by Ruth Axtell
Jessamine looked away. “He is . . . charming.” And made her feel beautiful and worthy of notice, she added to herself. “He is coming to take me for another ride in his phaeton this afternoon.”
“Hmm.”
Jessamine was thankful her friend didn’t bring up Mr. Marfleet’s name again. Perhaps she finally understood that Jessamine was completely indifferent to him.
A few afternoons later she accompanied Megan and Céline—reluctantly—to Lady Huntingfield’s house. She was Céline’s great-niece from Céline’s first marriage to the late Earl of Wexham. The earl’s nephew had inherited the title upon his death, and this was his daughter.
Lady Huntingfield’s residence was a large town house on Curzon Street. After they were admitted by a dignified butler, they were shown into a small parlor.
The room was richly appointed with plush French carpets, gilded furniture, and sumptuous oil paintings against striped wallpaper. Céline didn’t notice her surroundings at all. She and Megan were chatting like old friends—or older and younger sister now.
They had tried to include Jessamine in their lively conversation during the carriage ride, but when Jessamine limited her responses to friendly but brief ones, they had finally left her alone.
In a few moments, a maid appeared and led them up a carpeted staircase to an even more lavish lady’s dressing room, where a young blonde woman came to greet them, hugging and kissing Céline. “Hello, Aunt Ceci, how lovely to see you. You look beautiful—glowing, in fact.”
The two women laughed and eyed each other with obvious affection. Jessamine then noticed that Lady Huntingfield was also expecting. It gave her a pang to see two mothers-to-be. Lady Huntingfield looked to be Jessamine’s age, perhaps even younger, and she’d already been married a year.
Céline explained that she had helped her niece with her coming-out a couple of years ago. She was now happy to see the fruits of her labor in the brilliant match Lady Huntingfield had made.
Two years ago. That would have been when Rees had met Céline in London.
The two ladies discussed briefly their conditions, but even from the little they said, Jessamine could tell that their coming motherhood was foremost in their minds.
That was where she should be, Jessamine thought to herself. Married and awaiting a child, not trying on an array of past season ball gowns and pretending she was a lady of the ton on the market for a titled gentleman.
But she was not allowed to wallow in her morose thoughts. A couple of maids soon brought out the ball gowns. Another maid served tea and cakes, and the other women were so enthusiastic that Jessamine could not demonstrate any ill humor when they were doing her this favor.
So, she dutifully tried on a half dozen or more ball gowns in a variety of soft colors and silks and fine muslins. They all fit very well with little need for alterations. The maids were armed with pins and took in what needed to be taken in.
“They are so beautiful,” Megan said with awe, running a hand down an ice-blue half-dress of sheerest taffeta over a cream satin underskirt.
“I’m so glad you are able to use them,” Lady Huntingfield said from a velvet settee, where she sat sipping her tea and admiring both Megan and Jessamine as they came out from behind the screen where a maid had helped them into the gowns. “I can’t wear any of them anymore, and I don’t foresee too many London balls for me in the near future. We are planning to go to our country seat as the time draws near for my confinement, and then we shall stay there for the winter, perhaps longer.” She smiled at Céline. “We shall be retiring to the country as if we were already in our middle years.”
“Having a child doesn’t mean you must retire from society,” Céline said, “although I certainly understand your wish to lead a quieter life.”
“I have never enjoyed society much, you know that.” She addressed Jessamine and Megan. “Thanks to Aunt Ceci, I am able to navigate the waters of society. I was such a shy young thing, and my mother was determined to arrange a marriage for me. It was Aunt Ceci who hosted my coming-out ball and made sure to introduce me to several eligible gentlemen. That’s how I met Lord Huntingfield and am happily married today.”
Jessamine looked at each of the women. Lady Huntingfield seemed to dote on Céline, the way Megan was coming to. What was it about this Frenchwoman that attracted everyone? Jessamine gritted her teeth, her smile wearing thin, and turned to the mirror to see herself in a pale-yellow silk.
“It’s beautiful on you,” Megan said at her side.
“Yes, it looks adorable,” Céline agreed from her place in a comfortable armchair.
Adorable. Like a puppy.
Jessamine studied her reflection. She looked almost beautiful. She was tempted to pull her spectacles out of her reticule, but she was able to see well enough to appreciate the color and cut of the gown on her.
As the afternoon wore on, it became harder for her to maintain her anger against Céline, who seemed genuinely pleased to help her and Megan enter society. Jessamine could not detect by either look or word any mockery in Rees’s wife. The brief interchange she’d overheard between her and Rees still rankled, but she could not say that Céline seemed to look at her any differently than she did Megan. Certainly not with any jealousy. Jessamine was beneath her consideration in that, she realized, remembering Rees’s words.
Nor was Céline lording it over Jessamine that she’d won Rees’s heart.
They dropped Jessamine home late that afternoon, extracting promises from her that she would accompany them on the morrow to shop for ribbons and other decorations to begin the task of altering and modifying the gowns.
It was hard to hate someone who seemed to harbor no ill feelings toward her and was doing everything to help her.
12
During the fortnight before the grand ball at Céline’s house, Jessamine found herself more and more in the Frenchwoman’s company. After Rees’s return to Brussels, Céline chaperoned Megan at all her social engagements, of which there were many, thanks to Céline’s many acquaintances. They insisted on collecting Jessamine in their carriage, which was more convenient than having Lady Bess obliged to hire a carriage. Lady Bess seemed content to leave the social whirl and return to her quiet card parties with her own circle of friends, although she always wanted to hear about Jessamine’s evening the following day.
It would have seemed more practical to move to Céline’s town house altogether. They invited her, but Jessamine was firm in her refusal, and was brought back to Lady Bess’s each evening. Although many times this was in the wee hours of the morning and she knew she was being inconsiderate to Lady Bess’s household, she couldn’t bring herself to be more beholden to Céline than she already was.
She had not seen Mr. Marfleet at all and wondered at his absence at the assemblies, soirees, and theatrical events she attended. Did he travel in different social circles? Or was he avoiding her as much as she dreaded seeing him again?
Since that night he’d come upon her and Mr. St. Leger, she’d spent hours humiliated and incensed all over again. He deserved to be slapped, she told herself, and then admitted to herself he’d acted out of concern for her safety and reputation.
His words still rankled, though. Behaving like a Cyprian . . . going off with men like St. Leger . . .
She was horrified she’d slapped his face. She’d never behaved so toward Rees, but then, he’d never done anything to make her lose her control.
The next moment, shame filled her again. Neither had she ever done anything to warrant intervention like Mr. Marfleet’s. Her thoughts went in circles. She would not return to being a dutiful vicar’s daughter but neither did she want to behave unseemly. There seemed to be no middle ground. She wanted to be like Céline and Lady Dawson, women who commanded the attention and admiration of men but who also knew how to keep them in check.
She lacked no dance partners now. When she mentioned Mr. Marfleet to Mr. Allan one evening, he only said, “Oh, Lancelot is busy at work on h
is book. You know he’s an amateur botanist, don’t you?”
“Yes, he told me.”
“He is quite an academic sort. I was surprised to see him at any of these society events. He usually considers them too frivolous.” He grinned. “I had heard rumors that his mother and father are pressuring him to marry. I suppose he was looking over the latest crop of young ladies on the ‘marriage mart.’” He colored, as if realizing whom he was addressing. “Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean you, of course.”
She forced herself to laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”
“He must not have seen anyone to catch his interest and has gone back to his musty books and greenhouses.”
“I suppose so.” She said nothing more but mulled over the information she had received. So, he had been merely looking for a wife. Had she caught his interest? The fact that she hadn’t seen him in over a week meant she had been found wanting. She colored, remembering again how he had found her the last time in the garden, on the verge of kissing Mr. St. Leger.
She cringed anew. She didn’t know why she had behaved so except that she’d been so upset at overhearing Rees and Céline. She couldn’t abide their pity and their amusement at her expense.
As far as Mr. Marfleet, good riddance! She didn’t need someone who was going to be her conscience tagging after her. If she chose to misbehave, that was her own affair.
In the meantime, Mr. St. Leger continued to be attentive and had suggested no more promenades in the garden, proving he was a serious suitor. Jessamine looked forward to their rides in the park and his witty sallies at dances.
She must put Mr. Marfleet out of her thoughts and continue cultivating the admiration of Mr. St. Leger and those gentlemen of his circle, without falling in love with any of them.
Lancelot sat up and lifted his spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His neck hurt from being hunched over his notes for so long.
But he was satisfied that he’d made a measurable amount of progress in the last week. He was ready to show a partial of his manuscript to the publisher Sir Banks had recommended. Delawney had completed dozens of watercolors, and the best ones now sat in a stack on his desk. He would collect everything in a portfolio and go to the Strand tomorrow to the publishing house.
He also needed to finalize his notes for the address he was going to give at the Royal Institute. He would take some of his sister’s paintings as well as a few plants.
He stood now and stretched, walking to the window to look at the fading day. He looked over the backyard, which ended in a wall and the mews beyond. The sky faded to a pale gray blue, the sun setting on the other side of the house.
Although he’d tackled his work with a will and single-mindedness he’d only had to exercise on himself a few times in his life, he’d not managed to exorcise Miss Barry from his thoughts.
He’d deliberately avoided any place where he might run into her. To his relief, racing season had started and Harold had left for Newmarket, so he would not be carrying tales if Lancelot absented himself from the season’s activities. His mother was visiting friends, so only he and Delawney remained in town with their father.
His father was busy in the House of Commons, what with the alarm over Napoleon’s threat, so he didn’t have time to interest himself in Lancelot’s affairs.
But he knew it was only a matter of time before they would begin to pressure him once more about proposing to a young lady.
Dear Lord, You know I would like to marry as much as they would like me to. But I want it to be the woman You have chosen for me, and thus far, I don’t feel You have presented her to me. I thought . . . but no, I realize now, she was not the one. Help me to put her from my thoughts. In Your name, Lord Jesus, I ask this.
His hand went absently to the cheek where Miss Barry had slapped him. He could still feel the impact. He’d never provoked a lady to slap him. It shook him to the core that he could have caused such violence in her.
His thoughts turned to the present uncertainty of his own life. When would he be offered a new living as a vicar?
With an impatient shake of his head, he returned to his desk, determined to work until it was time to change for dinner. Instead his gaze drifted to the invitation that had arrived the day before yesterday. It sat propped against a stack of books on his desk, where he could stare at it every time he sat down.
Céline Phillips requests your company at 9 o’clock on the evening of the 29th of May, 1815, at a ball given in honor of Miss Megan Anne Phillips and Miss Jessamine Elizabeth Barry at 12 Berkeley Square.
With the former Countess of Wexham hosting a ball for her, Miss Barry would no longer need his mother’s help in gaining entrée into society. This ball would seal both her and Miss Phillips’s coming-out. They needn’t have a court presentation. He had no doubt the countess could even drop a hint in one of the patronesses of Almack’s ears and have them invited to an assembly.
Lancelot started at the sound of a knock against the doorjamb. He usually left his door ajar, but Delawney would never walk in unannounced.
“Come in,” he told his sister, turning in his chair.
She carried a couple of watercolors in her hands. “I brought you these, which I think are satisfactory.”
“Let me see,” he said eagerly, reaching out for one of the stiff sheets of paper. It was of an orchid specimen he had brought back. “Perfect,” he murmured, happy with how well his sister had captured the exotic greenish-yellow flower with black specks and crimson tips. Paphiopedilum venustum was written in a tiny gray script at the bottom with the year and her name to one side.
“It really is quite exquisite—the original, I mean,” she was quick to amend. “How timely that it blossomed now. The painting doesn’t do it justice.”
Lancelot glanced up at her with a quick smile. “It’s exquisite—the watercolor. It will do very well indeed. I think I shall take this one to the lecture.”
“Yes, both orchids will garner attention. They will please all the matrons going there to educate themselves,” she added dryly.
“I think it’s a nice thing, this current popularity of science with the general public.”
She rolled her eyes. “All they want is to be entertained—made to laugh at a whiff of nitrous oxide, watch a balloon ascend, see a man’s leg be amputated in Guy’s surgical theater.” She shook her head in disgust.
“Nevertheless, if it helps educate the public, I am all for their attending the lectures of the Royal Society or the Royal Institute.”
She said nothing more, and Lancelot examined the other painting.
“Are you going?”
“Hmm?” His eyes were on a watercolor of a cluster of tiny pink and white flowers resembling lilacs but more pendulous. Dendrobium aphyllum, although the name was disputed.
“To the ball.”
He looked up, feeling his skin warm. His sister’s gaze was not on him but on the invitation displayed so prominently against the books. Why had he left it there?
“I haven’t decided.”
“It’s a golden opportunity.”
He grimaced. “For what? To be turned down once more by Miss Barry? She has made it plain on more than one occasion that she does not welcome my company.” Especially when she is in the arms of another man. He touched his cheek.
Delawney leaned a hip against the edge of his desk and folded her arms. “I think if a man showed a certain amount of persistence in pursuing me, I would take a second look, even if I had at first dismissed him as nothing but a diffident vicar without a pulpit, a bookish second son who blushes too easily, an amateur scientist who can’t see more than two feet in front of him without his spectacles—”
“But who nevertheless wears them in public much to the consternation of any young lady forced to be seen in his presence.”
She laughed. “But of course you must present yourself as who you are without varnishing the truth. I, for one, would respect such a man.”
Lancelot’s lip
s twisted. “The irony is she wears spectacles too.”
Delawney’s eyes widened and she clapped her hands. “No! In public?”
“Well, no—or only occasionally since coming to London. She has actually taken to wearing a quizzing glass, to great effect, I might add.”
Her smile deepened. “I think I should like to get better acquainted with this young lady who has taken your fancy.” She reached over for the invitation, and he had to restrain himself from stopping her. Would she decide to attend the ball with him? He didn’t know if he welcomed that or dreaded it.
“You may as well go,” he said.
He stared at the invitation in her hands, the only sound the edge of the paper rubbing against her fingers.
“Would you like me to accompany you and give you my opinion on”—she read from the invitation—“Miss Jessamine Elizabeth Barry, for I confess I paid scant attention to her at Mother’s dinner. She and her young friend seemed as forgettable as any two young ladies descending upon London in the spring to make their come-out.”
He attempted a careless laugh. “You, grace a ballroom? I’m afraid you’ll intimidate them both—”
“As well as the company at large?” she added with a wicked gleam in her eye.
He lifted a corner of his lips. “Won’t you?”
Her expression sobered. “I should do nothing to embarrass you or your young miss, that I can promise.”
He touched her hand, again resisting the urge to take back the invitation. “Of course you wouldn’t, and I apologize.” He sighed. “Very well, if you think you can stand it for an evening, I should appreciate the moral support.”
She handed him back the invitation, which he set in its place, resolving to put it away in a drawer as soon as she left the room.
“Speaking of ‘moral,’ has anything been decided for your future? No living opened up yet?”