Gilding the Lady
Page 5
Lady Gabriel introduced Clarissa to the other ladies in the room. True to Gemma’s promise, it was only a small group. Even so, Clarissa had to fight to maintain her smile and to murmur greetings, hoping that her voice did not quaver.
Only after she was safely seated in a brocade upholstered chair and handed a cup of hot tea could she collect her wits and try to remember who was who. She brought the cup to her lips, sipped the hot brew cautiously, and glanced around the circle.
“Have you had any news on the quest for your father?” Lady Sealey glanced at Gemma, who hesitated as she accepted a cup of tea.
This was an enormous secret, Clarissa knew. Psyche’s husband, Lord Gabriel, and his sister Lady Gemma, nominally children of a marquess, did not really deserve their titles but could not repudiate them publically without disgracing their dead mother. So they must trust Lady Sealey very much if this lady knew of the siblings’ search for the man who had truly been their sire.
Gemma shook her head. “Gabriel is following up every scrap of information he can find,” she told the older lady. “But the trail has been cold for years, and I fear that whoever our real parent may be, he may have died, too.”
Lady Sealey made a soothing reply. While Gemma chatted, Clarissa could try to sort out the strangers. The exquisitely gowned older woman with the handsome silver hair and straight bearing was a countess, Clarissa recalled. The lady’s faded blue eyes were wise and warm, but her bearing had the unconscious authority of one who is accustomed to deference, and Clarissa thought that she would shiver to cross her. But the countess chatted easily with Lady Gabriel and Gemma and the others and often made them laugh with her pointed remarks.
The next woman was younger, her figure more rounded, and she had ash-brown hair and merry brown eyes. Another friend of Lady Gabriel’s, though at the moment, Clarissa could not remember her name. She had a vivacious manner and laughed often.
Last, sitting closest to Clarissa was Lady Gabriel’s sister. This girl was even younger than Clarissa and obviously still in the school room. She had another odd name—Circe, that was it. Clarissa remembered Gemma mentioning earlier that Psyche and Circe’s father had been fond of classical tales. Circe was not as picturebook pretty as her sister, though her heart-shaped face had a certain charm. She had straight brown hair pulled back from her face and vivid green eyes, which made Clarissa think of a cat. Just now, she turned her penetrating gaze upon Clarissa, and Clarissa jumped.
“I hope you are feeling at home in your brother’s new house?” Circe asked. “I know you have been away from your family for some time.”
Goodness, she did get to the heart of the matter! Clarissa nodded, then said, her tone cautious, “My brother and sister-in-law have been very generous. I’m very lucky that Matthew found me.”
“But it must take some effort to readjust to your own class,” Circe said calmly. “Psyche has told me of your ordeals when you were forced to work as a servant. You have all my sympathy. By the way, if you hold that teacup any tighter, it may shatter.”
Clarissa hastily lowered the china cup to its saucer and drew a deep breath. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Yes, it is still difficult for me. I feel so unprepared and—and awkward when I try to go into Society.”
Circe’s expression was sympathetic. “I can understand that. Your posture is very stiff; I can see that you are ill at ease.”
Clarissa blinked in surprise, and the younger girl added, “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m an artist, and I always notice the way a person holds herself. But not everyone would remark upon it, so do not worry.”
“I hope they don’t!” Clarissa said. What an odd girl Circe was, but Clarissa found that she liked her. “I don’t suppose you are making your debut anytime soon?”
“Oh, no.” Her tone firm, Circe shook her head. “I’m not yet old enough to come out, and, anyhow, I have no interest in Society. I wish to travel to the Continent to study under more accomplished teachers than I have located at home. England has many skilled artists, of course, but not everyone will tutor a mere female.”
A pity Circe would not be present at the parties that Clarissa would be forced to attend. But she could not imagine anyone calling Circe “mere.” Clarissa smiled. “I wish I were an artist, too, and had such a good excuse.”
They both giggled, and Clarissa felt almost at ease for the first time since she had entered the elegantly appointed drawing room. So when she was addressed by the older woman, she could turn and face the speaker with only a trace of trepidation.
“I understand you will attend Lady Halston’s ball,” Lady Sealey said.
Clarissa glanced to Gemma for confirmation. “Yes, I believe she has sent Gemma and my brother a card for the ball.”
“And the lady included Clarissa in her invitation,” Gemma added. “Though how she knew that Matthew had a sister of an age to come out, I don’t know.”
“Interesting,” the countess said, accepting another small cake from the silver tray the footman bent to offer. “But there are too many Society ladies with little to do but gossip, so every tidbit will make the rounds. Lady Halston is a notable hostess, perhaps she wishes to be the first to showcase such a lovely new addition to the Ton.”
Clarissa felt her cheeks turning hot. “You’re too kind,” she murmured, although the idea that the Ton might be curious about her made her stomach tighten once again. “I hope they will not be disappointed.”
“Of course not,” Gemma said.
Lady Sealey looked thoughtful. “Lady Halston is a cousin of the earl of Whitby, you know. And although he is a difficult guest to snare, he will very likely show up at her ball—family obligation, and all that.”
Psyche and Gemma exchanged knowing glances, but the name meant nothing to Clarissa. “Is he, um, important?”
Although Clarissa had not meant the question as a witticism, Lady Sealey laughed. “Lord Whitby would think so, though he would never admit it. He disdains the social rounds, an attitude that, of course, makes him infinitely desirable to all of the Ton, and his opinion is much sought after by males and females alike.”
Clarissa considered this paragon with feelings of dismay. “I shall do my best to escape his notice, then!”
“Any matron would be delighted to have him accept an invitation. Not only is he a social arbiter of the first rank, he is unmarried, and so a prime target for matchmaking mamas,” the brunette with the merry brown eyes put in. “I would not run too quickly away from him, Clarissa!”
Everyone else chuckled, but Clarissa frowned. “I have no wish to entice such a hard-to-please gentleman—I mean—lord. And why on earth he should notice me—well, I can’t imagine it would happen.” Not unless she really muffed her first appearance in Society, Clarissa thought, her heart sinking even further. It must have reached her toes by now.
“But you must not be rude to him,” Gemma pointed out, her tone worried. “I mean, he is influential, that part is true.”
“Of course not, I will endeavor to say and do all that is proper,” Clarissa agreed, muttering beneath her breath, “just as long as he doesn’t ask me to dance!”
Gemma hesitated, then pretended not to hear the end of her remark. On the other side of the group, Lady Sealey spoke. She seemed to sense Clarissa’s genuine anxiety. “He’s not a vicious sort, just a bit, shall we say, detached. I remember him from before the war, a sweet lad, if always a bit aloof in manner. But however much the battles may have marked him, I do not believe he has a cruel heart.”
“I agree with your witty—if practical—advice, Sally,” Psyche added. “But, truly, Clarissa has no need to rush into a husband hunt.” The glance she threw Clarissa was soothing, or meant to be, Clarissa knew.
She took another sip of her cooling tea, this time remembering not to clench the teacup so tightly. Beside her, Circe said nothing, but her smile was friendly. Of course, Psyche’s sister had no need to enter the social fray, not yet, so she had every reason to feel at ease.
No one here meant her any harm, she knew that, but still, Clarissa felt ill at ease and so very, very unprepared. If she could not even drink tea properly, how would she ever negotiate the complicated seas of a ballroom? She would be as adrift as one of her brother’s ships after suffering a damaged rudder, she thought, remembering a story from his days afloat. The guests at Lady Halston’s ball, or at any event she attended, would be expecting a gracious and graceful young lady, well drilled in the skills of etiquette and deportment.
A lady, it always came back to that. And now Clarissa had two weeks to overcome the bad habits induced by years of living among the servant classes, almost forgetting who she was and where she belonged. Oh, bloody hell.
Clarissa sat quietly during the carriage ride home. Gemma leaned across and pressed her hand. “Did you enjoy the tea, my dear?”
Clarissa tried to smile and avoid an outright lie, while still sparing Gemma’s feelings. “Lady Gabriel is very gracious, and they all seem to be very nice ladies.”
Perhaps her tone sounded forlorn, or Gemma simply knew her too well. “It will be all right, Clarissa, honestly.”
Clarissa wished she could be so sure!
The next two weeks seemed to go by as quickly—no, much more quickly—than one of Monsieur Meidenne’s interminable dance lessons. She had to admit that the man held his temper admirably. No matter how many times she stepped on his foot, her handsome tutor only sighed and suggested that she move with “z’ee other foot, mademoiselle.”
Nonetheless, after a week of this torture, Gemma drew her aside one day and presented Clarissa with a neatly bound little book, small enough to fit into a lady’s pocket.
“It’s lovely,” Clarissa said dutifully, looking at the smooth leather cover.
“It’s a book of dance patterns, Clarissa,” Gemma explained. “I found it at the bookseller’s shop. You can slip it into your pocket and take it with you to a ball or party, and consult it quietly between dances, just to make you feel more secure.”
“Oh, what a wonderful idea!” Clarissa said, understanding flowing through her. This was similar to the book of dance forms that Monsieur Meidenne always carried with him, only much smaller. She flipped through the pages and felt a renewed surge of hope. Perhaps she would, indeed, be able to survive the upcoming ball. “Thank you, Gemma!”
She gave her sister-in-law an impulsive hug.
Gemma smiled. “I know you’re uneasy, and I do understand. But you will do splendidly, and besides, you know that we will love you no matter what transpires.”
Pressing the small book to her chest as if it were a talisman, Clarissa nodded. Unhappily, most of the people at the ball would not be related to her, and, she suspected, would not be so tolerant of potential mistakes.
But somehow, having the book safely tucked away inside her skirt seemed to allow the next dance lessons to go a little more smoothly, as if having the instruction book in her pocket also gave her more confidence. Emboldened, Clarissa threw herself into a frenzy of study, reading her etiquette books, enduring daily dance lessons, practicing polite conversation with Miss Pomshack, being fitted for new dresses, and all too soon, the day of the ball was upon them.
That morning, Clarissa woke early with her heart pounding. Had she had another nightmare? It was a moment before she could sort through the confused images that seemed to slip away as quickly as errant butterflies fluttering over a garden wall. The last impression was one of her treading the floor of a ballroom. She had been minding her steps with frantic concentration until she’d looked down and realized with a jolt of panic that she was wearing only her petticoat. Her alarmed consternation had startled her into wakefulness.
That was silly—she would never go out undressed, she tried to tell herself as she rubbed drowsy eyes. At least it had not been the usual and more horrific nightmare. . . . But then the real reason for her anxiety dawned. Oh, hell, it was tonight! The ball was upon them, and Clarissa had no more time to prepare.
Sitting up, she bit back the spate of unladylike words that still, in times of turmoil, rose unbidden to her lips. A glance at the sunlight slanting past the drawn curtains made it clear that the morning was advanced. Gemma must have ordered Ruby to allow Clarissa to sleep as long as she liked. But now that she knew that this was the fateful day, further slumber was impossible. Clarissa reached for the bellpull, then climbed out of bed to tug on her robe and step into her slippers. When Ruby appearing, bringing a cup of tea and an ewer of warm water, the maid beamed.
“Your ball gown is ’ere, miss, and it’s ever so lovely. You’re going to look a treat tonight.”
“Thank you, Ruby,” Clarissa said, trying not to shiver. She would be brave, she had to be. Surely, she could muddle through one party, for Matthew and Gemma’s sake if not her own. Reaching to touch the cover of the small book of dance forms where it lay on her bedside table, she drew a deep breath. She could do this. She took a sip of her tea, and it was no surprise that it tasted more bitter than usual.
Because she was in no hurry for the evening, the day flew by. Morning brought one last dance lesson where she seemed to move every way but the right way.
The third time she trod on his foot, even the long-suffering Monsieur Meidenne looked annoyed, and Clarissa herself was close to tears.
At last Gemma called the lesson to an early close. “I believe that will be all today, monsieur.”
He tried, not quite successfully, to hide his relief. “Merci, my dear Lady Gemma. I wish mademoiselle all the bon chance for tonight. I’m sure she will do, eh, tres bien.”
Clarissa bade the man a polite good-bye, then when he was safely out of the room and the door had closed behind him, she put her hands to her face. “Oh, Gemma, I’ve forgotten all I ever learned! Whatever shall I do? I can’t go to the ball. Please let me stay home—you can say that I’m ill!”
Gemma smiled at her. “No, indeed, my dear. You have learned a great deal, and it will all come back to you. Just now, you are only having a fit of nerves, quite natural.”
“But I will be just as anxious tonight—more so,” Clarissa argued.
“I’m told that actors consider a bad dress rehearsal as a good omen for opening night,” Gemma assured her. “You get all the mistakes over with before you go on stage, if you see what I mean.”
Clarissa did see, she just didn’t believe it!
But Gemma called for tea, and Clarissa bit back the rest of her protests. When the tea tray arrived, they sat down around the small table.
“My father the vicar would advise a little calm and solemn reflection,” Miss Pomshack suggested as she reached for another scone, “to compose your mind.”
After lunch, Gemma urged her to lie down, but rest was impossible. Clarissa read a little of her newest novel and too soon it seemed, it was time to dress for dinner.
The ball gown was lovely. Simply cut of palest jonquil silk, it flattered her pale skin and seemed to elicit the green and gold glints in her hazel eyes. Her golden hair with its faint sheen of red had been well brushed and coiled atop her head, with an occasional curl slipping out along side her face to soften the effect. She wore her new pearl ear drops and a small topaz cross on a gold chain, both gifts from her brother.
Staring into the looking glass, the nervous tremors in her stomach eased just a little. She looked like a lady, Clarissa thought. When she came down to the dining room, her brother and sister-in-law were loud in their praise.
“Oh, Clarissa, you look quite beautiful,” Gemma declared, herself the picture of elegance in a deep blue gown.
Matthew said nothing for a moment, but the pride and love in his gray eyes spoke more
than words. He came forward and took her hand, pressing it and then leaning to kiss her cheek. “You are a picture of loveliness,” he told her softly. “And you remind me so much of our mother—she would be so proud, as am I.”
Their mother, whom they had lost too soon, when Clarissa had been only a child. Blinking back tears, she managed to smile up at him.
“Quite correct,” Miss Pomshack added, more prosaically. “The dress is elegant and becoming, but not too elaborate for a new entrant into Society. Lady Gemma’s taste is always very nice.”
Society—the word made some of Clarissa’s pleasure fade. If she could only dine quietly here at home with her family, she would be content. It was the thought of the strangers who were waiting to stare at her, watch her, that made her mouth seem dry and her stomach full of knots. And the dancing, oh, help—
She pushed her fears aside and tried to eat a little, and to her relief Matthew turned the conversation away from the ball. He told them about his lunch with an old acquaintance, a fellow mariner and ship’s captain.
“Since the war has ended, he’s gone back into trade,” her brother said, taking a bite of his beef. Chewing, he continued after a moment. “This trip he’s sailing to the Orient, off to Singapore and Shanghai, lucky devil!”
His gray eyes seemed to look past them, beyond the table with its spotless linen and well-filled silver and china dishes to a vista of endless seas and choppy waves. Clarissa watched him and forgot to think about her own woes. Did her brother regret giving up his ship to stay on land with his family?
“A long trip and dangerous,” Gemma suggested.
“Yes,” her husband agreed. “But with summer coming, the weather should be constant enough, once they’re around the Cape, and James is a good sailor.” His gaze still distant, he lowered his knife and fork for a moment, as if remembering. “The taste of salt spray on one’s lips, the slap of waves against the sides of a stout ship, the flapping of sails in the wind, now these are the things that make a sailor happy.”
Glancing up, he caught Clarissa’s eye, and a look of something close to guilt replaced his brief abstraction. Clarissa felt even more to blame. Did her brother miss his former profession? As captain, he could have taken a wife to sea with him, but to drag his sister along—no, Matthew had sworn to provide a safe home for Clarissa and not to leave her again. She was the reason he was stuck here, when his heart still longed for adventures afloat, commanding a tall ship.