by Mary Nichols
Georgie, during the rush of shopping and visiting that ensued in the next few days, almost managed to forget Rowan Park and Richard Baverstock and horses and everything else that had occupied her mind before coming to town. Mrs Bertram had already bespoken a wardrobe for Felicity, which set Georgie fretting about how she was going to pay for it all, for she could not let her aunt stand the whole expense, and now the good lady was determined to do the same for her. In vain did Georgie protest.
‘I am not having a niece of mine going about like a frump,’ Mrs Bertram said. ‘What will my friends think of me, if I did that? And how you can expect to find a husband if you do not make the least push I do not know...’
‘Aunt, you are backing the wrong horse in me,’ Georgie said on one particularly trying morning when her aunt insisted on taking her to the best modiste in town to purchase a ballgown. ‘I shall never have occasion to wear it again after Lady Hereward’s ball...’
‘I should hope not!’ exclaimed her aunt. ‘One should never wear the same gown twice. And I wish you would not use those stable expressions.’
‘Stable expressions, Aunt?’ Georgie queried with a smile, wondering if her aunt had ever heard a true stable expression, in spite of being a cavalry officer’s wife.
‘You know what I mean. Now, look at this silk; is that not a green to set off your colouring?’
‘Yes, Aunt, but -’
‘Oh, it is perfect,’ Felicity said. ‘I find green does not suit me, but for you...’ She held the material up against her sister and looked at her with her head on one side. ‘Oh, do have it, Georgie.’
The pattern she chose was an open one, very simply trimmed at the hem and neck with matching ruched ribbon and oversleeves of lace, and was not too high-waisted, which, though fashionable, would have made her look taller than ever. ‘That’s settled,’ her aunt said, allowing Georgie no time to demur. ‘Now for the accessories. A pea-green taffeta underskirt, I think, white stockings and green silk slippers, and, of course, a shawl and fan and a beaded reticule.’ She paused to look carefully at her niece as all this finery was added to the pile being boxed up for delivery. ‘Though what we can do about your hair I cannot think. I will send for Michel just as soon as we return to the house.’
If Georgie thought that meant her shopping was done and they were returning to Holles Street, she was to be disappointed. They did not arrive there until well after noon, by which time they had been to the Pantheon Bazaar and several other establishments and her purchases included two or three gowns for morning calls, a dimity undress gown for wearing on the rare occasions when she would be at home, a carriage dress and jacket for excursions in her aunt’s barouche and - if she was lucky enough to be invited - rides in the phaetons and curricles of those gentlemen whose attention she had engaged, a new riding habit in ruby red, for her aunt declared the one she had was worn to a thread, shoes, boots, petticoats, shawls, a pelisse and a domino of green velvet with a satin-lined hood. These, together with Felicity’s earlier purchases, which had been even more extravagant, had taken every penny she had from the sale of Paget’s Pegasus and Bright Star. While she was left wondering how soon she could expect another transaction quite as good, her aunt was sending out for the hairdresser Mrs Melford had recommended to her.
Monsieur Michel arrived soon after they had taken a light luncheon and his reaction to being instructed to do something about Miss Paget’s hair was to throw up his hands in horror and declare, ‘C’est impossible! It eez...’ow you say?... a bush.’
‘Then she must wear a wig,’ Mrs Bertram said.
‘A wig!’ shrieked Felicity. ‘Oh, Aunt, wigs went out years ago. Georgie will look a veritable antidote.’
‘A leetle one, like ‘er own ‘air, perhaps,’ Monsieur suggested. ‘I show you.’ And he delved into his bag of brushes, combs and powders, and brought out a switch of hair, which he fastened under Georgie’s own hair with a comb and let it fall on either side of her face in loose ringlets. The result was striking; it made her face seem wider and softer, though the false hair was much darker than her own.
‘It doesn’t match,’ she said, unwilling to admit that it was an improvement.
‘No,’ he agreed, looking at her shorn locks; one minute they seemed a rich brown chestnut, the next, auburn, and, when caught by the light, a real ruby-red. Never had he seen such colouring; if only there had been more of it to work with...’ He sighed. ‘You must dye your ‘air, mam’selle.’
‘No, I will not. Find a match.’
He sighed. ‘It will be difficile, mam’selle. The couleur, it is not ordinary.’
She laughed. ‘Then I shall start a new fashion for short hair.’
She did not know how he did it, but on the evening of the ball, when she was being helped into the green gown by Fanny, Monsieur Michel arrived with a hairpiece which was as near a match as made no difference and she sat with a powder cloak about her shoulders and watched in the mirror as he transformed her.
She hardly knew herself when he had finished. With a topknot of her own hair hiding the ends of the false ringlets so that they blended perfectly, a touch of pearl powder on her cheeks and with the garnets which had belonged to her mother about her throat, she had to own that the boyish look had gone and in its place was a lady of fashion, as feminine as anyone could wish, except for her height. Nothing could be done about that but she carried it well and it made her look stately, almost regal. Fanny laid a gossamer shawl about her shoulders and handed her the cotton gloves which would hide her hands and told her fervently that she would be the belle of the ball and if someone did not offer for her, then they needed their cocklofts looking into. Georgie, slipping her feet into the delicate satin pumps, thanked her with a smile and went in search of her sister.
Felicity, petite and tiny-waisted, with her golden ringlets and peach-bloom complexion, was dressed in light blue net laced with silver and looked like a beautiful doll. There could not have been a greater contrast than the two sisters as they went downstairs to join their aunt who waited impatiently in the drawing-room, tapping her fan against her ample bosom. Both were striking in their way and Harriet found herself more optimistic than she had been for days that she might find a match for them both.
‘Come, my dears,’ she said briskly. ‘The barouche is outside the door and we must be off or we will be lost in the crush.’
Neither girl understood what she meant until they found themselves at a standstill at least a quarter of a mile from their destination. Little by little the carriage inched forward as those in front deposited their passengers and drove away and the next vehicle moved up in the line. It took half an hour to reach the door of Lady Hereward’s town house in Bedford Square and another fifteen minutes before the three ladies found themselves at the head of the stairs and being greeted by their host and hostess and Juliette, for whom the ball was being given.
‘He’s not here yet,’ Lady Hereward whispered to Harriet after the girls had been presented to her husband. ‘I do hope he means to come. You’ll find Melissa and John in the alcove by the potted palm, endeavouring to keep seats for you. It is a fearful crush; I am sure I did not invite all these people...’
‘Indeed you did,’ her husband put in. He was a very small man with gingery whiskers and a red face. His twinkling blue eyes, which showed a wry humour, were his saving grave for he would otherwise have been nothing out of the ordinary. ‘You invited the whole ton, you know you did.’
‘Not quite all, Basil,’ she said, smiling fondly at him. ‘But I’ll allow I asked extra to account for refusals.’
‘There haven’t been any,’ he said.
‘I should hope not!’ she retorted, making him roar with laughter.
A country dance had just finished and the couples were strolling back to their places. Mrs Bertram guided her charges across the floor to where Mrs Melford sat, with John standing at her elbow. He bowed to Mrs Bertram and made an elegant leg to Felicity before being presented to Georgie. �
��Miss Paget, your obedient,’ he said, sweeping her a bow, but it was obvious that his eyes were only for her sister as he arranged chairs for them all and offered to fetch cordial or ratafia.
He hurried away on his errand and the two girls sat looking about them at the glittering scene. The myriad chandeliers alone would have been enough to make the eyes ache, but added to that there was the sparkle of jewels and shimmer of silks and satins and so many flowers and so much greenery that one could have been forgiven for thinking the garden had been brought indoors, not to mention the hum of chatter and the music of the orchestra; it was an assault on the senses which both astonished and perplexed them. Surely their aunt was not proposing to equal this extravaganza for them?
‘The Major has not come?’ Harriet queried of Mrs Melford, settling herself in a chair beside her friend and lifting her quizzing-glass to see who was present.
‘Not yet. John thinks he may not.’
‘No matter. He is not the only one; there is quite a gaggle of young blades in that corner. It is a pity no one has instructed them how to go on. They must be winkled out.’
As soon as John returned with a waiter carrying a tray of full glasses, she insisted that he go over to the young men and suggest that some might like to be presented to the Misses Paget.
Georgie watched as he interrupted some uproarious joke that one was telling, saw him speak and nod in their direction, saw them lift quizzing-glasses and then frowned as they all came clamouring over demanding to mark the girls’ cards. In no time at all Felicity had no dances left and was scolded by her aunt for not leaving at least one free, in case the elusive Major Baverstock should arrive. And even Georgie had few spaces left on hers.
She was quite sure the Major would not appear, for he had told her he was going to his home and had no plans to return to London. She didn’t know how she felt about that; she would have to see him again, and more than once, if their business relationship was to develop, but did she really want to dance with him?
Yes, yes, her traitorous heart told her, while her head insisted that business should not be mixed with pleasure, lest both should suffer. And if their aunt had set her mind on capturing the Major for Felicity, who was she to object if that was also what Felicity wanted? She had no idea how such a thing could be brought about; it all sounded so contrived, so calculated. Sitting beside her aunt, watching Felicity dancing a gavotte with John, she was reminded of how her father bred horses, mixing the best characteristics of stallion and mare - looks, speed, stamina - and she found herself smiling. Was it any less cold-blooded for humans?
‘Miss Paget, may I present Lord Barbour to you?’
Georgie looked up, startled out of her reverie, and found Lady Hereward standing in front of her with a man in his late forties. He was heavily built and, she suspected, tightly corseted, his complexion was florid and his grey eyes slightly watery, but she could easily see that he might have been handsome in his youth. He was dressed in old-fashioned knee breeches and white stockings with a long coat of ochre satin trimmed with pearl buttons, a shirt whose collar-points reached his cheeks and below which a diamond pin gleamed in the folds of a cravat of immense proportions. His dark hair was cut short and curled forward over his ears. He gave her a sweeping bow and held out his hand. ‘Do me the inestimable honour, Miss Paget, of taking a turn round the floor?’
Nudged into action by a sharp dig from her aunt’s elbow, she rose and accompanied his lordship on to the floor for a minuet. They were the same height and she found she could not avoid those watery eyes.
‘Liked the cut of your jib as soon as I clapped eyes on you,’ he said as the music began and they bowed and curtsied. ‘Asked our hostess who you might be. Old Henry Paget’s daughter, so she told me. Isn’t to be wondered at. Knew a good bit of horseflesh, that one. Same for me. What happened to his horses when he stuck his spoon in the wall? Sell up, did you?’
‘No,’ she said, not at all sure that she liked to be compared to a horse. ‘Rowan Park still deals in horses.’
‘That so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Got a brother or cousin to run things for you?’
‘No.’
He was certainly out of condition and his questions had been asked breathlessly, but now he paused suddenly, making the following couple collide with them. ‘Beg pardon,’ he said, turning to make them a bow. ‘Talking too much. Come, Miss Paget, let us perambulate.’ And, without waiting for her to reply, he offered her his arm and led her to the side of the ballroom, where they circulated round the perimeter in stately fashion.
‘No one to run things?’ he asked. ‘How do you go on?’
‘Very well, my lord. I manage everything myself.’
Her answer seemed to amuse him but she would not let it fluster her. If she wanted to breed and sell horses, she must be prepared to answer questions, and she had nothing to hide. But when the questions became a little too personal she was not so sure.
‘Left you well up in the stirrups, did he, old Henry?’
‘Well enough,’ she said.
‘Good dowry?’
‘Lord Barbour, that is hardly a question I care to answer.’
‘Have to answer if you want to wed, m’dear.’
‘Naturally, I shall answer such questions when the time comes...’
‘Had no offers, then?’
‘That, too, is a question I do not care to answer.’
He smiled easily, not in the least offended. ‘Just wanted to know the odds. Ain’t one to waste my time.’
She was so astonished, she could only turn and gape at him, but he did not elaborate; instead he said, ‘In the market for a horse. I’ve a mind to look over what you’ve got.’
‘Of course,’ she said as they reached her aunt’s position. ‘I shall be returning to Rowan Park next week.’
‘I shall look forward to that but I hope I may further our acquaintance before that. Call on you tomorrow. Your servant, ma’am.’ He bowed to both ladies with a flourish which set his corsets creaking and strolled away.
Georgie collapsed into the seat beside her aunt. ‘Who was that?’
‘Lord Cedric Barbour - surely you were introduced?’
‘Yes, of course. I meant what manner of man is he?’
‘He was widowed a little over a year ago and one must surmise is looking for a wife and a mother for his children. Two of them, I believe. Let me see... The boy must be about thirteen or fourteen and the girl a year or two younger. He is very well up in Society and has influence at court, so I am told, and he is prodigious rich. What’s more he keeps a good stable. You could do worse, my dear.’
Georgie, thoroughly taken aback, swung round to face her aunt. ‘You can’t mean that he and I...?’
‘If he chooses to drop the handkerchief, why not pick it up? It could be the answer to your dilemma.’
‘What dilemma, Aunt?’
‘Why, becoming respectable. You must, you know, not only for your own sake but for Felicity’s. Who would want an eccentric for a sister-in-law? If you persist in that ramshackle life you have been living, you will both be the talk of the ton for a Season and then forgotten. You may not mind it, but I am persuaded your sister would hate it. Oh, she is loyal to you now and sees no wrong in it, but later, what then? When you are both ape-leaders, will she blame you for not making a push to put matters to rights?’
Georgie could find nothing to say in her own defence and did not answer, but deep in her heart she knew her aunt was right. But Lord Barbour!
She was so engrossed in that horrible prospect, she was not aware of anyone approaching until a shadow loomed over her. She lifted startled green eyes to see Major Baverstock, splendid in dark blue regimentals with silver-laced crimson facings and silver-tasselled epaulettes, bowing to her aunt. ‘Your servant, ma’am.’
Chapter Three
‘La, major, we had almost given you up,’ Mrs Bertram said. ‘Never mind, you are here now. Let me present you to my niece, Miss
Paget.’
‘Miss Paget?’ Richard turned to Georgie and the expression of surprise on his face made her smile, for it was obvious that he had only then realised who she was.
She found herself laughing. ‘Oh, Major, have you never seen a foolhardy woman before?’
‘Only one in your mould,’ he said, making a swift recovery. She looked beautiful, not at all like the mannish woman he had met at the stables. And her hair was magnificent. He was tempted to ask how she had achieved it but decided that would be asking for a put-down and her aunt was looking from one to the other in a very disapproving way. He bowed. ‘Your servant, Miss Paget.’
‘And this is my other niece, Miss Felicity Paget,’ Mrs Bertram put in as Felicity was returned to her on the arm of her latest partner. ‘Felicity, my dear, this is Major Baverstock.’
He turned to bow to her and Felicity coloured prettily as she dropped a curtsy. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Major Baverstock,’ she said. ‘I have heard a great deal about you.’
‘From your sister?’
Felicity glanced at Georgie in surprise. ‘Why, no, sir; how can Georgie have spoken of you? I meant from my aunt and Mrs Melford.’
‘Take her off and dance with her,’ Harriet said, suddenly aware of a tension in the atmosphere which she was anxious to dispel. ‘You have this waltz free, Felicity, do you not?’
‘Mr Melford...’ she began tentatively.
‘Oh, he will not mind, will he, Major? Besides, he has not come to claim it. Now run along; I wish to have words with Georgiana.’
They glided away just as John returned. ‘You are too late, Captain,’ Mrs Bertram told him. ‘Besides, you have danced twice with Miss Felicity already.’
‘Then perhaps Miss Paget?’ he asked, chagrined.
‘No,’ Mrs Bertram spoke for her. ‘Miss Paget is fatigued and sitting this one out. I have not yet seen you do a turn with Miss Davenport. I perceive her sitting beside her mama over there and looking quite doleful.’
He could not ignore so blatant a dismissal and as soon as he had gone Harriet turned on her elder niece. ‘Such familiarity! Were you off your head? "Foolhardy", you said. Yes, you are indeed that. When did you meet him and where? And why did you say nothing?’