Miss Delacourt Has Her Day

by Heidi Ashworth

  “Heaven knows it took long enough, but I love you just the way you are, Ginerva Delacourt. And, more to the point, so does he”

  Tears sprang to Ginny’s eyes. “Thank you, Grandaunt, but we both know it is not enough”

  Madame Badeau had been long departed and Ginny was dressing for the evening’s engagements-a soiree and two routs-when there came a rap at the door.

  “Nan, do please see to that,” Ginny asked the young girl who had been securing Ginny’s curls so that they bounced around her head a la Caro Lamb.

  Nan spat out a mouthful of pins into her hand and ran to the door. Ginny sighed and repressed a desire to scold the girl, who was not a servant at all and truly couldn’t be expected to have refined manners. She had come to live with Ginny and her father many years ago and would have had no place to go if Ginny hadn’t brought her along to Grandaunt’s as her “lady-inwaiting” upon her father’s death little more than three years ago.

  In the past, Ginny wouldn’t have cared two pins about Nan’s manners nor her skills as an abigail, but she found that her need to be unexceptionable in every way in the eyes of her future mama-in-law was making her highly critical. However, when Nan placed a piece of thick, folded paper into her hands, she forgot about everything but what it might contain.

  With trembling fingers, Ginny slid her finger beneath the heavy wax seal imprinted with an ornate letter C and opened the creamy parchment folds to reveal a pair of verses. Her heart skipped a beat; the works of Shakespeare were highly prized since she and Anthony had been quarantined at Lucinda Barrington’s abode, but it took only a moment to realize these lines were of more recent advent. While Nan continued with her hair, Ginny read the beautiful verses, then read them again. And again.

  -‘Jusqu’a ce soir, A.

  Surely Anthony had penned the beautiful verses himself. Her heart, suffused with joy, felt lighter than it had since the night he had asked her to be his wife.

  “Oh, them’s just lovely words, aren’t they?” Nan said in a breathless voice as she read over Ginny’s shoulder. Nan had admired Sir Anthony from the moment she had met him years before, and the fact that Ginny was to marry him was her dearest wish. For that reason Ginny hadn’t revealed to Nan any of the doubts she was feeling with regard to her ultimate suitability as the future Duchess of Marcross.

  “‘Jusku see sour.’ What does that mean, Miss?”

  “It means `until tonight,’” Ginny answered, “and that he will be in attendance at one or more of the parties I shall be attending, as well. I do hope it is the soiree. There is no dancing at a rout, and I so want to tell him how very much I cherish his poem.”

  “Why ever can’t you tell him at the rout? What is the difference between it and a sour-ay, anyway? They both sound frenchy to me,” Nan said, wrinkling her nose.

  “Routs are rather taxing,” Ginny replied, carefully folding up the poem and placing it in the drawer of her dressing table. “If, during the long wait in the queue of carriages, one doesn’t give up the idea of ever gaining entrance to the house, one is obliged to push one’s way up the staircase, wishing all the while she had never come, only to be hastened through the house by the press of people at one’s back, down the hall, and on down the stairs for the interminable wait for one’s carriage to reappear. And all this for the chance to bid good evening to your host and hostess and have a cordial of ratafia, if one should be so lucky. Lord Crenshaw could be a mere foot or two away, and I would never get near him.”

  “If you ask me, miss, those routs sound about as painful as gittin’ burned with the curling tongs! You couldn’t git me near one of those for a thousand pound! Why doesn’t Sir Anthony take you up in his own carriage?”

  “It is to be `Lord Crenshaw’ for the time being, Nan,” Ginny chastised. “At least until the duke dies, and then it will be `Your Grace.’ ” The very words made Ginny feel a bit sick to her stomach. “As for why he is to meet us rather than attend us, well, it is a rather difficult situation. It will be his first public appearance since the death of his cousin. It wasn’t seemly to announce our betrothal on the heels of such a tragedy, and I daresay Lord Crenshaw hasn’t had time to send notice to the papers”

  Yet he had made time to write her that lovely bit of poetry. As much as she cherished his words of love, she felt a shadow of doubt. How long would it take to dash off a short note, sand it, fold it, and apply his seal? Surely not nearly as long as it must have taken to write the poem. Ginny pushed the unworthy thought from her mind and tried to recapture the thread of conversation.

  “You should jist tell that of windbag never no mind about the routs,” Nan urged. “And you only want to go to the sour-ay!”

  “If by `old windbag’ you mean Grandaunt Regina,” Ginny reprimanded, “would that it were so simple.” Ginny sighed. There would be many routs to attend once she became a duchess and many more at which she would stand as hostess, pinned in the gimlet glare of her exacting mother-in-law. It was imperative she learn all she could as to how these things were done.

  As Nan tied the tapes at the back of her gown, Ginny scrutinized its suitability in the pier glass. It was white, as were all the evening gowns worn by the young ladies in their debutante season. Before her fateful return to the country, Ginny had finally been presented to the Queen, as well, yet she was no young miss just out of the schoolroom, and she loathed that she wouldn’t be allowed to wear colors for evening until after her wedding day.

  As a means to stave off ennui, this ensemble was as different from her wedding gown as possible. Instead of fine-as-silk muslin, it was satin. Instead of a moderate neckline, it was quite low. Instead of rows of pin-tucks and embroidered flowers, the waist was excessively high, leaving very little bodice at all to hold up the puffed sleeves trimmed with silverspangled lace. Her gowns for later in the season would make more allowances for the heat, but being as it was still May, the white velvet ribbon that separated the bodice from the skirt and the yards and yards of ruched velvet at the hem did not look terribly out of place. It was all a bit too fussy for Ginny, but she owned that Grandaunt had impeccable taste and knew what would be most appropriate for a young lady betrothed to a future duke.

  However, when it was finally time to depart, it was a bit of an art to get the new gown all gathered up into the carriage, being as it was fuller around the hem than most and the satin quite stiff.

  “Don’t fret about it, my dear,” Grandaunt insisted. “In my day it was necessary to kneel in the carriage so one’s headdress wasn’t knocked from your head, balanced as they were on those monstrously high wigs. And the skirts! They were a hundred times more voluminous than yours and contained enormous hoops. It’s a wonder they remained intact long enough to arrive anywhere. More often than not, we wore each gown but the once, so it did not signify.”

  Ginny, whose father had felt it scandalous to have a new gown made up but once a season, feared she would never grow accustomed to a life of privilege. The gown in which she was clad would doubtless feed a crofter’s entire family for a month or more. Once she was Duchess of Marcross, she would find a way to help those less fortunate. She would start by wearing each and every gown at least twice. She hoped Anthony would not think it made her look a dowd.

  “Now then, Ginerva, we must first stop at the Worthingtons’ rout. Thomasina will never forgive me if I miss her do. Then it will be the Radcliffs’ rout, and the soiree last, so you might dance as long as you wish.”

  “Oh, I am glad! I so hoped to save the Hadleys and the dancing for last!”

  “Yes, well, I feel I was a bit hasty in sending Anthony off in the middle of a contretemps, but I see that you are in better spirits now.” Grandaunt patted Ginny on the knee. “Hopefully you will have a chance to clear things up a bit, though, if I am not wrong, I believe you received a missive from him. Would I be too much of a nosy one to ask what he wrote?”

  Grandaunt was never wrong, even when she was. What’s more, Ginny had never known her to care one jot
for whether or not she was intruding on one’s privacy. Clearly she was giving Ginny a wide berth, and Ginny feared it meant that her grandaunt was feeling more than a little anxiety. Ginny drew a deep breath and chose her words carefully.

  “Yes, he wrote to say he would be attending one of the do’s we go to tonight, but I can’t be sure which one”

  “Never you fear! I took it upon myself to dispatch my own note. He will be at the soiree, and you shall have your dance”

  “Grandaunt, you are so kind!” Ginny wondered what accounted for it. Grandaunt was not above high-handed meddling-in fact, she rather wallowed in it-but it was not like her to be so thoughtful in her methods. Yet, Ginny owned, Grandaunt above all else wished for her grandson’s happiness and would stop at nothing to achieve it, apparently even if it meant stooping to kindness. Ginny prayed she was still deemed essential to Anthony’s happiness in Grandaunt’s mind. After reading Anthony’s poem, she knew she was in his.

  The Radcliff rout was a sight better than the Worthingtons’ hot and hasty affair, but only because Anthony thought he caught a glimpse of the back of Ginny’s head as she scurried through the crush of people intent on bowing and scraping to the Marquis of Radcliff and his marchioness. How could he have ever enjoyed such affairs designed for nothing better than to see and be seen? And why hadn’t Grandmama had the grace to share with him which party she would be attending tonight rather than listing them all? Surely she didn’t mean to drag poor Ginny to all three. But if not, which ones? There was nothing for it but to hasten through the routs and hope he would be in the Hadleys’ home long enough to at least encounter Ginny. He would much rather dance with her, truth be told, but he would take anything, must have something, even if just an eyeful, to get him through the night. To his chagrin, a perhapsyes, perhaps-no viewing of the back of her head did nothing to quench his thirst for the sight of her.

  Pushing through the throng, sidestepping a fallen glass of port here and a wad of wayward snuff there, he raced through the house and to the stairs in record time. Never mind that he had practically snubbed the marquis and his lady wife once he found himself close enough to greet them. They would no doubt take it to be on account of his suddenly heightened status. Hadn’t the vile Thomas Barron looked down his lofty nose at the world when he unexpectedly became Marquis of Radcliff, and for less reason? In the case of the future Duke of Marcross, only love would be allowed to break down the door of what he deemed polite, and he feared love was on its way to a rout he had already attended.

  Racing out into the street, he barked his name to the porter and scanned the crowds waiting for their carriages as well as those being disgorged from theirs. It was utter confusion and madness, but one person seemed to notice none of it as she moved toward him with single-minded purpose. Lady Derby.

  Was it merely his imagination, or were the crowds, like the Red Sea, parting in anticipation of her passage directly to where he stood? And were the guests all watching him, their faces the very picture of so many gasping fish that find they have suddenly landed on dry ground? Anthony knew he would be waiting an eternity for his carriage to be brought ‘round and would have no other option than to speak to her. The thought of diving into the swarms of people and pelting down the street like a bedlamite occurred to him, but Rebecca was upon him before he had a chance to so much as turn his head.

  “Why, Tony!” Lady Derby purred, slipping her arm through his and tucking it against her side. “I had thought you would be with that child bride of yours”

  “She is not my bride. That is to say, she is not a child.” Drat his mother, for surely it was she who had so fully informed Lady Derby of what his uncle insisted be a secret. He hadn’t the chance to talk with Ginny about delaying the announcement in the papers for a few more days until he could think of a way to make everyone happy about his decision to wed, but it was a small problem compared to Lady Derby’s skill in twisting everything, including his tongue, into knots.

  “What she is, is not here,” Lady Derby said with a wideeyed look that took in the persons standing near and far. “Did her governess not think it prudent to let her out tonight?” she asked, biting her lip in feigned woe.

  “Lady Derby, need I remind you that when you received your first offer of marriage, you were still in short skirts?”

  “Oh, Tony, you remembered!” she said, rapping him on the arm with her fan. “It seems you had a penchant for young maidens even then”

  Fiend seize her, she had made his reprimand sound like flirtation! “And how could you forget,” he said as loudly as he dared for the benefit of the madding crowd, “that your first offer of marriage was from Thomas, Lord Radcliff?” He added for her ears only, “Hadn’t you better hurry inside? The marchioness is looking a bit bilious. You never know when her husband’s offer of marriage to you might be renewed.” And with a bow that required she let go of his arm, he stepped between two waiting carriages and melted into the night.

  Running up the street, he happily came across his own carriage and jumped inside. With any luck, he would be to the soiree before Ginny had left or, better yet, before she arrived. He would need a moment to find a mirror and repair his appearance. Quickly, he straightened his cuffs and smoothed his dark locks with the little silver comb he carried in his pocket. His cravat, however, would have to wait until he could see what he was doing. He did not, to his sorrow, have his valet’s gift for tying one, but allowing Conti to trot along behind him as he went from one entertainment to the next would only make Anthony an object of fun.

  Anthony could see that the Hadleys’ soiree was in full swing when he arrived. After checking his cravat in the hall mirror, he scanned the room for Ginny. Mrs. Hadley, Grandmama’s bosom friend since childhood, had not attracted the title and monies her ancestry warranted. As a result, the house was small and lacked a ballroom. Furniture in the main sitting room had been pushed aside and the carpets rolled up to allow for the dancing, lending the proceedings an exceptionally cozy feel. The atmosphere was such that a few quiet minutes alone with Ginny in a corner somewhere would not seem overly amiss. He knew he should discuss the subject of his conversation with his uncle, but above all else he wished to hear her thoughts and feelings with regard to his poem. It looked, however, as if he would have to wait, as Ginny was neither among the dancers nor any of the observers.

  He wandered into the dining room, where platters of food and drink had been laid out for supper, but she was absent from there, as well. He knew he had a better chance of locating his grandmama despite her lack of height, so voluminous became her voice after a few cordials of canary, but he heard nothing that would lead him to believe she and Ginny had arrived.

  “Oh, Lord Crenshaw!” came a voice at his shoulder. “Might I trouble you for a moment?”

  Anthony turned around and came face to face with Mrs. Hadley. He had forgotten she was so tall that one was tempted to measure her years in inches-a sad fact that no doubt contributed to her status as a mere Mrs., her father, the viscount, and large dowry notwithstanding. One did hope for tall sons but doubtless wished for a more abbreviated wife to get them by.

  “Mrs. Hadley, how grateful I am to have received an invitation. It has been too long since I have been within the portals of your lovely home”

  Mrs. Hadley let forth a string of titters. Anthony had long suspected the gruesome noises to be laughter, but he could never be quite sure, as they punctuated every utterance from him or any other, no matter the subject or degree of levity. Doubtless this had been another blow against her chances of making a fine match.

  “Lord Crenshaw, how sad we were to learn of your cousin’s death! I see you wear your black armband,” she remarked.

  It was the only condolence followed by hysterical laughter he had ever received. The utter ridiculousness of the situation almost undid him, but he quickly sobered when Mrs. Hadley drew a nearby girl to her side with an arm about her waist. She was of a height with Mrs. Hadley and was surely some variety of rel
ative. Just which variation, he was sure to learn.

  “In light of your renewed status, you must be on a sharp lookout for a bride. Oh, and look whom I have here! This is my lovely granddaughter,” Mrs. Hadley said, upon which both she and her youthful doppelganger burst into a series of titters and strangled guffaws.

  Anthony wondered how his grandmama had put herself through the agony of developing such a long-lasting attachment with Mrs. Hadley. Worse, he began to suspect he was expected to make a similar one with her granddaughter. With the studied grace of years of practice he refrained from sighing aloud. “Might I have the pleasure of being introduced?”

  “But of course, my lord, of course! May I introduce Miss Burton, Hepzibah, better known as Kazzy? So daft how these names go, is it not? Hepzibah, Heppy, Hezzy, Kezzy, Kazzy! One never knows what someone might end up being called, do they?”

  “No, indeed,” Anthony replied, and this time he allowed himself a sigh, as it would surely go unheard and unnoticed in the gale of titters that followed. With an inward wince, he resigned himself to the fate of an eligible lord of nobility, one bound to be replete with doting mothers and grandmothers wishful to force the acquaintance of their kin upon his person. It was an unenviable state but one he hoped to endure until his attachment to Ginny would become public knowledge. Until then he knew he could not do his hostess the dishonor of refusing to dance with any number of eligible young ladies in attendance.

  “Miss Burton, might I have the honor for the next set?”

  He took the inevitable gasps and titters to be a “yes” and, taking her by the hand, led her back into the parlor.

  The moment he stepped foot into the room, his head turned, almost of its own accord, to a far corner. There stood Ginny in a white gown, looking just as he had pictured her on their wedding day. When her gaze met his, and that slow blush he so adored stole along her cheeks, he felt as if the wind had been knocked out if him. Gad, she was beautiful! He wanted nothing more than to go to her, but he had a duty to perform, and he was being tugged out into the dancing. It wasn’t until he turned to face his partner that he learned that the one now holding his hand was none other than Lady Derby.