by Mira Stables
Russet had no anxieties on that score. There was not a scrap of artifice in Joanna’s makeup. She was sound and sweet as a bell and would ring true however she was tested, while the diffidence natural to youth and inexperience would probably make a stronger appeal to the Duchess than a poised and competent social manner.
“Powder becomes you, too,” she told her sister, clever fingers coaxing one rebellious curl to conformity. “You look like a princess in the old fairy tales.” And even allowing for sisterly partiality there was considerable truth in the assertion, for the snowy coiffeur lent a touch of enchantment to apple blossom skin and dark blue eyes, while first love had added its own bloom to the girl’s natural radiance. “I could wish I were coming with you. But at least I need not wear powder to Letty Waydene’s ball.”
It was Joanna’s turn to contemplate her sister’s appearance. Russet had chosen to wear a dress in the bergère style, the overdress of brocade in a shade of soft yellow, a shade that was repeated in the tiny golden fleur-de-lys that were embroidered on the white satin under-dress. It was vastly becoming, and Joanna felt that it was a sad pity that Gilbert’s Mama would undoubtedly frown upon a style of costume which permitted the display of slim silk-clad ankles and tiny golden slippers.
“If I had hair like yours, I don’t think I would ever wear powder—except to go to Court, of course,” she told Russet. “And I like the way Agnes has dressed your hair tonight. It makes you look taller, piled up like that, and just the one ringlet to soften the severity. And to show how white your skin is,” she added with a mischievous twinkle.
Russet grinned. “You know too much, my child,” she said, mock-severe. “But I shall certainly miss Agnes when she goes with you to Denholme. I doubt if anyone else could have turned such a plain, unpromising piece into one of the smarts. If you follow her advice in the matter of dress you may rest easy on that head. Her taste is impeccable. But more than that, she seems to have an instinctive sense of occasion. Which reminds me that I had best set about engaging a new maid to take with me on my travels. It is not every girl who is willing to adventure abroad, so it may be some time before I am suited.”
“I feel very guilty, depriving you of Agnes,” Joanna said, “but she will be the greatest comfort to me so I shall not press you to change your mind.”
“Nor I pay any heed to such a foolish suggestion,” returned Russet lightly. “It will be the greatest comfort to me, too, to know that you have her with you at Denholme. But we must not be loitering here. The chairs will be waiting. I daresay I shall be very late tonight. You are not to wait up for me, remember.”
Joanna dropped her a playful curtsey. “No, ma’am,” she said demurely. “I wonder if your latest admirer will escort you home.”
“Young Lucian?” queried Russet, smiling. “He’s a pleasant lad—full of chivalry and lofty ideals. I like him. I wonder if it is true that he is as good as promised to Letty Waydene. Perhaps there will be an announcement tonight, though I always feel that it is rather a pity to announce one’s betrothal at a coming out ball. Anyway, he’s no admirer of mine. Just because he chanced to come to the rescue when that horrid dog set upon poor Doll. Cousin Olivia would never have forgiven me if any harm had befallen her precious pug. What could I do but invite him to come in so that she might thank him herself? And then to find out that she was acquainted with his Mama. To be sure he had no need to send us flowers, but that is just the kind of charming attention to which he has been bred, and means nothing. I’ll thank you not to make mischief by exaggerating the importance of a boy’s innocent gallantries.”
Joanna wrinkled a pretty little nose at her, quite unrepentant. “I know,” she confessed. “But I cannot help feeling that it would do Letty Waydene a great deal of good to see her beau paying attention to some other female. She is a spiteful little cat, for all her sugary ways. If Lucian Staneborough is as nice as you say, he is by far too good for her. I daresay he thinks she is as sweet as she looks. But I was at school with her and I know better.”
Russet looked rueful. “I’ll admit I’ve no great liking for her myself. Or rather that I did not care for her above half when she was a well-to-do pupil and I a penniless governess. She was one of the few girls who made me feel my inferior status. But perhaps she has improved. If she has fallen in love with that charming boy it must surely have sweetened her disposition! And remember that I did receive an invitation to her ball.”
Joanna bestowed an indulgent smile upon her as she drew the white velvet cape about her shoulders. “Because Mrs Waydene knows very well that no function is complete unless Miss Ingram is among the guests,” she said calmly, and would have gone on to speculate about the reactions of various notable gentlemen of the ‘ton’ if they had been required to suffer such deprivation, had not Agnes tapped on the door to say that the chairs had been awaiting their passengers for close on half an hour.
Borne along steadily in her chair, Russet contemplated the evening ahead of her with only tepid pleasure. She was growing spoiled, she decided, for two short years ago she would have found the prospect enthralling. But really one ball was very like another, and the same could be said of so many of the functions on which hostesses spent so much time and trouble. One met the same people, exchanged the same banalities. She still derived considerable pleasure from dressing herself becomingly. She thought she probably always would. The years of penny pinching had seen to that, and the very fact that she was by no means beautiful presented a constant challenge. To have made herself a leader of fashion when she was so far removed from the popular ideal of feminine beauty was no small achievement. Her eyes were good—golden hazel, darkly fringed and set under slender arching brows; and her skin, as Joanna had teased her, was creamy smooth, even if it lacked the rose petal transparency so much admired and so desperately counterfeited. But she was too small and too slight for an age that admired opulence. ‘A rare plump armful,’ was the masculine ideal. A woman should be cuddlesome and yielding, and Russet was neither. The wide mouth and the wilful chin with its determined cleft were silent witnesses to her true nature. Generous, loving and loyal she might be, but she had a mind of her own and scant patience with pretension or pomposity. Masculine complacency was like to receive short shrift at her hands.
Her thoughts turned for a moment to Lucian Staneborough. Nothing of that sort about him. A thoroughly nice youngster. Had she been his sister she would be very proud of him she thought, and smiled to herself in the darkness at the realisation that her feelings towards him bordered on the maternal. How Joanna would laugh! To be sure she probably was a couple of years the older, but far more unequal matches were made every day. In her case, of course, a match was not even in question. She wondered once again if ever she would meet a man to whom she could give her heart. It seemed unlikely. For two years now she had queened it over London’s eligibles; had received more offers than a modest girl cared to remember. Not once had her deeper emotions been touched though she had liked some of her suitors pretty well. Not well enough to wish to spend the rest of her life with them, though. So what was she to do with herself? If the delights of the season had lost their charm, how should she fill her days?
She hoped that she was as charitable as the next but she had no great urge to devote herself to good works. Foreign travel, then? That held more appeal. She had always enjoyed her visits to Papa. But to enjoy new sights and scenes to the full one really needed a sympathetic companion, and that was not so easily arranged. In fact there were a good many difficulties in the path of the would-be traveller if she was young, single and female.
The bearers stopped and set the chair down. Russet abandoned speculation about the future and stepped out on to the carpet that had been laid over the flag-way for the convenience of Mrs Waydene’s guests.
Mrs Waydene could have no cause for complaint about the setting for her daughter’s début. Mr Cameron’s house in fashionable Cavendish Square was magnificently furnished, and if the critical Miss Ingram thought
it a little on the sombre side it certainly served to set off the elegant costumes of the guests who crowded the reception rooms and stood gossiping in groups on the elegant staircase. Perhaps the ballroom was a little small for such a grand affair, but there were galleries at both ends where one could watch the dancing if one so chose, and though no other form of entertainment was offered so lavish were the refreshments, so varied the choice of wines, that even the habitual card players forebore to complain. After all, there was some amusement to be found in discussing their absent host and in estimating the extent of his fortune. Judging by the state he kept, by the displays of porcelain and ivories and other curios and objets d’art too numerous to mention, it must be immense. There were servants always at hand to offer refreshments and replenish glasses. Barbara Mansfield, chattering gaily with Russet during an interval between the dances, was filled with admiration.
“I’m disappointed in one thing, though,” she confided. “I expected Indian servants. Letty says her guardian spent many years in the East where he has business interests, and that when he came home for good he brought most of his household with him.”
Waiting her turn to go down the set in the country dance, Russet wondered if it was the Eastern influence that she found rather strange. One could not say the rooms were over-furnished, for everything was in perfect harmony, nor yet that the hangings and the colours were too exotic, though the use of gold and peacock blue was certainly striking. With so much panelling and the dark carved furniture—ebony she supposed it was—the vivid colour was soon muted. It was not like her to be fanciful, but she sensed an atmosphere in the magnificent rooms that seemed to pose some enigmatic threat. It made her wary, distrait, so that she almost forgot the sequence of the figures until the surprised face of her partner recalled her to a proper regard for her social responsibilities and she apologised so prettily that the poor young man took fresh heart. Never had his lady seemed so approachable. He began to ponder the possibility of persuading her to stroll with him in the conservatory.
Miss Lettice Waydene watched Russet’s progress jealously. No one could fault the guest’s decorum. She would not even dance twice with the same partner, and that was perfectly permissible. Yet gentlemen’s heads turned whenever she went by, her name was on everyone’s lips, and if the murmurs of admiration were occasionally spiced with jealousy, they were none the less sincere. Letty could see nothing in her, except a certain dignity and grace of deportment—and that, she thought, was only because of those endless boring lessons which had been her one link with Miss Ingram in her schooldays. Yet Lucian—her Lucian—had actually expressed his admiration for the creature. Letty had always disliked her; had treated her with contempt when it had seemed safe to do so. Now she felt that she actually hated her; would like nothing better than to see her humiliated and brought low. How dare she draw all eyes in the room to her self—her mediocre self—thought Letty indignantly, very conscious of her own far superior claims to attention!
She had not so very long to wait. Lucian, not realising the magnitude of the privilege, had requested Miss Ingram’s hand for the first cotillion. And since the request had been made some time before the day of the ball, no one had forestalled him. Letty chanced to be standing close by Russet as he came to claim his dance. It was then that her jealousy prompted her to put out her hand to him and say sweetly, “Ah! You are here. Do you know, I almost thought you had forgotten me. Shall we join Barbara’s set?”
She was—and well she knew it—engaged to dance this first set with her uncle. But he was very easy-going and would not fuss or scold her for what was, after all, a very natural mistake. It was the second cotillion, with supper to follow, that was promised to Lucian. Uncle Percival was not even in sight, so why should she not take the wind out of Miss Ingram’s eye?
Lucian’s face was a study in embarrassment. He was not very old and his social poise was scarcely equal to the occasion. He stammered something slightly incoherent about a mistake and glanced appealingly at Russet.
Letty’s big blue eyes were lifted to his in limpid innocence. “Oh no! I could not mistake our dance,” she told him soulfully. And then, on a note that was almost a wail, “You cannot mean to let me be a wallflower at my very own ball! If there is a mistake I am sure Miss Ingram will hold you excused.”
Russet’s predominant emotion was pity for the poor young man. She masked her indignation at what was nothing more than bare-faced piracy and turned to him a face of amused acquiescence. “By all means,” she said coolly. “I shall be perfectly happy to stroll in the galleries for a while and have the opportunity of studying some of the curious and beautiful objects with which they are adorned.”
Lucian’s face relaxed into undisguised relief. He felt that Letty’s behaviour was unbecoming, even if she really had made a mistake, but she was very young, he reflected tenderly, and no doubt the evening’s excitement had gone to her head. He loved her dearly. But even as he offered his arm to lead her into the set that was just forming he was meditating the gentle rebuke that he must presently administer. Thanks to Miss Ingram’s compliance on this occasion, an ugly scene had been avoided, but he would still have to make his apologies for appearing to slight one who had shown him nothing but kindness. Letty must be taught that her behaviour was unworthy of a lady with any claim to gentility.
Unfortunately Letty was not content to rest on so easy a triumph. She must needs venture another pin-prick. Taking Russet’s easy disclaimer at face value she said patronisingly, “I daresay you will be very glad of the chance to sit down and rest. Mama is for ever wondering where I find the energy to dance a whole evening away. As one grows older I believe it is a positive relief not to be obliged to dance every number.”
Russet laughed outright. Such an exhibition of spite was too ridiculous. To be classed with the dowagers at her age—and she positively besieged by admirers at every function she attended—was more comical than hurtful. Not even poor Lucian’s horrified face could check her merriment. Indeed she hoped he would deal faithfully with the horrid little wretch, though more for his own sake than for any fancied wrongs of hers. If his intentions in that direction were as serious as rumour hinted, then it would do no harm to take Miss Waydene in hand before her disposition was utterly ruined by her doting Mama. For the moment the best she could do for him was to turn away, still smiling, and leave him to conduct the triumphant Letty to her place in the set.
Naturally the matter could not be allowed to rest there. Over supper Lucian spoke so sternly to his partner on the evils that stemmed from lack of conduct that even Miss Letty’s conceit of herself was sadly dashed. She could scarcely believe it that Lucian should take such a tone with her, but to speak truth she found it vastly exciting to see him so determined and unyielding. He looked so handsome that it quite made her heart flutter. One could not cry in public, of course, even if one was among the select band who could do so prettily, but the big blue eyes were huge and misty, the soft mouth dropped pathetically. But since this penitent attitude accorded ill with an absolute refusal to beg Miss Ingram’s pardon, it wholly failed of its intent. She might look wistful and submissive, but she stuck to it that she had spoken nothing but the truth and could see no cause to humble herself. The rift between the pair widened appreciably. Lucian said that if she would not apologise herself he must do so on her behalf. This was very ill received. Letty, whose soft exterior covered a mulish obstinacy, tossed her head and vowed he might do as he pleased.
It never occurred to her that such behaviour might tarnish her image in his eyes. On the contrary, she was quite enjoying their first tiff. He had always been so adoring—almost reverent—treating her as though she was something fragile and precious. She had never seen him in this sterner, more masculine guise. She decided that she would show him that he could not take her so much for granted. He should suffer a little before she graciously took him back into favour. She went off to conduct a discreet flirtation with Robert Dysart, concerned only that Lucia
n should have every opportunity of observing her manoeuvres.
Lucian’s mood was vastly different. It was his first glimpse of the unpleasant side of his beloved and it shook him sadly. He was not even aware of Mistress Letty’s skilled skirmishing, his mind more concerned with her apparent inability to realise the shocking nature of her conduct. His partners found him polite but not forthcoming. He was unable to make an opportunity for private speech with Miss Ingram but felt that he must do so as soon as possible, and with this object in view he waited in the hall for her departure. She was one of the last to leave, detained several times as she came down the magnificent staircase by friends who wished to confirm some projected plan or suggest some pleasurable engagement, so it was late indeed before Lucian found the opportunity he sought.
“Miss Ingram—I beg of you—not here and now, of course, it is not the time or place—but I must have speech with you. Pray grant me leave. May I call on you tomorrow?”