Beth and the Mistaken Identity

by Alicia Cameron

‘So much rests upon it.’ There was a pause. ‘Dickie’s commission?’

  He laughed, but it sounded sour from her always cheerful Papa. ‘Wilbert has promised to buy it from his next win at Faro.’

  ‘Hah!’ said Mama bitterly.

  Honoria was free. She went towards the breakfast room rather noisily.

  ‘Are there muffins?’ she asked gaily.

  ‘How on earth do you come to be engaged to him?’

  Honoria was jolted back to the present by Serena’s outcry. She gazed in dread over her sister’s dark curls and saw a sober figure in a black coat and dull breaches, with a wide-brimmed, antediluvian hat walking towards the house. She gave an involuntary giggle.

  ‘Oh, that is only Mr Scribster, his friend.’

  ‘He you remember!’ laughed Serena. ‘Is he as dull as his hat?’

  Honoria remembered Mr Scribster’s long, miserable face, framed with two lank curtains of hair, at several parties. She thought it odd that a gentleman so patently uninterested in the events should bother to attend. And indeed her mother had whispered the same to her. Honoria must be present where her parents willed her - but surely a gentleman should be free not to? But Mr. Scribster attended in company with Lord Salcomb or Mr Allison with a face suitable for a wake.

  ‘Yes,’ said Honoria. ‘He never looks happy to be anywhere. And generally converses with no one. Though occasionally I saw him speak to Mr Allison in his grave way and Mr. Allison laughed.’

  ‘Maybe it’s like when Sir Henry Horton comes to dinner.’ Sir Henry was nicknamed among the children “The Harbinger of Gloom”. ‘Papa laughs so much at his doomsday declarations that he is the only man in the county that actually looks forward to him coming.’

  Honoria spotted another man exiting the chaise, this one in biscuit coloured breaches above shiny white-topped Hessian boots. His travelling coat almost swept the ground, and Serena said, ‘Well, he’s more the thing at any rate. Pity we cannot see his face. You should be prepared. However, he walks like a handsome man.’ She giggled, ‘Or at all events, a rich one.’

  The door behind them had opened. ‘Serena, you will guard your tongue,’ said their mama. Lady Fenton, also known as Lady Cynthia (as she was the daughter of a peer) was the pattern card from which her beautiful daughters were formed. A dark-haired, plump, but stylish matron who looked as good as one could, she said of herself, when one had borne seven bouncing babies. Now she smiled, though, and Honoria felt another bar in her cage. How could she dash her mother’s hopes? ‘Straighten your dresses, girls, and come downstairs.’

  Benedict winked and walked off with his parent.

  There were no looking glasses in their bedroom, so as not to foster vanity. But as they straightened the ribbons of the new dresses Mama had thought appropriate to the occasion, they acted as each other’s glass and pulled at hair ribbons and curls as need be. The Misses Fenton looked as close to twins as sisters separated by two years could, dark curls and dark slanted eyes and lips that curled at the corners to give them the appearance of a smile even in repose. Their brother Benedict said they resembled a couple of cats, but then he would say that. Serena had told him to watch his tongue or they might scratch.

  The children, Norman, Edward, Cedric and Angelica, were not to be admitted to the drawing room - but they bowled out of the nursery to watch the sisters descend the stairs in state. As Serena tripped on a cricket ball, she looked back and stuck her tongue out at the grinning eight-year-old Cedric. Edward, ten, cuffed his younger brother and threw him into the nursery by the scruff of his neck. The eldest, Norman, twelve, a beefy chap, lifted little three-year-old Angelica who showed a disposition to follow her sisters. On the matter of unruly behaviour today, Mama had them all warned.

  As the stairs turned on the landing, the sisters realised there was no one in the large square hall to see their dignified descent, so Serena tripped down excitedly, whilst her sister made the slow march of a hearse follower. As Serena gestured her down, Honoria knew that her sister’s excitement came from a lack of society in their neighbourhood. She herself had enjoyed a London season, whilst Serena had never been further than Harrogate. She was down at last and they walked to the door of the salon, where she shot her hand out to delay Serena. She took a breath and squared her shoulders. Oh well, this time she should at least see what he looked like.

  Two gentlemen stood by the fire with their backs to the door, conversing with Papa and Dickie. As the door opened, they turned and Honoria was focused on the square-shouldered gentleman, whose height rivalled Benedict’s and quite dwarfed her sturdy papa. His face was nearly in view, Sir Ranalph was saying, ‘These are my precious jewels!’ The face was visible for only a moment before Serena gave a yelp of surprise and moved forward a pace. Honoria turned to her.

  ‘But it’s you!’ Serena cried.

  Everyone looked confused and a little shocked, not least Serena who grasped her hands in front of her and regarded the carpet. There seemed to be no doubt that she had addressed Mr Allison.

  Honoria could see him now, the dimpled chin and strong jaw she remembered, and topped by a classical nose, deep set hazel eyes and the hairstyle of a Roman Emperor. Admirable, she supposed, but with a smile dying on his lips, he had turned from relaxed guest to stuffed animal, with only his eyes moving between one sister and another. His gaze fell, and he said the most peculiar thing.

  ‘Blue slippers.’

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