Ianthe and the Fighting Foxes: The Fentons Book 4

by Alicia Cameron

  She looked on in the next weeks as Lord Onslow, although doing nothing so unmanly as sit in Miss White’s pocket, wooed her. He danced twice with her at every assembly, he frequently escorted her to the supper room, a boon that many gentlemen craved as it was the occasion at a ball where ladies and gentlemen might have time to extend their conversation. If Julia played her tricks, Georgette noticed, Onslow did not respond quite as her other suitors did. If Miss White could not quite remember if she had a dance to spare, rather than press her, Lord Onslow did not reappear at her side again that night. Some other would be favoured to take her to the supper room, and no one who was not looking as closely as Georgette would know what that cost him. His eye might follow Miss White for a brief second, and she saw a dark gravity that she knew to be pain cross his face. At any time that Julia might see him, however, he never looked her way. Georgette applauded this manly dignity inwardly, but she began to see her own inexperience.

  On one such evening, she, Cassie and Julia had been standing at the edge of the ballroom talking to a number of young bucks who were primarily of Miss White’s court, when Georgette, impaled by a blade of hot awareness behind her shoulder, turned to see Lord Onslow approach, moving elegantly through the throng. The entire party, drawn by Georgette’s eyes, turned their attention towards him, and Julia gasped. Georgette was not surprised. Even in his beautifully cut evening coat, with the high starched shirt points touching his cheeks, there was a predatory elegance to his walk to claim Miss White. Finally, he arrived. He bowed briefly. ‘May I have this dance?’ Georgette, who had not taken her eyes from him, now realised he was facing her. Was Julia behind her? But no, the trembling figure of Julia White was at her side, having held her breath waiting for him to arrive. ‘I—?’ Georgette remembered herself. Her mouth could not be trusted, but she placed her gloved hand on his outstretched arm and flowed to the floor on his arm.

  She peeped up at him shyly as she did so, and was relieved to see him looking ahead, at the sets just making up. It was a country dance, thankfully, and she had time to arrange herself and to breathe away her blushes as she stood opposite him in the set. She looked up from her feet, ready to smile, but found Lord Onslow looking somewhere over her head — not so difficult, as, though she was of average height, with at least one inch beyond five foot, he could give her a foot or more. Yet it was not quite normal for a partner to be so removed in himself. It was better, she thought. This way she would not make a fool of herself. If he did not mind her — well, she could better mind her steps. The figures of the dance took her skipping towards him, he looked at her indifferently for a second, and they reversed. Miss White and Lord Newcombe had joined the same set she discovered, as she performed her steps side by side His Lordship towards them. Lord Onslow gave Miss White even less acknowledgement than his partner.

  Above their heads, Georgette’s fingers met his as they turned, and his eyes dropped a little. It was the custom that partners looked at each other during this step, but his eyes were only looking at her brown hair, evidently less absorbing than the golden locks of Miss White, whom she had seen him regard in fascination, even when their owner was unaware. As when Miss White’s back was turned to him by the steps, and he allowed his eyes to look at her dancing curls. When Onslow and Miss White were brought together by the dance, His Lordship deliberately ignored Julia. Ignoring his partner, however, was completely without intention. She hardly existed to him. Her body trembled when their gloved hands met, when a light hand touched her waist in guidance. He looked at her exactly three times, and Georgette remembered each one. The glance at the start, a slightly annoyed frown as she fumbled a step, and then the final faint smile as he thanked her for the dance. A swift bow, and he was gone. Julia White had left the floor quickly too, and in a haze, Georgette saw her depart for an anteroom set aside for the comfort of ladies. Georgette followed as in a dream, trembling and needing to feel no eyes upon her until she had herself better in hand.

  She found Julia White sitting on an elegant gold covered sofa, whose legs were so delicately wrought that they looked like they might break even under her slight weight. An attendant was fanning her, but Georgette saw tears in her eyes, and gestured the maid away, braving the settle. ‘Are you quite well, Miss White?’

  ‘Oh, Miss Georgette Fortune.’ It seemed to her that Miss White stiffened at her sight, and it took that stiffness for Georgette to be reminded that she was the object of Miss White’s mortification. Or was it more than that? Could Julia really be wounded? ‘I am quite well. Such a lovely ball, do you not th—’

  Her voice was too polite, and Georgette interrupted. Perhaps it was not hers to help this young girl’s machinations, but she saw clearly what Miss White did not. ‘Lord Onslow hardly spoke to me and his eyes followed you.’ Miss White’s gaze turned to her. ‘He is telling you, I think, that such games as you play with others will not do for him.’

  ‘He plays with me, you believe?’

  ‘He makes you feel the other side of your game.’ Georgette did not stay to see what effect her words had upon the other, but stood up and adjusted her dress. Julia White stood too, and for a moment, Georgette saw them both reflected in the tall, gilded mirror on one wall. She was some two inches shorter than Julia, her light brown hair so much duller than Julia’s glinting blond. Her eyes were larger than Julia’s — but brown, not enchanting blue. Georgette’s yellow muslin, which had pleased her well at the beginning of the ball, could not be compared to the willowy figure in figured white gauze over a silver petticoat. Though Julia was the taller, that form was almost fairy-like and made Georgette’s plump bosom and broader shoulders seem squat. One should avoid standing next to Miss White if one wished to be seen to advantage. Why would Lord Onslow see her when his eye might be distracted by such a bright star? She was only so much background.

  She felt her eyes fill, and was afraid that Miss White had noticed. But she was quite wrong, Julia was pinching her cheeks, preparing to re-enter the ballroom. Georgette left her. She tried hard to laugh at herself, and at him. Two lovers whose eyes searched in different directions. He would win his love, how could he not? But Georgette could never win him.

  For three seconds, perhaps less, Georgette had seen a sliver of hope. He remembered her, she’d thought, he remembered that he understood her, and had asked her to dance to further their acquaintance. By the time they had taken their place in the set, that had been shown as foolish, ludicrous even. A stronger adjective had occurred at every step, sending little knife blades into her heart.

  Chapter 3

  Georgette’s life since she had returned to the castle over a year since had been full of activity, but a trifle dull. Georgette was not, by temperament, a busy bee. But after the death of her mother, two years before her first season, she had looked up from a book one day and noticed that the house had become tarnished and gloomy. It could not then be ignored. Without a mistress to oversee them, servants consigned dust to the corners, it seemed. The number of the household had not diminished since Lady Fortune’s day, but old chests and mantles bore layers of dust, the table and bed linens overused without being refreshed, and in naval parlance, it was not ship shape. Since then, she had served as a reluctant mistress of Fortune Castle, her papa and sisters still living in the wonderful state of obliviousness that she had so reluctantly left herself.

  Dickson, who ran the household, and still bore the ancient title of steward of the castle, was not pleasto have a young lady, whom as a child he’d been called upon to reprimand, question his oversight. But he did acknowledge the problem. He offered, with some relish, to send Mrs Firestone to her to discuss the matter. Mrs Firestone being the housekeeper.

  Mrs Firestone, whose tenure had only one year under her mother’s oversight before being left to her own devices, had taken this interference badly too, and Georgette, barely eighteen, had hardly known how to behave. She had been most apologetic at first, but then Mrs Firestone in a mob cap and a stuff dress bursting at the seams
had made the mistake of being impertinent. ‘There are a great many rooms in this place, you know.’ Ridiculous creature, thought Georgette, almost tempted to encourage to let her innumerate them to one who had lived here all her life. ‘Lord Fortune is not as pernickety as my lady was, always checking on my work. I believe he is happy enough, for he has never mentioned it.’

  ‘My father is a gentleman, and gentlemen do not concern themselves in housekeeping matters, Mrs Firestone. He has assigned this task,’ she added mendaciously, for she had not troubled him with the business, ‘to me. You will cause the rooms to be swept every day—’

  ‘Impossible!’ said Mrs Firestone in a righteous tone, ‘I have not the staff to do so!’

  ‘You will cause those rooms in use to be swept daily — and well—’ Mrs Firestone blushed in humiliation and Georgette foresaw a dreadful time for the maid staff below, ‘and you will inspect them yourself. Dinners must be cleaned away the same evening, it should not be necessary to mention this to you.’ Mrs Firestone’s bosom heaved, but she held her tongue. ‘And,’ added Georgette, quite pleased with this tiny victory, ‘dinners themselves are falling off rather. We had stew for the fifth time this week.’

  ‘I’ll send Mrs Scroggins to you directly.’ By her tone, Georgette deduced that she was delighted for the same humiliating fate to befall the cook.

  ‘And flowers,’ added Georgette, pushing her wins forward, before Mrs Firestone could take her leave, ‘— there are no flowers. There used to be flowers on the dinner table each evening.’

  Mrs Firestone looked triumphant. ‘It was Her Ladyship herself that saw to the flowers, miss. We haven’t time to be fetching no flowers.’

  Georgette blushed, seeing a vision of her mother with her shallow basket over her arm going out to pick some blooms. ‘Of course it was. I’ll see to it.’

  Mrs Firestone left, some of her dignity restored.

  All of this endeavour, and the endeavours of the following year, had hardly been noticed by the family. Jocasta had sat down at dinner that evening and said, ‘Where is the stew? I like stew.’ And not a single person remarked on her flower arrangements, which had caused her pricked fingers and a worse temper. But she liked to see them there herself, so she continued to make them, but every three days only. The blooms may droop, but her commitment to her invisible labours had some limits.

  With Violetta and Cassie gone, she was now the eldest except her brother George, whom they seldom saw. He had some rooms in London, since Fortune House, the family’s London residence, had long been sold. Thus it was that she could go to town for a third or fourth season. Papa had to rent an establishment in a genteel part of town, but he could not afford one large enough, he said, to accommodate all of his spinster daughters. But in the two seasons where Jocasta (more fairy-like than even Miss White, though not quite so pretty) and Susan (the plainest of the sisters, and the most unconcerned about it) had gone to London, they had not disappointed. Susan had received an offer first, from a comfortably-off country squire Sir John Steeplethorpe, quite as plain as she. The small settlement made by the groom to Lord Fortune had been a disappointment though, which was the kind of thing the young ladies of the house should not know, but did — given Papa’s propensity to think aloud, without knowing he did so. Susan had put off the wedding for some months, and Papa had set Georgette to find out if she were about to recant. Susan had answered her bluntly, ‘I’m not sure. I have discovered a thing about him I dislike.’ And while Georgette was wondering if she had discovered some iniquity of character, Susan had added, ‘He snorts.’ This was the kind of thing that set Georgette into silent whoops, though she’d trained her face not to give offence. Evidently, Susan had reconciled herself to this defect and had wed two months ago.

  ‘Never thought I’d see her fired off at all with that nose,’ had said her father to himself in the church, quite audibly. Only a titter had suggested anyone had been aware, and the service had continued with only a darkling look from the vicar at the Fortunes’ pew.

  She missed Susan’s bluntness, and its unknowing effect on others. ‘I hope,’ she’d said to her husband of one hour, as they entered the packed carriage destined to take them to his estate, ‘that you do not expect to act the bull to my Daisy. There will be none of that.’ Sir John’s shock and dismay were evident as the carriage door closed. Georgette had walked away, berating herself for finding all this funny, while comforting herself that Sir John was a sensible fellow who might be trusted to explain things to Susan in a gentle way. Any woman who could get over snorting might be depended on to bear children with equanimity.

  The things he had to explain were largely a mystery to Georgette herself, but country living gave her an inkling.

  It transpired that Jocasta had, at the last month of this season (her second), been shown a marked degree of attention from Lord Paxton, a poetical young man, who had taken a shine to Miss Jocasta’s delicate form. Lord Paxton was, moreover, the heir to an Earldom, and by far the richest suitor any Fortune girl had attracted. Georgette could not recall having met the gentleman, but Jocasta had shown her a small volume of his verse, handsomely inscribed by the author. She had sat down to read, and had found a piece of paper marking a poem about Titania. She supposed it to have been meant to relate (in the baron’s view) to Jocasta herself, but Georgette had got no further than the lines,

  ‘When fair Titania trips through wooded dells,

  ‘Neath her dainty foot blooms grow, where ‘ere they fell.

  It was not at all to her poetic taste.

  Georgette shut the volume, wondering whether Jocasta would find the poem where she was compared to Titania and be flattered. Her sister was not fond of reading, so she doubted it.

  ‘It was all,’ said Papa, ‘looking promising.’ But there had been no time to secure the match. Thus, the baron had arrived at home with a grand scheme in mind. Hardly had he shaken the dust off from the drive than he said to Georgette, ‘We are to have a house party in three weeks.’

  Georgette laughed, then stopped. Her father was not in jest. ‘You see to it, Georgette. I was just going to invite Paxton and a friend, and your aunt as chaperon perhaps. Let Jocasta and His Lordship renew their acquaintance. But a party with more guests is better, I feel.’

  ‘You cannot, Papa! This place is hardly in a state for a house party,’ she gestured to tattered sofa, which the baron’s favourite hound chewed when he was allowed into the house. ‘And only think how embarrassing for Jocasta and His Lordship to be sitting at dinner together, with everyone looking to see how they do. I doubt that he would care to place himself in that position.’

  ‘Well, in the first case, I trust to you to make it ready.’ He looked around the cavernous room with a careless eye. ‘Don’t see what’s needed in here but a bit of dusting, or some such. But in the second place, you’re wrong. Paxton and his friend Carswell have already accepted.’

  Georgette’s mouth opened.

  ‘You will catch flies if you’re not careful, daughter. Anyway, when I conceived the notion, I thought of the same problem. We cannot drive a man into a corner, even such a nodcock as Lord Paxton.’ This last was not really addressed to her, but were his voluble thoughts. ‘So I came up with a better notion. Invite a larger party, a few friends from town, you know, so that the intention gets lost in the throng. And the good thing is, we might even be able to fire off Katerina and Portia into the bargain, at a much smaller cost, for I have invited several single gentlemen. I daresay you have a few gowns that might fit Portia,’ who was three inches taller, ‘and Jocasta has her season’s clothes, you know. It will be but a fortnight.’ Four sisters included at the party, for two weeks. Even morning gowns would be a problem. They could not make do with two or three as they did usually, it may be the country, but it was still society. They could probably repeat twice, but that was still seven morning dresses, multiplied by four. Riding and walking gear that was a little shabby might be expected of easy country living, but they would als
o be obliged to wear half dress in the evening, in the same quantities. Jocasta had just had a season, so she had sufficient ensembles, but her own London wardrobe had shrunk since her last season, some gowns being made over for one or other of the girls for an assembly, or just to furbish up their Sunday best. She remembered drooling over Violetta’s London finery, so she could not resent their wish to share hers. And in their cramped social circle, she didn’t really want to draw attention anymore.

  ‘Portia is barely fifteen,’ Georgette began, but then her sharp brain fixed on the worst of this list of calamities. ‘How large a throng?’

  ‘Oh,’ said His Lordship with an insouciance that did not fool her, ‘we shall be not above thirty.’ Given that her father would not consider her youngest of all sisters in that computation, that meant that he had invited, to this crumbling, draughty castle, twenty-six people. He sat down on his customary chair and picked up an old journal, stretching out his legs. Hades, his favourite wolfhound, entered, and after a greeting, set about chewing the damask on his master’s chair.

  Georgette, her hands metaphorically thrown in the air, left the room.

  Now, as she walked from the withdrawing room and into the Grand Hall, Georgette was taking in every fault in her surroundings, and was suddenly lost in the absurdity. Twenty-six guests! And Lord Paxton’s friends were bound to be of the very first circles. All the world lived differently in the country, with more relaxed standards. But there were limits. What had Papa asked her to do? Dust a little and see to the food, she supposed. Her head ached at finding the necessary sustenance to dress a dining table fourteen times for thirty people. It was like the story of the visit of Good Queen Bess to their house three hundred years ago. She and her court arrived, causing the emptying of the Fortunes’ winter storehouses of game and produce as well as that of much of the surrounding gentry, and departed to do the same elsewhere. There were many tales of the baron’s family existing solely on oats and rabbit for some weeks afterwards.