by Anthea Bell
A LONDON SEASON
Anthea Bell
The disgrace of a youthful folly has caused attractive young Elinor Radley to resign herself to the life of a governess in a small English village. But suddenly, the distinguished and wealthy Sir Edmund Grafton sweeps her away to the lively bustle and excitement of late Georgian London, where Elinor is to be chaperone to Sir Edmund’s eighteen-year-old ward and heiress, Persephone.
But once in London, a complex web of intrigue develops against the lavish background of Almack’s, Covent Garden, and the balls and soirees that mark Persephone’s coming out. Why is the beautiful Persephone so opposed to the idea of a dazzling debut in London society? How long can Elinor’s unfortunate past remain a secret? Can she continue to hide her growing love for Sir Edmund—a love that must never be revealed? The fascinating chain of events speeds toward a climax that threatens to ruin both Elinor and those she holds dear.
In this delightful first novel, Anthea Bell’s sure historical sense and storytelling skill are expertly blended with humor and elegance. The rich background and lively characters found in A London Season are sure to win the author an enthusiastic following.
1
“Well, what is it this time?” demanded Miss Grafton, putting her head in its Dunstable straw bonnet trimmed with cerulean blue out of the carriage window, the better to view her surroundings. These evidently did not find favour with her, appearing as they did to consist of limitless expanses of farm land, both arable and pasture, broken here and there by the meagre lines of recently planted enclosure hedges. The country road along which the post-chaise had been travelling looked as if it, too, might go on indefinitely. It was deeply rutted in places, its puddles faintly reflecting the light of the springtime sun which had just come through the clouds. The sun also shone down on tender green leaves breaking out of bud, on primroses and a drift of pale blue dog-violets by the roadside, and on a flock of sheep accompanied by their frisking lambs which Miss Grafton, in a happier frame of mind, would have declared to be sweetly pretty.
On this early spring afternoon of 1826, however, she was intent upon finding fault. “Why have we stopped here, in the middle of nowhere?” she inquired imperiously of her cousin and guardian, Sir Edmund Grafton, who had got down from his seat beside her and gone to the horses’ heads, to confer with the postilion and his man, John Digby. The carriage in which Miss Grafton sat had been lent to Sir Edmund by his brother-in-law: no ramshackle, yellow-painted hired chaise, but a very handsome private conveyance, most comfortably sprung, with Lord Yoxford’s coat of arms discreetly traced upon the doors. However, it too incurred her censure. “Of all the slow, fusty ways to travel! One might just as well go by the stage!” she exclaimed, with the lofty ignorance of a young lady who had never in her life set foot in so plebeian a vehicle. “At this rate we shall never be in Cheltenham at all!”
An impartial observer might have said that Miss Grafton was in a fit of the sulks. But then, few observers remained impartial once they had set eyes on the charming oval of her face, with its flawless roses-and-cream complexion surrounded by tumbling, dusky curls. Her large blue eyes, just the colour of her bonnet strings, were now clouded with annoyance and her lower lip was thrust out, but such is the injustice of nature that, as her mentors at the Miss Maddens’ Select Seminary for the Daughters of Gentlemen in Bath had frequently had occasion to remark, what in another girl would be wilful temper could appear, in Persephone Grafton, merely a pretty petulance.
Miss Mary Madden, the younger of the two proprietresses of the Seminary, had felt mingled emotions of relief and regret at the departure of her pupil, attired in the most elegant travelling costume to be procured in Bath at very short notice. It had been Miss Mary’s task to see Persephone provided with a new gown and mantle when the sisters were informed, only a few days earlier, that Sir Edmund Grafton, having succeeded to his elderly relative’s baronetcy and estates, was returning to England. His present intention, it appeared, was to settle permanently in his native land, after eleven years spent in various Continental embassies and legations on behalf of the Diplomatic Service, which he had joined as a young man directly after Waterloo. Moreover, Sir Edmund wrote, he would be arriving within the next few days to bear his ward off to his sister in London, and to her first Season.
Of course, said Miss Selina Madden to her sister, Lady Yoxford would see to the acquisition of a wardrobe suitable for a young lady making her debut. Not that Sir Edmund said as much, but a gentleman could not be expected to put his mind to such things! Meanwhile, however, she would like to think that Persephone did them credit upon her arrival in the capital. There could be no question of Sir Edmund’s querying the expense of the new garments when added to their discreetly presented account—all the fees so promptly paid over the years, such generous allowance made for Extras!
And so Miss Mary had betaken herself to Madame Louise’s exclusive establishment in Milsom Street, escorting a strangely rebellious Persephone.
“But do you know, Selina, once we were there, she was really most biddable!” she confided wonderingly to her elder sister, as they took tea together in their private parlour on the day when Miss Grafton had left their care. She was to put up with her guardian at his Bath hotel for a night, before they set off early next morning to post back to London, with a detour to Cheltenham where Sir Edmund had business.
“You mean,” said the more forthright Miss Madden, drily, “that she had at last passed from a towering rage into the sullens! And I only wish I knew the reason for either,” she added, more to herself than her sister
“Well, I do believe that when Madame Louise showed her how prettily the blue challis for the mantle would hang, and how becomingly suitable was the sprigged muslin, though not at all missish, her spirits were a little raised,” said Miss Mary hopefully.
“If so, they rapidly fell again, judging by this afternoon’s scene!”
“I, for one, was very thankful to Madame Louise!” insisted Miss Mary. “For I own that I was in the greatest dread of Persephone’s insisting on—on purple gauze and spangles!” she added, conjuring up the most horrifically unsuitable vision of which her inward eye could conceive. “And I am not perfectly sure, Selina, that I should have been able to overbear her.”
Miss Madden, who knew very well that her sister, while held in affection by all the pupils, had not the remotest chance of ever being able to overbear anyone, regarded her with amused indulgence. “No, no, Mary: I told you that you might be easy in your mind, don’t you recollect? For one thing, if Madame Louise did not know what she was about in matters of fashion—and in her ability to deal with young girls’ wayward fancies—she would be in no position to charge such prices as she does. For another, Peresphone herself may be trusted in that respect. Her taste in dress, at least, is impeccable!”
Even the kind-hearted Miss Mary could not miss the implications of what was left unsaid. “Oh, you are too hard on the child, sister!” she protested mildly. “She can be so taking in her manner when she chooses, though I will confess that this afternoon—well, that is all over and done with, and I am sure that by now she is perfectly reconciled to going to London, the dear girl! I am persuaded she will conduct herself just as she ought, and—and go on very well in Society, and most likely make a truly brilliant marriage!”
“With that fortune, it would be strange indeed if she did not,” agreed Miss Madden.
“Impulsive she may be,” Miss Mary persisted, “but with those excellent precepts which you have been at such pains to instil into her—”
“Few of which, I fear, have taken root,” sighed Miss Madden. “Ah, well, I did my best, Mary. I did my best.” She set down her teacup, visibly brightening as she let her mind dwell on the very handsom
e sum of money, well in excess of the fees outstanding, represented by the banker’s draft which had been conveyed to her by Sir Edmund himself. He had transacted the business in the most tactfully considerate manner, thought Miss Madden, speaking words of appreciation which suggested that he considered herself and Mary in the light of friends who had done him a favour, rather than persons involved in any sordidly commercial bargain. “And Sir Edmund was good enough to say,” she reminded her sister with satisfaction, “that he was sure she must regard us as family, from the circumstance of her being so often obliged to spend her holidays here.”
“Oh yes!” said Miss Mary, eyes misting over. “And that though it was certainly time for her to leave us and mingle with Society—which is very true, as I am sure you have said yourself a hundred times, sister—he felt it was her great fondness for us that accounted for—for her behaviour today!”
“Her extraordinary behaviour!” snapped Miss Madden.
Both sisters fell momentarily silent, recollecting the unedifying scene, similar to many they had endured over the last few days, since the arrival of Sir Edmund’s letter. Once again, and in front of her guardian this time, Persephone had inexplicably stormed and raged and wept, sobbing that she wouldn’t go to London, they couldn’t make her, it wasn’t kind or right or fair!
But somehow or other, Sir Edmund had contrived to stop her in full flow, pointing out in a few quiet words the distress she was causing to both ladies. Eventually, she had taken a tear-stained but calm and even affectionate farewell of them, reserving her smouldering glances of fury for her guardian himself.
“Well, it is very true that she should be out by now,” pronounced Miss Madden. “Indeed, she ought to have been out for a full year. I may say, however, that Persephone has only herself to blame for that! Had it not been for that unfortunate business at Lord Yoxford’s two years ago, when she was but sixteen, I dare say Lady Yoxford would have brought her out last spring.”
“Yes, yes,” Miss Mary hastened to agree. “You are very right!”
“You may well say so! As it was, one can hardly blame Lady Yoxford for declaring herself too frail in health to undertake the responsibility.”
“It was not dear Persephone’s fault, precisely!” Miss Mary ventured timidly to suggest. “The child could not help it if her young cousins’ tutor developed a—a tendre for her.”
“Tendre? He fell head over ears in love with her,” said Miss Madden roundly, “and you need not try to tell me that she could not have nipped that in the bud! No girl of principle should or would allow a young man to proceed to the very point of an elopement! It was only by the greatest good fortune that Lord Yoxford discovered what was afoot in time to prevent their actually setting out for the Border!” Miss Madden shuddered at the memory. “And all Persephone could say, when I endeavoured to bring her to a sense of the gravity of her conduct, was that she thought it would have been good fun! Good fun!” she repeated, in tones of retrospective incredulity.
“She was only sixteen, and I dare say, being so innocent, had little real idea of what the married state entails,” suggested Miss Mary, whose own ideas on the subject were somewhat hazy.
“No idea whatsoever, I hope and trust! The fact remains that the Yoxford boys’ tutor was neither the first nor the last person to become most improperly infatuated with Persephone!”
“Very true,” said Miss Mary sadly, then, with an unexpected flash of shrewdness, “however, I don’t know that she has been infatuated with any of them, has she, sister? I mean, to suppose something would be good fun is not precisely an infatuation—or so I believe! And while it was wrong of them to let her know of their sentiments, perhaps they could not help it. Of course,” she continued, striving to look on the bright side, “she can pick and choose, what with that and her fortune!”
“What with what and her fortune?” inquired Miss Madden austerely.
“Oh, the—the decided partiality that the gentlemen feel for her!” said the flustered Miss Mary, lamely.
Her sister Selina permitted herself a ladylike snort. “Humph! You could not,” she commented, allowing her mind to range with fastidious distaste over Persephone’s various conquests, “have described the gardener’s boy as a gentleman, and he, as I recollect, was the first. Well, he soon got his marching orders!” she remembered with satisfaction. “Next it was the young man in the lending library, was it not? And just as we thought the child had at last acquired a taste for improving literature! Then there was Henrietta Bury’s papa’s footman...”
“I do recall that he was a handsome young man,” Miss Mary unwisely put in.
“Handsome!” Miss Madden’s snort was less ladylike this time. “If he had no business even to look at her, she had still less to encourage him! And as for the fact that when Persephone spent Easter with Augusta Dereham’s family, Augusta’s brother chanced to be just down from Oxford—well, nothing could have been more unfortunate, though to be sure the Derehams very well knew how improper it was in him to be making up to the child before she was even out, and they soon put a stop to that! I forget now whether Mr. Jones the music master was before or after young Dereham...”
She fell to musing, and Miss Mary seized her chance to put in a good word for her former pupil.
“You must own, Selina, that Persephone’s performance on the pianoforte did improve quite remarkably when Mr. Jones was taking such a great interest in her talent. What’s more,” she added, with the air of one faintly surprised to find herself in possession of an indubitable point, “even though you could not, of course, employ him to instruct our girls in music any longer—and Mr. Ford, good man, must be forty-five years of age if he is a day, besides having all those children, so we are safe enough with him—where was I? Oh, yes—well, at any event, Persephone’s music has continued to improve to a remarkable degree, and Mr. Ford is full of praise of her gifts. You cannot deny that she is talented, Selina, indeed you cannot!”
“I don’t,” responded her sister, but in a gloomy tone, as though the circumstance afforded her little satisfaction.
Miss Mary seemed to read her sister’s unspoken thoughts and to sympathize, for she too fell silent for a while, before rallying to Miss Grafton’s defence again. “And there has not been anybody at all since poor young—I mean that misguided young Mr. Jones,” she finished triumphantly. “Has there?”
“Apparently not,” said Miss Madden thoughtfully, “and that, you know, has me in a puzzle!”
“It can only mean that Persephone is learning conduct, sister!”
“For why, when surely she has been afforded no opportunity for any indiscretion,” continued Miss Madden, pursuing her own train of thought, “why should she have been so reluctant to leave Bath? One would have fancied her only too happy at the prospect of going to London for the Season. Any young lady would be, let alone one with her prospects!”
“I dare say she is afraid of the Yoxfords. I am sure Lady Yoxford must have given her a dreadful scold two years ago, after that unfortunate business.”
“Persephone is afraid of very little,” said Miss Madden, with a certain grudging respect, “and certainly not of Lady Yoxford! Whom, between you and me, Mary, I consider very poor-spirited not to have taken charge of her before this.”
“Oh, but as you said yourself, Selina, her health precluded it!”
“Fiddlestick!” declared Selina, performing an abrupt volte-face on the subject of Lady Yoxford’s health. Her private opinion of that good-natured but indolent lady was not high. “I fancy that even now, Lady Yoxford has undertaken to bring Persephone out only because Sir Edmund recalled her to a sense of her plain duty! However, he tells me that he intends to engage some suitable lady to act as chaperon and take part of the burden from his sister’s shoulders. It is certainly true that Lady Yoxford is not in the way of taking a girl about during the Season, since all her family but the youngest child are boys. Well, if he can find a lady equal to the task—”
“Oh, and a mu
sic master,” put in Miss Mary, “for she would not be at all happy without her music, dear child! I do trust Sir Edmund will also engage a music master.”
“Preferably of advanced years and unprepossessing appearance,” said her sister drily. “Yes, well, I dare say nothing very dreadful may happen after all. On the other hand,” she added, after a moment’s sober reflection, “on the other hand, there is The Voice!”
Evidently even the partisan Miss Mary could not counter this mysterious but significant utterance, for she was able only to nod, saying faintly, “Dear me, yes, there is The Voice!”
And both ladies remained silent for a moment, shaking their heads. Then Miss Madden said, bracingly, “Well, my dear Mary, no one can say we have not done our duty! All that about Persephone’s regarding us as family, you know, was mere flummery—though very prettily said upon Sir Edmund’s part, I grant you! But I will confess to you, Mary, that I entertain a fondness for the child.”
“I knew it!” cried Miss Mary, radiant.
“And I well know that she is a favourite with you,” said Miss Madden indulgently. “Yes, all things considered, I am confident that with the precepts of the Seminary behind her, and in the good hands of Sir Edmund and the Yoxfords, Persephone will soon become less wild!”
2
Lady Yoxford could not have been said to share Miss Madden’s confidence. When her brother, calling on her the day after his arrival in London from Berlin, first broached the subject of Persephone, she was a good deal put out. “It won’t answer, Edmund!” she said, as firmly as her spirit allowed—which was not so very firmly, for hers was a pliant, easy-going nature. “Indeed it will not answer!”
“But my dear Bella, there’s nothing else for it! I’ll make sure the child is as little of a charge on you as possible. Good God, my dear,” added Sir Edmund, a little impatiently, “surely I explained everything in my letter! Didn’t you read it?”