see Ramona Ransom over there. I’ve not seen her since the Christmas service. My, isn’t she pale? I hope she’s not been ill.”
“Go on, don’t mind me.” Miss Menthrip shifted over somewhat stiffly on the settee. “Sit down, Maris, and keep me company.”
Though Maris would rather rejoin her friends, whom she’d seen eating while she fetched the lemonade, she sat down with a pleased smile. “How are you, dear Miss Menthrip?”
“You don’t want to hear about an old woman’s aches and pains. When do you and your mother go to London?”
“Not for some weeks yet. There’s so much to be done. We were choosing dress lengths this afternoon. Mother has put by some beautiful things.”
“I’ve always said she’s a sensible creature at bottom. There’s no sense in waiting until the last moment then finding what you want can’t be had. Or if it can, the price is such that none but a fool would buy. How many dresses are you to have, child?”
“I don’t quite know. Most will be made up by a London modiste but Sophie and I are to have at least three apiece.”
“Sophie?”
“She is to go to my uncle in the north but we thought it high time she had a few new gowns.”
“You mean you thought so.” Miss Menthrip laid one finger alongside her beaky nose, her lace mitten hiding the wrinkled backs of her hands. “You’re a good girl, Maris. Don’t let London go to your head.”
“I won’t,” Maris promised but Miss Menthrip did not look convinced.
“I’ve seen it far too often. A sweet-natured girl goes up to town and she comes back much the worse for it. They get giddy on too many parties and too much pleasure. They can’t settle down again to the quiet country life. They lead their families a pretty dance and woe betide the poor fool who marries them.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Miss Menthrip patted Maris’s hand. “You’re a sensible child. I shan’t waste sleep over you. If you’d care to scribble a line or two to me from time to time, just to tell me how you are getting on, I shan’t mind paying the postman for it. Now you go along and talk to the young ones.”
Maris stood up thankfully and dipped a little curtsy, then, moved by some impulse, she bent down and dropped a swift kiss on the old woman’s cheek. “I promise I’ll be as commonsensical as I possibly can.”
“Mercy, child,” Miss Menthrip said, startled, patting her cheek. “Run away, run away.”
When Maris looked back, Miss Menthrip was smiling, even as she was waving her cane at another victim.
No one, not the most experienced adult, not the most well-informed friend, had prepared her for the enormity that was London. Napoleon, the hobgoblin under Britannia’s bed, the dark shadow in the garden, the terror of every maiden lady, was banished forever and London’s relief made for the gayest, giddiest Season since the Romans left.
Every time Maris walked out from their fashionably placed hired residence, her head turned as though on gimbals until Mrs. Lindel had to give her a
hint. “Nothing marks a girl out as being from the country more than gawking at all the sights. A true London lady never pays any attention to the things she sees. Pointing and staring is expected of common idlers, not ladies.”
After that, Maris tried to see everything out of the corners of her eyes. It was thus, while riding in an open carriage to the milliners, that she saw Lord Danesby striding along Bond Street. He wore the latest mode of gentlemen’s attire, complete with curly brimmed hat, yet it was unmistakably he. Though she would have sworn she made no overt sign of startlement, Mrs. Paladin noticed at once.
“What is it, dear Maris?” she asked, turning her feathered head to look behind them.
“I thought I saw someone I—I know.”
“Ah. A friend?”
“An acquaintance. No, not even that. We have never actually met.”
“You intrigue me. Doesn’t she intrigue you, Lilah?”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I wasn’t attending.” Lilah Paladin was a girl whose beauty depended very much on the angle at which one saw her. From some views, she was remarkably pretty, with a straight nose, good cheekbones, and a rather sweet brow line. From other angles, her nose appeared too large, her jawline too full, and over all entirely too much like her formidable mother. From all views, her thick honey-colored hair was her finest feature.
This was Lilah’s second Season. Maris had already had the full tale of last year dinned into her ears by Mrs. Paladin and had begun to be quite curious how Lilah would describe it. Yet amid the whirl of shopping and fittings there’d hardly been a moment to investigate Lilah’s character. She already admired her taste. Though she apparently dressed to please her mother, always deferring to her ideas of fashion, Lilah had dropped a hint or two which had much improved Maris’s new gowns. Maris felt as if they might yet prove to be great friends.
“Come, come,” Mrs. Paladin said. “Don’t be bashful or I shall begin to suspect a love affair.”
Maris was loath to mention Lord Danesby by name. Mrs. Paladin claimed acquaintance with half a dozen or more notables, yet Maris had noticed that her invitations and letters never seemed to bear any grander names than Mr. Dash, Esquire, or Mrs. Blank of Here-and-There. Yet after a few moments, Mrs. Paladin’s arch banter all but forced Maris to give up his name.
Mrs. Paladin sat back against the cushion of her job carriage, her face blank. Then, like a candle catching flame, she brightened. “Your mother never told me she knew Danesby. Danesby, of all people.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Maris demanded.
“Wrong? Who said there was anything wrong about him? On the contrary, he could lead the fashionable world if he would but bestir himself to do so. Half the young bucks in town follow his lead as it is. Thank heavens they do so. Once Brummel left, the eccentric began once more to appear in gentlemen’s clothing. As if a man need wear fine feathers.” As if reminded, she stroked her hand over one of the egret feathers nodding in her bonnet.
Maris hoped that Mrs. Paladin would let the subject drop, yet after a moment’s thought, she continued. “Do you think he will call upon you?”
“I don’t know why he should.”
“He is a gentleman. If he knows you are in town ...”
“We are only his tenants, ma’am. We hold the lease of Finchley Old Place from him, or rather, from his father. But we are not on calling terms. As I say, I have only been in the same room with him once.”
“But so pretty as you are, my dear, once is surely enough?”
“I pray you, ma’am, not to imagine that Lord Danesby would know me from ...from Eve.”
Lilah spoke from her side of the carriage. “We are here, Mother.”
Mrs. Lindel and Sophie had not accompanied them to the milliner’s shop. The journey to town had been unexpectedly difficult, thanks to the very bad roads. It had taken three days instead of two. Sophie had been much tired even before they’d left home, so excited had she been over her part in the trip. The extra night they had spent at a small inn where the sheets had not been properly aired. Between that and her already weary state, Sophie had succumbed to a bad head cold almost immediately after their arrival. While she recovered her health and spirits before journeying on to Uncle Shelley’s, her mother preferred to stay beside her.
Maris’s head was soon spinning with cornettes, Scotch bonnets, caps, and toques, tall, short, and those seemingly worn slightly sideways as though put on by a tipsy lady’s maid. She could tell she’d soon be completely at a loss, liable to wear evening headdresses with morning gowns and vice versa.
“However did you keep all this straight last year?” Maris asked during a moment when Mrs. Paladin was giving orders to the milliner herself.