A Magnificent Match

by Gayle Buck

  “I suppose that it might do,” said Megan hopefully.

  Mrs. Tyler left the bedroom to retrieve the shawl. When she returned, she said, “Here you are, my dear. I do hope that it will do the trick.”

  With her maid’s help, Megan tried the shawl in various po­sitions. She soon shook her head. “It’s no use. It simply won’t do. I look like a noddy with it tied up around my throat and if I drape it, it is likely to slither loose at the most inopportune time.”

  “Yes, so I see,” said Mrs. Tyler.

  Megan turned around and sighed. “I cannot go downstairs in this gown, Gwyneth. It is positively indecent. And yet, what can I do? My father will be highly displeased if he were to be informed that I will not make up one of the company. His lord­ship likes me to talk up the horses to the ladies.”

  Mrs. Tyler shook her head sympathetically. It was indeed a dilemma. Lord O’Connell was insistent that every member of his family be available during the houseparty. Even Celeste’s present condition did not absolve her from what his lordship perceived as her duties toward the family fortunes. If Celeste was well enough to abide under his roof instead of her own, then she was well enough to comply with his wishes.

  Mrs. Tyler thought for a moment, then rose to her feet. “Wait here, Megan. I shall be back presently.”

  “What have you got in mind?” asked Megan hopefully.

  “I shan’t say just yet, for I don’t know whether I shall be successful,” said Mrs. Tyler.

  Megan watched her companion leave the bedroom for the second time. She looked at her maid. “I hope that Mrs. Tyler is able to provide a solution, Betty.”

  The maid bobbed her head in agreement. “Aye, miss.” She eyed the outgrown ballgown with disfavor. She would not voice it out loud, but it was a terrible crime that her mistress was reduced to such pitiful straits as these.

  When Mrs. Tyler returned, she brought with her Lady O’Connell’s dresser. She gestured at Megan, who was still at­tired in the inadequate ballgown. “Now see, Simpkins. It is just as I have described to you,” said Mrs. Tyler. “Can there be anything done?”

  “You should not have bothered Simpkins,” said Megan with a reproving frown. She was embarrassed that the haughty dresser had been brought in.

  “It is quite all right, miss. Mrs. Tyler explained the problem and it would be odd, indeed, if I thought myself to be above the challenge,” said Simpkins. “Now let me see what must be done.”

  Megan had no choice but to accept the situation. She stood docilely while the dresser poked and pulled and frowned over the ballgown. Finally the dresser shook her head and stepped back. “Even I cannot make that gown appear decent, miss,” she pronounced. “I could hobstitch a length of deep lace around the borders of the bodice, but it would be an obvious addition and scarcely adequate, besides. I recommend that the thing be given away or put into the ragbag.”

  Megan looked at the dresser, then at Mrs. Tyler. “But then what is to be done, Gwyneth? I haven’t got another gown.”

  “Oh, dear. I had so hoped that Simpkins—” Mrs. Tyler cut off the rest of what she was about to say. She made a determined effort to smile. “It is very bad, of course, but we shall simply have to make the best of the situation. I shall convey your regrets to Lady O’Connell with an explanation and hope that you are not missed too soon.”

  The dresser cleared her throat. Her expression as haughty as ever, she said, “If I may make a suggestion, miss? I have in my possession a gown that may prove adequate this once. It is a style that will be simple to alter to your figure.”

  “I am very willing to put myself in your hands, Simpkins,” said Megan. “But will not my mother take exception to me wearing a gown that she commissioned for herself?”

  “The gown is one that Lady O’Connell took an unreasoning and sudden dislike to while we were still in London. I believe that her ladyship saw one of her acquaintances attired in some­thing very similar,” said Simpkins woodenly.

  “Oh, I see,” said Megan. She smiled suddenly. “Thank you, Simpkins. I should like to try the gown.”

  The dresser nodded and let herself out of the bedroom. In short order, she returned, bearing a cascade of silk in her arms. She shook out the folds of the gown and addressed the maid. “You there, girl. Get that dress off and then help me throw this over your mistress’s head.”

  Megan’s maid nodded, not daring to say a word. The two servingwomen tossed the gown over Megan’s head and smoothed it down her body. The maid hooked it up the back swiftly while the dresser began to pleat and pull at the fabric.

  “Yes, I think that it can be managed,” said Simpkins thoughtfully. “If we take a tuck here and here, and a third one here, the extra fullness will not be noticeable. What do you think, miss?”

  Megan critically looked at herself in the mirror. She was standing in a ballgown of watered ivory silk that enhanced her red hair and fair coloring. Puffed at the shoulder, the long sleeves of the gown tapered over the hand. The bodice was cut low, but even so was not as revealing as her old gown, and the waistline was high. Rows upon rows of frothy bows and point lace decorated the bosom of the dress and the skirt.

  “It is lovely, except for these bows,” said Megan, touching one of the offending frills at the bosom.

  The dresser nodded. “Quite right, miss. But that is a simple matter to remedy. I took the precaution of bringing along my sewing basket.” As she was speaking, she brought out a pair of small sharp shears and began snipping off many of the bows. When she was done, she looked critically at the ballgown. “Aye, that will do. Now we’ll simply take it in and you will be suitably attired for the evening.”

  Megan watched the dresser work her magic with the gown. In a matter of half an hour, the ballgown had undergone a sub­tle transformation. The busy look of the bows had been re­duced to discreet touches. The voluminousness of the skirt had disappeared. Megan could not quite believe how sophisticated she appeared. “You are a wonder, Simpkins,” she said quietly.

  The dresser’s face reddened, but she merely nodded.

  Megan turned to the dresser. She was touched by the dresser’s ministrations, for she knew that the discards from a lady’s wardrobe always became the property of the lady’s maid and actually constituted part of the tiring-woman’s in­come. “I cannot thank you enough, Simpkins, especially when I know that you have sacrificed this gown for me.”

  The dresser gave a dour smile. She closed her sewing box. “A rare oddity I would look wearing something so akin to a bridal gown, miss.”

  Megan was startled. She whirled around to look again at her reflection. “Oh my word! All it requires is a lace veil and a bouquet. Gwyneth, I cannot possibly appear in this!”

  “Nonsense, my dear. You look perfectly lovely. It is quite suitable for a young lady just coming out. And I have just the thing for you to wear with it for this particular occasion,” said Mrs. Tyler. She unclasped the strand of pearls from around her own neck and held them out. “You will do me the honor of wearing them, Megan.”

  Megan felt tears come to her eyes. She accepted the pearls and allowed her maid to clasp them about her neck. “Oh, Gwyneth, I am beginning to feel like Cinderella about to go to the ball.”

  “A pity that there is not a Prince Charming waiting in the wings,” said Mrs. Tyler regretfully. “Certainly you will turn heads tonight, my dear.”

  Simpkins allowed herself a small smile and let herself out of the bedroom. The dresser’s formidable presence gone, the maid reasserted herself. “Now, miss, stand still so that I may fix your hair.”

  When Megan descended the stairs a quarter hour later, she felt herself to be almost floating. She knew that she had never appeared better. How odd that it should happen when she was wearing a discarded ballgown and a set of borrowed pearls.

  She met her brother-in-law, the Honorable Patrick Kennehessey, on the landing. He looked at her appreciatively and then bowed with a flourish. “Ah, a fine-looking lass you are, to be sure,” he said
in a lilting brogue. He offered his arm. “Will you honor this poor soul with your company, Megan?”

  Megan looked at him wonderingly, even as she placed her fingers on his arm. “Come, Patrick, what is this blarney? I have never heard you utter such an extravagance in all my life.”

  Mr. Kennehessey smiled, his broad pleasant face creasing. “But then, why should you? We rarely have occasion for pri­vate speech. I must say that I have never seen you appear to such rare advantage, dear sister. Why, at this moment you al­most rival my heart, Celeste, in beauty.”

  Megan began to realize just what it was about the short placid gentleman that had so charmed her sister. She had been in England visiting her maternal relations when the romance between Patrick Kennehessey and her sister had sprung up. By the time she had returned, they had already eloped and become pariahs in her father’s view. Concourse between the two households had been forbidden by Lord O’Connell for nearly two years, until he had relented upon discovering that his de­spised son-in-law could put him in the way of a valuable busi­ness connection. Megan had thus never had an opportunity to mingle with her brother-in-law except in such social situations as they were now preparing to attend and Mr. Kennehessey’s unprecedented compliment was astonishing. “Where is Ce­leste, by the by? She is not ill again, I hope?”

  A shadow crossed Mr. Kennehessey’s freckled face. He nodded. “Aye, and a pity it is. His lordship will not care for it, but I told Celeste that I’ll not be endangering any child of ours for the sake of any number of horses. I have told Celeste that she is to stay abed this evening. She fretted, of course. But I shall deal with Lord O’Connell myself.”

  “You are braver than I, Patrick,” said Megan quietly. “I was too cowardly to remain abovestairs, even though the circum­stances of an hour past seemed to warrant it.”

  He glanced sideways at her from out of unexpectedly shrewd brown eyes. “Courage is an odd thing, Megan. It is particularly roused when one perceives a threat to those one loves best. You have not yet experienced that.”

  Megan looked at her brother-in-law for a long moment. “Patrick, you have not once mentioned your crops to me.”

  Her brother-in-law winked at her. “No, I am saving that de­licious subject for the drawing room. You have no notion, lass, how easily one may drive away unwelcome conversation with a dash of agricultural jargon.”

  “You are a hoodwinking rogue, Patrick!” exclaimed Megan, almost disbelieving.

  “Am I, now? Or am I merely countering one sort of tower­ing dogma with another? Certainly I am never constrained to bear with a conversation about horseflesh longer than I wish,” murmured Mr. Kennehessey as they crossed the threshold.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  The large drawing room was full. Every chair and settee was occupied, generally by finely gowned ladies of various ages. The gentlemen lounged about, either paying court to ladies of their choice or going to stand with the group arranged before the mantel, their backs to the warm fire. The buzz of conversation slowed as heads turned to see who else was joining the company.

  Raising his voice, Mr. Kennehessey said, as though continu­ing a long digression, “And the drainage ditches cannot be any narrower for that reason. There are exceptions, of course. There is—”

  Megan’s stunned expression was attributed to extreme bore­dom. Several individuals smiled, already well acquainted with Mr. Kennehessey’s propensity to agriculture.

  Captain O’Connell stepped forward to rescue his sister. “Patrick, your servant. Megan, I should like a word with you, if I may.”

  “Of course.” Megan turned her head to say a civil word to her brother-in-law, but Mr. Kennehessey was already bowing and moving away.

  “Regular jaw-me-dead, isn’t he?” said Captain O’Connell, grimacing.

  Megan shook her head, smiling. She wished that she could reveal their brother-in-law’s astounding subterfuge, but he had not granted her permission to do that. “Patrick is a good, wor­thy man,” she said.

  “Oh, that goes without saying,” said Captain O’Connell dismissively. “Let us forget him, if you please. What is this our mother has so graciously conveyed to me not two minutes be­fore you chose to make your entrance? That I am to escort you to London to the modiste shops?”

  Megan laughed. “Oh, poor Colin! It is not nearly so bad as that. I am going on a shopping trip, but I shall have Mrs. Tyler with me. You are merely to accompany us to the town house. Your duty shall end there.”

  “You ease my mind, dear sister,” said Captain O’Connell. The rather hard glint in his eyes receded. “I was of no mind to trail behind a female while she bought a few fripperies and gloves.”

  “You need not fear. I would never infringe upon your good nature in such a self-centered fashion,” said Megan evenly. “In any event, you would not allow me to do so, would you?”

  Captain O’Connell smiled slowly. He regarded her expres­sion thoughtfully. “I believe that I have angered you, Megan.”

  Megan also smiled. Her gaze was very steady, though there was a spark in the depths of her eyes. “No, why should I be? I cannot expect you to put yourself about for me. It would be the height of idiocy to think that, would it not?” She did not want to skirmish with her brother and looked about for an excuse to leave him. “Oh, there is Sophronia waving at me. Why does she need to bring those pugs along with her even tonight?”

  “Look at Lionel’s face for the answer to your question,” said Captain O’Connell, nodding his head toward their elder brother.

  Mr. O’Connell had attired himself carefully for the evening in a dark coat, frilled shirt and waistcoat, and pantaloons. His was a handsome figure, the only mar to his correct appearance being his expression. He was frowning as he stared across the room at his wife. Quite deliberately, he turned his back and began speaking to a guest.

  “The cut direct,” observed Captain O’Connell.

  “That was very bad of Lionel,” said Megan, annoyed. “That must certainly set a few tongues wagging. And I can well imagine Sophronia’s feelings!”

  “Do not get up in arms over it, dear sister. I doubt that Sophronia even noticed,” said Captain O’Connell sardonically. “She fawns so over those pooches that one might be excused for thinking they were her children.”

  “Perhaps they are,” said Megan quietly. “Excuse me, Colin. She is still waving at me. I think that I shall go over and just drop a word into her ear.”

  Captain O’Connell smiled slightly. “I suspect it will be more likely that Sophronia will drop a few words into your ear, Megan. You will hear in gruesome detail about every ill that she is suffering. I know, for I have already made the pil­grimage to greet her. Lord, what a ninnyhammer!”

  Megan shook her head at him before she began to make her way through the crowd. She patiently nodded and smiled as she greeted those whom she already knew. It was several min­utes before she was able to reach her sister-in-law’s side.

  Sophronia O’Connell was a passably pretty young woman, but there was a perpetual petulant droop to her mouth that marred her natural loveliness. She affected a languid air and always had several shawls dripping from her shoulders. That, and her constant canine companions, defined her singular style.

  One of the pair of pugs cavorting at her sister-in-law’s feet dared to leap up at Megan. She caught its head with her gloved hand and deflected the animal away from her silken skirt. “Down, sir!”

  The pug groveled, its tail wagging. Megan bent to scratch its ears. She looked up at her sister-in-law, who sat on her chair slowly waving a fan, quite unconcerned over her pet’s antics. “Really, Sophronia, must you bring them into the ball­room?”

  Sophronia O’Connell adjusted her shawls. “They amuse me. Pray do not scold, Megan, for it is so tiresome. I am scarcely able to endure this squeeze and it would be utterly impossible without my dear doggies.”

  “Very well, Sophronia, I shan’t scold. I think that you know my opinion. But how you intend to
take to the dance floor with those animals nipping at your heels is more than I can fathom,” said Megan, rising to her feet.

  “I do not dance,” said Mrs. O’Connell disdainfully. “My fragile health will not permit such exuberant exercise.”

  “I hope that you did not wave at me so urgently in order to discuss your pugs or the state of your health, Sophronia. For if you have, I tell you to your face that I am leaving on the in­stant,” said Megan frankly.

  “So unfeeling, every one of you,” murmured Mrs. O’Connell, rearranging a shawl that one of her pugs had tugged down off of her slender shoulder. A flash of sudden temper showed in her eyes. “But you may rest easy this once, Megan. I do not intend to bore you with a cataloging of my ills.”

  “Thank you, Sophronia,” said Megan.

  Her sister-in-law chose to ignore what she considered to be an impertinence. “I merely wished to verify what I was told. Are you going up to London with Colin? If that is indeed true, I advise you strongly against it. Colin may be a gentleman born, but he is scarcely the proper person to introduce you to society. I doubt that he knows a single respectable person.”

  “Colin is merely providing a convenient escort, Sophronia. I am actually traveling over with Mrs. Tyler,” said Megan. “She has been charged to advise me in buying a few essentials and—”

  “A shopping expedition?” Mrs. O’Connell’s blue eyes nar­rowed. Her voice sharpened. “I have not been informed of this. I suppose that it never occurred to anyone to wonder whether I should like to shop in London? I shall speak to Lionel at once!”

  Megan instantly recognized the danger of her sister-in-law’s envy. Not wanting to be the cause of an unwarranted and pub­lic wrangle, she said hastily. “It is not precisely a pleasure ex­pedition, Sophronia. Mrs. Tyler and I shall not be remaining in London. We are going on to St. Petersburg. That is quite a dif­ferent thing, as you will agree.”

  “St. Petersburg?” repeated Mrs. O’Connell blankly.

  “It is in Russia,” said Megan helpfully.