Flirtation & Folly

by Elizabeth Rasche

  Flirtation & Folly

  A Season in London Book 1

  Elizabeth Rasche

  Copyright © 2020 by Elizabeth Rasche

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Marcelle Wong and Serena Agusto-Cox

  Cover Design by Lisa Messegee

  ISBN: 978-1-951033-57-6 (ebook) and 978-1-951033-58-3 (paperback)

  To George Cook and Arlene Ayla Cook

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Coming Soon from Elizabeth Rasche

  Also by Elizabeth Rasche

  January 1812

  Here at last, here at last! The carriage rolled to a halt, and Marianne Mowbrey climbed out, avoiding a pile of slush that nearly swallowed up her worn half-boots. She turned in a circle, lips parted in wonder as she took in the figures moving past her. The clop of horse hooves and squeaking of carts from the street drowned out other sounds, allowing only the occasional cry of a hawker to rise up in front of the genteel row of houses in a better part of London. The odour of decaying vegetables from a nearby cart mingled with the grit of coal dust in the air, making every breath an unpleasant sensation.

  Marianne glanced from one passing figure to another. An elegant woman in a matching apple-green pelisse and bonnet. A soldier who almost marched alongside the blowsy young woman hanging on his arm. A maid shoving her hip against a pale wooden basket and trying to balance its weight in the crowd. Each figure had a destination, a fate probably very different from the rest—yet each one of them, at one point or another, turned a face to the sky and smiled. It’s as if they see angels. Like they sense blessings falling down on them.

  It had to be a good sign. Her first visit to London was welcomed with a host of strangers admiring the beauty of the heavens. Perhaps it meant that Marianne belonged here, and that she would soon be blessed as the most fashionable and worthy young woman in town. Perhaps it meant she would find a dashing husband well-laden with wealth and wit.

  Perhaps it meant Aunt Harriet would not throw her out as soon as she arrived.

  The passers-by spared Marianne only enough of a glance to manoeuvre around her, passing like frigates around an uninteresting slab of rock. Marianne was indeed uninteresting. Her hair was a disappointingly ordinary shade of light brown. Her bonnet had seemed festively adorned when she left the country, but in the gimlet-eyed gaze of London, she was all too aware of the dinginess of the much-mended lace coiling around its borders. Her pelisse was too dark to show much of the grime of travel, but it had the look of shabby gentility—the state of being that had given up on beauty and aimed only at being unremarkable. Marianne’s figure hit that mark as well. Neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, neither beautiful nor ugly. If she felt as uninteresting as a rock, it was a pity she did not have a rock’s insensibility as well. It was painful to feel the difference between herself and the sleek, well-wrapped ladies floating by on the arms of gentlemen.

  Marianne clutched the novel she had been reading to her chest. It had proved a solace for the dullness of travel, just as it had been a solace in the chaos of her father’s rectory. But now life is going to be even better than a novel.

  “Just a moment, Miss Mowbrey, while I get your trunk,” the manservant said. Marianne was ashamed to realise she did not remember his name, even though he had accompanied her on the last leg of her journey. The heroine of The Romance of the Forest would never be so thoughtless, and her father’s strict Christian principles also demanded she be polite to servants. How would she make a good companion to her aunt if she could not remember civilities? Marianne felt even worse as the man struggled to pull the trunk off the carriage by the cords wrapped around it, and the lid of the trunk slid perilously askew.

  “The trunk is a little old,” she said, flushing. “My little brothers want to enter the Navy, so they helped me tie the lid on. I’m afraid they are not very good with their knots yet.”

  The man nodded. “I’ll bring it in shortly, then. Let me show you the way.” Each house had a staircase of white stone leading up to its front door, but for Marianne, Aunt Harriet’s was the only one whose steps felt bright and slightly unnerving, the way the steps to Olympus must feel to a rather unimportant goddess. Marianne followed the manservant to the front door and waited while he knocked. Her fingers wound themselves through the strings of her reticule.

  A footman answered the door, and Marianne was ushered into a hallway that made her swallow hard. Turkish rugs covered a scagliola floor almost painful in its bright cleanliness. A rich oil painting contrasted its earthy tones with the polished and gilded frame that bound it to the wall. Marianne saw the pristine white cards of visitors displayed on a wide oak table, arranged in some method of social importance she could not identify. One glimpse into Aunt Harriet’s London home swamped the country niece with its elegance and wealth. In the rectory where Marianne lived, visiting cards would never have remained in a tidy display—her romping brothers would have swished them off the table every time they rushed by. The floors would never have stayed shiny with tiny Matty dragging dirt-clumped flowers inside and forgetting to wipe her feet. And little Harriet, her aunt’s namesake, would never have lived up to her aunt’s standards of cleanliness, her fingers constantly sticky with sweets stolen from the kitchen, leaving her mark on every frame and table she touched. The rectory was noisy, filthy, and chaotic, despite her father’s supposed authority as rector of Wrumpton. The rooms of Aunt Harriet’s house felt open and still, a silent and orderly heaven, but they made Marianne nervous at the same time.

  “Belinda!” a voice called. Marianne’s eyes slid up the painted railing of the stairs to see a slim woman smiling as she descended from the upper floor. The woman was only in her early fifties, Marianne knew, but she looked much older. Her aunt’s iron-grey hair was pulled into a chignon, mostly tucked under a fluffy cap of white muslin. The round blue eyes matched those of Marianne’s mother, but Aunt Harriet’s cheekbones pressed wider and flatter, and—combined with her short nose—gave her the uncomfortable look of someone who had walked into a wall too many times. In Aunt Harriet’s case, the stern lines around her eyes hinted it was so much the worse for the wall. Perhaps that stubborn demeanour was how she had wound up a spinster.

  Aunt Harriet’s dress was a sombre sort of grey with only a splash of embroidery around the neckline—something suitabl
e for a late stage of mourning, but so far as Marianne knew, no one had died. Or had her aunt’s companion passed away, somewhere far to the south? Miss Westcott was ill, and had travelled to a southern clime to restore her health for a few months, leaving Aunt Harriet without a companion for the Season. And despite her great dislike of Marianne’s mother, Aunt Harriet had invited her to send one of her daughters to fill the companion’s place until Miss Westcott felt well enough to return. If Miss Westcott had died… Hope bloomed in Marianne that her position in London might last longer than one Season, but she quickly crushed it. Was not such a hope the same as wishing someone’s death? Besides, Aunt Harriet still had an unpleasant surprise to bear.

  Aunt Harriet’s face had a multitude of lines, but most noticeable were the same ones Marianne’s mother had, right between the eyebrows. Worry lines. With a house in town and plenty of money, Aunt Harriet’s life ought to have been one long jaunt, or so Marianne thought. Apparently the pleasant expression on Aunt Harriet’s face was not her customary one.

  “I’m not Belinda, Aunt Harriet,” Marianne said in a rush to hide her discomfiture. “I’m Marianne, the eldest. I came instead of Belinda.”

  “Marianne?” Aunt Harriet’s expression turned from pleased to perplexed. “What happened to Belinda?”

  Marianne glanced down at her fingers, still entwined through the reticule strings. “She…received an invitation to town from Mrs Walters.” Marianne struggled to make her sister’s social climbing and flightiness appear more respectable. “Mr and Mrs Walters are very important people in our parish, and Mrs Walters is often lonely. She enjoys Belinda’s company a great deal.”

  “I see. She got a better invitation.” Aunt Harriet’s voice was flat. “What is an old aunt compared to a fashionable friend? And in the meantime, your mother thought a Season in London too good to pass up, so she sent a different daughter to take advantage of it.” The description was too true for Marianne to dispute it. “Couldn’t she have at least written to see if it was acceptable to me?”

  “Mrs Walters was very sudden in her invitation, Aunt Harriet. There was not enough time for writing.” In truth, there had been an interval long enough for a letter to pass back and forth, but Mama had feared Aunt Harriet’s unusual willingness to provide a Season for one of her nieces would disappear if given a chance. She had insisted that Marianne simply mount the coach in her sister’s stead and trust in her aunt’s sense of decency not to send her right back. Marianne had known it was wrong, but the temptation of a Season in London was strong, even if it meant playing companion to an irritable relative. “You—won’t send me home, will you, Aunt?”

  A memory of squalling children, arguing servants, and Marianne’s desperation to slide into some quiet corner to escape into a novel flashed through her mind. She held her breath.

  Her aunt sighed and gave her a brief embrace. Her thin arms felt even weaker than they looked. “I suppose since I have never met any of my nieces, it does not matter much which one comes to stay. I just asked my sister if she would like to send one while Miss Westcott is recovering abroad, and she said she would send Belinda.”

  Marianne’s conscience was alert enough to guard her against disappointment that Miss Westcott remained in the mortal realm. Perhaps the subdued clothing was simply Aunt Harriet’s taste?

  A frown gathered at the corners of her aunt’s mouth. “Of course, I would have liked to have been consulted. You’re the eldest, you say? Probably she should have planned on sending you to begin with. You are older than your brother Edward, and he is ordained. So you must be—four and twenty, at least.”

  Marianne did not dispute her calculation, although she cringed internally. It was true that she was much older than a young lady ought to be for a first Season. If she did not talk much of her brothers and sisters—and heaven knew she did not even want to think of them!—she hoped to pass for nineteen or twenty rather than her real age of five and twenty.

  Aunt Harriet beckoned Marianne to follow her up the stairs, through the smell of varnish that suffused the pathway with a sense of cleanliness and propriety. Although the house was near silent, it felt peopled with old friends on the stairwell and in the upper hallway: tall portraits lined the path with softly illumined Italian ladies with wide, soft arms; dour elderly men in old-fashioned regimentals; and a willowy young brunette who bore Aunt Harriet’s smile, but not her worry lines. “So, Belinda is to stay with Mrs Walters? I know the name. I doubt we will see much of your sister unless she chooses, then. Mrs Walters moves in a very different circle than I do. We will have company tonight that is respectable enough, however—ˮ

  “Oh, Aunt! Not company on my first night here, surely?”

  “My very old friend Sir William Clogg will dine with us, as will his sister and my lawyer Bates. You need not fuss. It will be a quiet affair.”

  Marianne considered the gowns in her trunk. “But my mother said surely you would allow me to order new gowns before I saw anyone important.”

  “What you have should do well enough for tonight.” Aunt Harriet frowned. “I hope yours is not a vain character. I should think with a sister like Belinda, you would have overcome any such nonsense.”

  “I am not vain,” Marianne said. How could she be, with so little to boast of? And yet she supposed all her hopes lay in the direction of vanity. Perhaps she should resign herself for the moment; country attire might not matter for meeting a stuffy old lawyer and an elderly knight, anyway. “I remember my mother speaking of her old friend William Clogg. I suppose the two must be the same.”

  “That is correct. He was knighted well over two decades ago, I believe.”

  “Enough time for him to get used to the ‘Sir’, I daresay, but my mother apparently still has not. I always pictured the man she spoke of as some balding, round little man—the sort who deals in haberdashery and wipes his forehead a great deal.”

  Aunt Harriet’s lines creased yet deeper with annoyance. “What a flattering imagination. Well, tell me how you find your hasty deductions compare with reality when you meet him face to face. He lives with his widowed sister, who is a very sweet sort of woman.” She paused on the threshold of the dressing room. “They usually spend all their time in Kent, but they have come to London this Season.”

  Marianne cheered up a little. Even if Sir William was old, he was unmarried, and it might be helpful to get in some—well, practice. She needed to sharpen her skills for a glorious coup later.

  In the dressing room, a maid bobbed a curtsey as she prepared to carry off a basket of mending. “Wait a moment, Jenny,” said Aunt Harriet. “You might as well meet the young lady you will be assisting.” She stepped aside to let the two women see each other better. Jenny’s pert smile showed no lack of confidence, and Marianne found herself strangely envious. Even if she was just a maid, Jenny belonged here. “My housemaid Jenny will be serving as your lady’s maid while you are here, Marianne. Jenny, I expect you to treat my niece with all the respect she deserves, and none of your sauce.” Her tone turned acrid at the end of her sentence.

  “To be sure, Miss Adams. Why, she is just as pretty as you said, ma’am. Indeed, she is. Your sister’s letters spoke the truth.” Jenny bobbed another curtsey, but Marianne found it hard to smile at her. Any praise in her mother’s letters was meant for Belinda, not Marianne. And Jenny was a fool if she thought Marianne was any beauty. Mama no doubt wrote page after page describing Belinda’s soft blonde curls, snowy skin, and piquant dimples. There was not much to say about Marianne’s mouse-brown hair and skin that could not be called fair, even in January.

  “That will do, Jenny.” Aunt Harriet closed the door behind the maid as she hustled out. “I hope you will not mind that girl, Marianne. Do not let her turn your head.” An expression of unexpected empathy bathed her features. “I suppose you know you are no beauty.”

  Marianne flushed, averting her gaze, but the sight of walls hung with yellow damask and an ormolu table strewn with fancy trinkets revived her.
She met her aunt’s eyes. “Perhaps not. But I know I can become more beautiful, and I daresay I have other qualities. I just know I belong in London.”

  “Do you?” Aunt Harriet seemed amused. “Well, we will see about that. At present, it is best to be clear with one another. In business I find it always pays to be clear about what I want before I move forward.” Marianne did not know what sort of business she meant, but her interest caught at her aunt’s next question. “I want a sensible, even-tempered niece to keep me company until Miss Westcott returns. Do you know what you want?”

  Grandeur, wit, beauty, fashion. A dozen suitors pining for her hand. Elegant silk gowns and diamond tiaras. Ladies and gentlemen clamouring to be near her, to catch the slightest breath of her intellect and charm. Astonished Londoners delighting at her imagination and originality, crowing to the world about attending one of her galas. A life of luxury and excitement. There was really only one path to all of that, though. “I think, Aunt,” Marianne said carefully, placing her reticule on the ormolu table, “I would like to be married.”

  Aunt Harriet’s dining room boasted trim wainscoting and heavy gold curtains that blocked out the evening sky, making the party seated around the table feel even more private. Marianne couldn’t help but reach out to finger the gold brocade. She had never seen anything so fine, not even when she accompanied her parents to dine with Mr and Mrs Walters. There, as a mere guest, she had not been allowed to touch anything; but as a niece to the hostess, Marianne dared to lift a heavy epergne to feel the weight of the silver, smooth the surprisingly thin tablecloth draping the table, and admire the shine of a spoon. The servants passing in and out paid her no mind, but Sir William certainly noticed when Marianne adjusted the hothouse-bred lilies in a china vase on the table.