by Jo Beverley
Must we? thought Amy as she collected her materials and followed the other two. Her laggardly progress was not noticed.
Yet another man not obviously smitten by her charms. That made Martin Howgarth, Terance Cornwalis, Chart Ashby, and Mr. Staverley. And whatever he might once have thought, Harry Crisp surely wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Now that she needed her allure it seemed to have evaporated. Had it gone, or was it perhaps something that shone the brightest when she was trying to conceal it?
She had to consider this seriously, for since Mr. Staverley was not going to oblige her with an offer, it would have to be London. The shocking expense involved meant that she must succeed. Should she dress with puritan simplicity and maintain a sober countenance, or should she deck herself out in fashion and simper?
“Amy, dear, is something the matter?”
Amy realized she had actually stopped still to ponder this, and her sister and Mr. Staverley were ahead on the path, waiting for her.
She hurried after them. “No, nothing at all,” she said gaily. Feeling she had to offer some explanation she added, “I was just taken by the beauty of a birdsong and had to stop and listen.”
Mr. Staverley gave a kind of snort and hurried them on to the house like a bad-tempered sheepdog.
Once there he arranged for the housekeeper to take them to a room where they could wash their hands before tea.
“Well, Amy?” asked Beryl excitedly as soon as they were alone.
“Well what?” Amy replied shortly. “The man clearly is not interested.”
“Oh, I’m sure he looked at you particularly a number of times!”
“Truly?” Amy couldn’t be sure whether this was Beryl’s wishful thinking or not.
“Truly.” Beryl checked her hair in the glass. “You didn’t seem to want to join in the discussion of the building, so it was doubtless difficult for him to express his interest. It will go better during tea, you’ll see.” She looked around the room. “Pretty was quite correct. Everything is of the best and in very good taste.”
Except the owner, thought Amy, but she accompanied her sister back to the salon determined to do her duty if the opportunity should arise.
“Ah,” said Mr. Staverley, in his abrupt way. “Tea in here as you see. You’ll pour, Miss de Lacy.”
Beryl looked as if she would defer to Amy but went to sit before the tray and dispense. Amy looked at the table laden with sandwiches and cakes and felt her spirits lift. At least something good would come out of this. She wondered if there was any possibility of smuggling some of the delicious fruitcake home for the others.
Beryl suddenly spoke in a loud voice. “My sister was remarking how handsome this house is, Mr. Staverley.”
Amy remembered her duty. “Indeed yes, Mr. Staverley. An excellent property.”
“Place was a mess when I bought it. Sold for debts. World’s full of fools. Didn’t even know that building was anything but a croft.”
Within moments the conversation was firmly back on medieval architecture. Beryl flashed Amy an imperative glance, but Amy could think of nothing sensible to say. She failed to see how her talking like a fool would advance her cause. She devoted herself instead to looking interested and beautiful while she planned a slightly different arrangement of the kitchen garden, which might prove economical of time.
As soon as they were on their way home, she said, “That’s that, then. It has to be London.”
“He may just be shy, dearest,” said Beryl.
“Shy!” scoffed Amy. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He’s a bad-tempered, selfish man and I’m glad he isn’t interested.”
“Oh dear. I can’t help but feel you are being harsh. I found him most intelligent and considerate. But if you have taken him in dislike, dearest, you assuredly must not consider marrying him for a moment.”
“I could marry him for a moment,” retorted Amy. “It’s the ‘till death do us part’ bit that’s daunting.”
Hearing her own words, she burst out laughing and Beryl joined in. But it wasn’t funny, Amy thought. Who was she going to have to tie herself to for the rest of her life?
A picture invaded of a tawny-haired young man with a fine strong body, and a mouth made for smiling. Romantical nonsense, she told herself firmly.
By then they were passing Coppice Farm. Amy turned her head away. Romantical nonsense was amazingly potent in its power to make fools of the wise.
8
THREE WEEKS LATER, Amy stood in the lush drawing room of 12 New Street, Chelsea, with very cold feet despite it being a warm day in May. She was fully embarked on fortune hunting, and she had to succeed. It was all so horribly expensive.
Even though she, Beryl, and Jassy had worked together on her fine new wardrobe, some items had had to be purchased, and the cost of material alone had amounted to a frightening sum. The coach fare for her and Aunt Lizzie, along with the charges for food and lodging along the way, had been another burden.
There would be more expenses in the future, for though their hostess—Lizzie’s cousin, Nell Claybury—appeared delighted to have them visit for as long as they pleased, there would be tickets, vouchers, and vails.
“Come sit down, Miss de Lacy, please,” said Mrs. Claybury cheerfully. “I know after traveling for days you feel you never want to sit again, but truly you will feel better for a cup of tea.” The plump lady patted the seat beside her and Amy went to take it.
Aunt Lizzie’s cousin Nell was a still-pretty woman in her fifties, and if Amy suspected her chestnut curls owed something to artifice, she had to admit that it was well enough done so that one could not be entirely sure. The lady also appeared to have an amiable temperament and a genuinely kind disposition. More than these, however, it was the shrewd common sense she detected in Nell Claybury that attracted Amy.
“You are a treat for the eyes, Miss de Lacy,” the woman said frankly and turned to Aunt Lizzie. “I can quite see why you wanted to bring her to Town, Lizzie. She’ll make a fine match, no doubt of it.” She glanced at Amy. Heaven knows what she saw there. Amy thought that her expression must have hinted at her fears, for Mrs. Claybury quickly went on, “But no need to talk of such things just yet. So tired as you both must be. After tea you must go to your rooms and have a nice lie down. We’ll have a quiet dinner, just the three us, and then you can have an early night. Tomorrow I’ll show you some of the sights. You’ll like that, my dear,” she said kindly to Amy, as if Amy were a child. “We’ll go to the Queen’s Palace. You may catch sight of the queen, or one of the princesses.”
Amy sipped the excellent tea and let the chatter wash over her as Nell told of her life alone here since her husband died some two years since. Her two sons, both occupied in the family ship chandlery, chose to keep their own establishments, and so this fine house, built ten years ago, was left just to her. Her two daughters were married and living away from London.
“So you can see how pleased I am to have company, and an excuse to gad about!”
Amy smiled. The pleasure was clearly genuine, and it lightened her burdens to think that this kind lady was going to benefit from the enterprise. All that remained was to be sure that Aunt Lizzie was correct in saying that Nell Claybury moved in the highest circles of the city. The house and its location were very promising.
New Street had been as recently built as its name suggested, and if one were set down here by magic, it would be hard to tell one was not in Mayfair; there was even a square, Hans Place, very close by. Instead of the most fashionable part of Town, however, this was an area of rich merchants. Many of the surrounding streets were of simpler houses, doubtless inhabited by the ambitious clerks who worked in the city.
Next day Amy thoroughly enjoyed the carriage tour of London, as if she truly were a child being given a treat, and she stored up all the details so that she could write of them to the family back home. And soon, if she was successful, her family would be here to delight in the sights themselves.
&nbs
p; The sun was shining, and the city appeared at its best despite the noise and dirt. Trees were in bright leaf in the parks and squares, and flowers made brave splashes of color.
Everyone, even those in rags, seemed cheerful now that the Corsican Monster was safely tucked away on the island of Elba, and Bourbon cockades and fleurs-de-lis had sprouted with the spring flowers. In various places preparations were already under way for the grand victory celebrations which would mark the visit of the tsar of Russia and the king of Prussia.
The Claybury coachman took them past a host of fine buildings, new and old. The Houses of Parliament, the Royal Exchange, and Westminster Hall had graced London for centuries; Somerset House, the Royal Circus, and the Lord Mayor’s House were new additions. Mrs. Claybury promised Amy visits to many of these places in the weeks to come. Almack’s Assembly Rooms were pointed out, and the homes of some of the famous—Holland House, Carlton House, and Devonshire House.
Amy thanked her warmly, for she could see the lady took genuine pleasure in pleasing others, but she couldn’t help a pang of dismay. Here she was gawking like a yokel at places to which she was entitled entry by birth.
Had she come to London as Amy de Lacy of Stonycourt, the daughter of a rich baronet, rather than the poor guest of a merchant’s widow, she might well have attended a ball at Holland House, and received vouchers for Almack’s. It was more than likely that she would have attended an event at Carlton House.
But she firmly put such unworthy repinings behind her. She had set her course and would hold to it. Her family depended on her.
That very evening she was given the opportunity to begin. Their hostess had an invitation to an evening of cards and music to which she had been urged to bring her guests.
“Clara Trueblood always does things very well,” said Mrs. Claybury. “There’ll be plenty of younger people for Amy, and,” she added meaningfully, “some older, warmer ones, too.”
Amy had insisted that their hostess know of her plans, but this plain speaking made her color.
“Don’t you be missish, dear,” said Nell comfortably. “Most young ladies are out to make a good marriage, and with your looks you’ll have no trouble at all. There’s a lot to be said for knowing what you plan to make when you start to bake. Not but what,” she added thoughtfully, “you might do better to introduce yourself to some of your highborn connections and move in better circles. Looks like yours come once in a decade, dear.”
Amy had regained her composure. “It would not serve, ma’am. It would be much more expensive to cut a dash in Mayfair. Even the rent of a house is beyond us. Besides that, many of the ton are land rich but not overendowed with cash to put into Stonycourt.”
“You had best make sure any gentleman who courts you is willing to lay out his blunt, dear, or you could get a sad surprise, be he ever so rich.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Amy. “I intend to be completely honest about it when the time comes.”
Nell nodded, but she still looked dubious. “Even if you are seeking a wealthy city man, it would do no harm for you to attend a few fashionable affairs. In fact, it would doubtless raise your value considerably.”
Amy experienced a stab of alarm. Cutting a dash among the ton was no part of her plans. “I do hope not, ma’am, for I have no intention of moving in those circles. I doubt if I could anyway. Our connections are limited. My father had only one sister and she lives in Cumberland. I have cousins but I don’t know if they are in Town. There are doubtless friends, both from school and from home, but not close enough for us to expect them to sponsor me.” She smiled at Mrs. Claybury, for she had developed a genuine fondness for the lady. “Not everyone is as generous as you, ma’am.”
The woman colored with pleasure. “Oh poo. I simply hate being here all on my own. The next few months are going to be the most delightful I’ve had in years. The whole of London will be in festival for the victories, and I will enjoy it a great deal more in young company. Besides,” she added naughtily, “I can’t wait to see all the gentlemen of my acquaintance make perfect nodcocks of themselves over you.”
Amy joined her new friend in laughter and felt a good deal better about everything.
The Claybury party arrived at the Truebloods’ rout fashionably late, and to Amy’s eyes it appeared grand enough to be a ton affair. The hosts had hired rooms at the Swan, and by the time Amy and her party arrived, those rooms were pleasantly full of a hearty throng. The gentlemen were all fine; the ladies smart. There was no shortage of beautiful garments and costly jewels.
Tables were set up in one room and were being well used by card players. Amy was pleased to see, however, that there was none of the tense atmosphere she would expect from high gaming, and the coins in use were mainly pennies, thruppences, and sixpences. It didn’t appear anyone was likely to lose their all here.
Another room was arranged for rest and conversation and included lavish amounts of food and drink. A great many of the older people were settled there.
A third room was a ballroom, where a trio worked away in one corner, playing cheerful country dances. Despite her determination not to take pleasure in this mission, Amy’s toe began to tap. It had been so long since she had attended a dance. She waited for some gentleman to ask her to dance and did not have to wait long.
Heads had turned as they passed through the rooms. People had stared. Amy had always attracted attention, even in the dull clothes she had chosen in the past. Dressed as she was now in a pale pink silk gown with bodice of deep pink satin trimmed with beads, she knew she was unignorable. Especially, she admitted ruefully, as the bodice was fashionably low. It had been Beryl who had insisted on that, and Amy rather wished she hadn’t given in. She felt horribly exposed.
But that, or her other endowments, attracted the young men like a blossom attracts bees. They gathered, they hovered. Amy wondered which would prove boldest.
It was a bright-eyed and dashing young man called Charles Nolan. He had fashionable windswept dark hair and too many showy fobs.
“He who hesitates is lost,” he quoted cheerfully as he led her into the set.
Amy smiled at him. “Are you usually so quick to act, sir?”
“Of course. I find it serves me well. I am fast making my fortune by means of seeing opportunities and taking them.”
He clearly intended this to be a point in his favor, but Amy immediately crossed him off her list of possibilities. Up-and-coming hopefuls were of no use to her. She had never expected to find her fortune attached to a young man anyway.
Mr. Nolan was succeeded by Mr. Hayport; Mr. Hayport by Mr. Jackson. She was careful to appear amiably featherheaded, for she had settled on that role. Her appearance seemed to lead people to leap to that conclusion anyway, and so she would allow it, as gentlemen appeared to be much happier without a challenge to their own intellects.
None of her partners were eligible but Amy enjoyed herself tremendously. Then her conscience began to prick.
This would not do at all. She would never meet the older, richer men while prancing on the dance floor. When the next partner presented, she pleaded exhaustion and asked him to take her to the refreshment room.
He collected wine for them and sat beside her. This gentleman was Peter Cranfield. He was a little older than her previous partners and of a more serious disposition. He did not seem at all put out to be spending his time with her in conversation rather than dancing.
He tactfully made it clear that he came of a very wealthy family, but he also told Amy that he was one of three sons who would inherit the business and their father was still hale and hearty. Amy felt rather sorry for him, for he clearly thought himself a very fine fellow. She hoped this prime article wouldn’t precipitately propose.
Amy missed a great deal of Mr. Cranfield’s subtle self-advertisement in a fruitless review of a certain disastrous encounter. Even though the result could never have been different, she had wished and wished again that her last moments with Harry Crisp had not b
een so horrible.
“Well, Peter, you have carried off the prize. I admire such enterprise.”
Amy looked up quickly to see an older man by their table. He was a trim man with silver hair, fine bones, and heavy-lidded gray eyes.
Mr. Cranfield rose, rather reluctantly. “Thank you, Uncle. Miss de Lacy, may I make known to you my uncle, Sir Cedric Forbes?” Amy acknowledged the introduction. “And this, Uncle, is Miss Amy de Lacy of Lincolnshire. She is a guest of Mrs. Claybury.”
Sir Cedric sat at the table. Despite his age—for he must have been in his fifties—he was still a handsome man and had an air of intelligence and authority.
He immediately took over the steering of the conversation. Not a mention of money now, but talk of the Frost Fair in February and the great snows which had followed; anticipation of the coming festivities and the political implications of peace. Amy enjoyed it tremendously, then began to fear she was appearing too intelligent.
“La,” she said, with a flutter of her fan, “I cannot wait to see the tsar, Sir Cedric. He is said to be remarkably handsome.”
Sir Cedric appeared amused but he also showed admiration. Amy’s heart began to beat faster. Was this the one?
He was surely in control of his own fortune, but how great was it? There was nothing to tell from his appearance, which was elegant but unostentatious.
If he did prove suitable, she would be Lady Forbes, which would soothe her family.
“Handsome men are not that rare a sight, Miss de Lacy,” he said in response to her inanity. “You will doubtless see many during your weeks in Town.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” fluttered Amy, feeling a perfect fool.
Sir Cedric turned to his nephew. “I am sure you have a partner awaiting you, Peter. I will take care of Miss de Lacy until she feels ready to dance again.”
Mr. Cranfield took a disgruntled leave and Sir Cedric turned back to Amy. “Some more wine, Miss de Lacy?”