by Ruth Axtell
“I don’t know. Yours is a faithful nature. God made you so, but perhaps you fixed your affections on the wrong man.”
“So it’s my fault!”
“No, dear Jessie. I know we can’t control with whom we fall in love—”
Jessamine glared at her friend. “I had a father who instilled me with the notions of patience and resignation, and you and your mother encouraged me in my affections to your brother.” She knew her words were unreasonable, but she couldn’t help herself. For too long, she’d kept everything bottled up inside, putting on a brave face to her family and Rees’s mother and sister, who all meant well. But all it had meant was keeping the bitterness brewing inside her. She knew Megan and her mother must be overjoyed to finally see Rees and his bride, and now a grandchild.
Megan flushed. “Perhaps Mother and I did wrong, but you two seemed so right for each other. We felt keenly how much Rees had sacrificed all these years in order to provide for us. We knew how lonely he must be. We hoped so much for a woman as faithful and true as you for him. You seemed God-ordained for him, apart from the difference in your ages.”
Jessamine blew her nose again. “If I had only been born a few years sooner, or he a few years later, perhaps we would have been married before he ever met that—that Frenchwoman!”
Abruptly, she turned away from Megan and swung her legs off the bed. “Well, we were all wrong about ‘God’s will.’ I sometimes think God must be laughing at all our petty hopes and schemes.”
“Jessamine!” Megan sounded truly shocked.
Jessamine did not take her words back, although they shocked her as well. It was the first time she expressed aloud what had simmered below the surface all these months. The thoughts that had plagued her the night before resurfaced. “I can tell you this,” she said, standing and facing her friend. “I will not make the same mistake again. I will not pledge my heart to a man who gives nothing in return. The next time a heart is broken, it shall not be mine!”
She crossed the room to her dressing table and looked at herself in the mirror. The face staring back at her looked awful—eyes swollen, hair tumbling down, nose red, skin splotchy.
She yanked at the rest of her hairpins, allowing her hair to fall down past her shoulders, then grabbed up her hairbrush and pulled it through her locks, welcoming the pain.
Feeling calmer with her resolution taken, she sat at her dresser and twisted her hair into a knot. As she held it up in one hand to repin it, she paused, picturing Lady Dawson’s fashionably cropped curls.
“I am going to cut my hair.”
“What?” Megan scrambled off the bed and came to stand behind Jessamine, meeting her eyes in the mirror.
“Do you remember Lady Angelica Dawson last night?”
“The lady you were asking Lady Bess about?”
“I want to fashion my hair like hers. She looked very smart.”
Megan nodded slowly as if afraid that disagreeing with her would bring on a new storm of tears. But Jessamine could have told her the time for crying was over.
“It did look nice on her,” she conceded.
“Do you think the style would suit me?” Jessamine looked at herself in the mirror again.
Megan took up her hair from her, considering. “I think so. Your hair is so pretty, it seems such a shame to cut too much off.”
Jessamine loosened her hair. “Well, I think it’s time for a change. High time for a change.”
6
When she left the hairdresser’s salon, Jessamine’s head felt lighter, freer than she could ever remember. She kept putting her hand up to the nape of her neck to feel her hair. As promised, the hairdresser had cut the back portion of her hair to a length slightly past her shoulders, long enough to still draw up in a knot, which he had done. But the sides and top were very short.
She still marveled at how it curled around her head and forehead like a boy’s.
“How does it feel?”
She smiled at Megan. “Light.”
“It looks quite boyish, a bit like a gamin.”
They left the side street they were on and turned onto Bond Street. Jessamine stopped in front of a shop window and looked at her reflection.
“I hope not a street urchin.”
“Oh no, like a charming young fawn.” She gave her an impish grin. “A bit like Caroline Lamb.”
Jessamine brightened, liking the notion of being notorious. Of course she wouldn’t be fool enough to fall in love again and make a cake of herself the way Lady Caroline had for Lord Byron. They resumed walking. “I want to get some new gowns made.” Since taking a decisive step toward a new life, a new outlook, she felt better.
“But we brought so many new dresses with us,” Megan said.
“Have you noticed how simple they appear beside those of the ladies of fashion like Lady Dawson?” When Megan considered, Jessamine added, “I want to find a seamstress.”
Megan’s brow puckered. “It could prove expensive to compete with someone like Lady Dawson.”
She nodded glumly. “I know. Perhaps Lady Bess or one of her friends knows of a good seamstress. I don’t want a woman who makes up the fusty old gowns they wear, however.”
Megan laughed, probably glad to find her in a better mood than she had been in earlier. Jessamine shuddered, not wanting to go back to that pathetic, sniveling figure she had cut. “I want someone who can give me a new style. I don’t want to look like every young miss on the marriage mart.” She paused again before a shop window and twirled a curl around a finger.
Megan stood beside her. “It would be nice to stand a little apart from them, but what can we do? Only the most pale pastels and whites are allowed us.”
Jessamine didn’t reply. Instead, she said, “Perhaps a French seamstress, an émigré, with a Parisian sense of style but who would be grateful for our patronage.”
“Still, how can you afford it? I know you don’t want to ask your father for any more pin money.”
Jessamine touched the pearl drop pendant that hung from a gold chain around her neck and swung it between her fingers. “I have spent very little of my allowance. Let us first price some muslins and see how much a gown or two would cost.”
She began walking again, picking up her pace. “Come, let’s look at bolts of material at the Bond Street Bazaar.” With a lighter step, she skirted past the pedestrians, eager to put her plan into action.
Lancelot walked back from Soho Square a few days later on his return from one of Sir Joseph Banks’s “mornings.” While abroad Lancelot had missed those informal gatherings of botanists and naturalists in the great naturalist’s library, where a variety of British and foreign periodicals were laid out for their perusal and discussion. The latest findings of those commissioned to collect plant specimens from their voyages around the world were eagerly disseminated and discussed.
As president of the Royal Society, Dr. Banks had invited Lancelot to become a member after Lancelot had sent him his first treatise on plants, and later nominated him as a fellow of the society.
Now, he had greeted Lancelot with enthusiasm and insisted he regale the company present with a description of all he’d brought back from India. Sir Banks had promised to help him find a publisher for the work he and Delawney were compiling. He’d also asked him to speak the following evening at the meeting of the Royal Society at Somerset House and to give a lecture to the public at the Royal Institute at a later date.
His mind bubbling over with ideas for these presentations, Lancelot turned onto King Street and halted at the sight of Miss Barry across the street. He was usually so deep in thought that he rarely noticed anyone, even with his spectacles on, until he was upon them. But he had been intending to cross the street so had been scanning the opposite side.
He frowned, noticing Miss Barry was alone. She had just emerged from a rundown shop in a part of town he would not expect to see an unaccompanied young lady. He narrowed his eyes to read the sign above the window. Harris & Sons, P
awnbrokers.
He crossed the street, lengthening his stride to reach her before she disappeared.
“Good afternoon,” he said, drawing abreast of her.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Marfleet.” She nodded to him, unsmiling, and looked away.
She looked different to him but he wasn’t quite sure how. Perhaps it was her hair, which looked curlier around her face but was mostly hidden by her bonnet. Remembering the reason he had hailed her, he indicated the shop behind her. “What are you doing here?”
She turned around as if not sure what place he was referring to. “Where?”
“At a pawnbroker’s shop,” he added helpfully.
She swallowed. “Nothing.” Her hand went to her throat and then she brought it back down again to clutch the strings of the reticule she held in her other hand.
His concern grew. Only people in financial straits frequented pawnbrokers. “Do you find yourself in the hatches, having to pawn your mother’s jewels?”
Her gaze flew to his, her green eyes wide. They were a deep green like a Scots pine in the Caledonian forest. Pinus sylvestris, he thought automatically.
“No, certainly not!”
Before he could think how to proceed, she stepped away from him. “I must go. Good day to you, Mr. Marfleet.”
“Wait, I shall accompany you home. You shouldn’t be alone on these streets. Where is your maid?”
She was already several paces away from him. “There is no need, thank you.”
He took a step after her, debating whether to insist. But as if sensing his resolve, she broke into a fast walk and turned the corner.
He uttered a prayer for her safety even as his thoughts puzzled over why she had seemed so dismayed to see him. He had thought they had gotten on rather well the other night at his mother’s dinner.
He walked back to the pawnbroker’s shop, peering into its smudged window, which held an odd jumble of articles from old watches to men’s hats and ladies’ gloves. People of the gentry only visited them if they were desperate for some ready cash.
His experience as a clergyman and his skills as an amateur scientist made him rarely accept things at their face value. He opened the door and entered the dim shop.
A musty odor of things old and never cleaned or aired greeted his nostrils. The bell above him tinkled, and a dark-haired, middle-aged man looked up from behind the counter. “Good day, sir. What may I do for you?”
“That young lady”—Lancelot motioned to the street—“who just left here.” He cleared his throat, feeling both idiotic and unforgivably inquisitive. “Did she come here to pawn an article?”
The man gave him a measured look, scratching at the days-old growth of salt-and-pepper beard covering his cheeks. “Young lady, sir?”
Lancelot flushed, feeling more foolish. “Yes, not a minute ago she stepped out. I’m—I’m acquainted with her and wouldn’t want her to have to pawn an article which might be of value to her.” He fumbled with the words as he grasped for a good reason to be inquiring into Miss Barry’s affairs.
The man continued to regard him, his fleshy lips puckering and twisting.
Lancelot’s gaze dropped from his obsidian stare and fell upon the article the man had been examining. It was a narrow rope chain with a small pearl hanging from it. He remembered seeing it around Miss Barry’s slim neck—and how her hand had gone to her bare throat earlier. “How much did you give her for it?”
The man didn’t glance at it. “Poor young thing. She did seem a bit broken up about having to pawn her necklace. Still wearing it, she was. Said something about its being her grandmother’s and meaning to redeem it in a few months’ time. I’d hate to disappoint her.”
“That’s all right. I shall redeem it for her. How much?”
The man named the sum.
Lancelot realized the man was probably hiking up the figure, but without questioning it, he drew out his purse and extracted some banknotes.
The man took the bills from the counter, counted them, and put them away in a drawer. “What shall I say if the young lady returns for it?”
“I’ll have restored it to her by then.”
“Very good, sir. You alleviate my mind.”
Ignoring the trace of mockery in his words, Lancelot put the necklace away in a waistcoat pocket. “Good day to you.”
“Good day to you, sir. It’s been a pleasure doing business.”
Lancelot nodded and stepped away from the counter. The bell tinkled above his head once again.
He continued down the block, thoughtful about why Miss Barry should be so short of funds she’d pawn something obviously dear to her and of some real value.
Jessamine stood surveying herself in the glass, hardly recognizing the young lady before her. She used the quizzing glass instead of her spectacles to inspect her appearance. Even though seeing clearly through only one eye was better than none, it still demanded an adjustment over having two lenses to see through.
Nevertheless, it was a vast improvement over not wearing her spectacles at all. She had practiced in the last week before her dressing table mirror so she now felt confident in using it as a fashion accessory to her new, stylish self. The small, circular glass was tied to a narrow silk ribbon affixed to her gown, a ribbon whose color would match whatever gown she wore.
Tonight she wore a new ball gown confectioned by Mademoiselle Clare. Jessamine turned slowly, admiring the wild rose sarcenet skirt and its ruby red bodice. She hadn’t shown it yet to Lady Bess and hoped the color wouldn’t scandalize her.
A soft tap on the door checked her movement.
“Come in.”
Megan poked her head around the door. “Oh!” She entered and shut the door behind her. “I came to ask if you needed any help with your hair or gown, but I see you do not.” She stopped. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Jessamine said shyly, a hand going to her hair, which had artificial sweetbriar roses woven through it on one side. “I’m still not used to the shorter, boyish look. Betsy helped me dress it.”
“I think you shall rival any éléganté at the ball.”
“What do you think of the gown?” She touched the edge of the bodice, hoping it was not too low. It was lower than anything she’d ever worn and showed a lot more skin than she was accustomed to. She blushed just thinking what her parents would say if they saw her.
Megan had not yet seen the finished gown, as Jessamine had taken only Betsy with her for her fittings.
“It’s the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen. The colors are wonderful. They truly become you.” Megan circled around her. Jessamine resisted the urge to tug upward at the bodice. “Mademoiselle Clare is a genius.” She frowned at Jessamine’s neckline. “You aren’t wearing any jewelry. Where’s your pearl?”
Jessamine made a careless gesture with her hand. “I thought the flowers alone would be more elegant.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
When Megan made no remark on her décolletage, Jessamine said, “You look very pretty too.” Her white satin gown had a wide band of colorful embroidery at the hem and neckline.
“Thank you.” Megan made a pretty curtsy. “Let’s hope our dinner at the Marfleets ensures we are not wallflowers tonight. Shall we go? Lady Bess is waiting for us downstairs, I believe.”
With a last glance at the glass, Jessamine turned down the lamp and took up her shawl, fan, and reticule.
Downstairs, they had to show their gowns to their godmother. “Lovely, the both of you,” the older lady said, clasping her hands over her breast. “How it takes me back to my own youth and coming-out balls.” She wore an azure demi-turban, her graying curls visible above and beneath it, and an amber gown with carnelian ornaments. “How lovely to receive the invitation to the Fortescues’ ball. I’m sure Lady Marfleet is to thank for it. You may be pleased that you have made at least one conquest since your arrival,” she added with a wink. “Let us hope for a half dozen more this evening.”
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nbsp; Thankful that Lady Bess had said nothing of concern over her gown, Jessamine wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. A niggling doubt assailed her when she thought of her mother and father, but she told herself that in Lady Bess’s and her mother’s day, women had worn brighter colors and more scandalous necklines.
They arrived at the large mansion in Berkeley Square only to be forced to wait on the other side of the square behind the dozens of carriages in line around the street.
“Everyone who is anyone must be here tonight,” Lady Bess remarked with satisfaction, peeking out the window. It was still light outside, and the interior of the carriage was stuffy. Jessamine was glad that Lady Bess never lacked for conversation since she herself didn’t feel like talking, too nervous about her new appearance. Would anyone notice her tonight?
Lady Bess continued commenting on every carriage she recognized by the footmen’s livery. When she was close enough to see the guests descending, she reported it to Megan and Jessamine. Jessamine let Megan reply. With each jolt of the carriage drawing them closer, the flutters in Jessamine’s tummy grew.
The sale of her grandmother’s pendant still hurt. Her hand kept going to her throat, forgetting it was bare. She bit her lip, remembering Mr. Marfleet’s appearance outside the pawnbroker’s shop. Why was it he always managed to be where he was least wanted? She had not precisely lied to him. It had not been her mother’s jewelry. It had been her grandmother’s—who’d handed it down to her mother, who’d presented it to her on her eighteenth birthday, she reminded herself.
It was none of Mr. Marfleet’s business, anyway. But Jessamine still felt the guilt when he’d accused her of selling her mother’s jewels. He may have been joking, but his words had hit too close to the truth.
Jessamine rubbed her moist palms against her mantle, focusing on her new gown beneath it. It had been worth it, she reminded herself, thinking of the two other new gowns hanging in her clothespress.
She would have to wait until her next month’s allowance before she could redeem her necklace. What if she and Megan “took” tonight and they were invited to a round of balls and parties? Would she need more gowns? She bit her lip, fretting over this new possibility. Perhaps she could offer to sew the gowns if Mademoiselle Clare would make the designs. If not, she would just have to copy what she saw at the ball tonight. She shook her head at the direction of her thoughts. She and Megan would probably not be noticed, and they could return to the dull round of card parties Lady Bess attended.