by Brenda Hiatt
Having been pointedly dismissed, Brie followed Madsen out of the room after politely taking leave of Lady Mountheath and Mrs. Gresham. She was both satisfied and disappointed to find that Angela had not changed in the least; she had expected that would be the case, and she now knew the lay of the land, but still, it would have been nice . . .
The Blue Room, into which she was presently shown, was far grander than anything Brie had expected— though just what she had expected she was not certain. The room was done in every conceivable shade of blue, from the striped fabric covering the walls to the sky blue counterpane on the large four-poster. The two gilt chairs were upholstered in deep royal blue and the carpeting was of a floral pattern in which turquoise and robin's egg blue predominated. The total effect was actually rather soothing, although it would take her some time to become accustomed to such elegant surroundings.
Crossing to the large window, Brie pulled aside the curtains, which were of the same striped fabric adorning the walls, and was rewarded by a panoramic view of South Audley Street. She watched the comings and goings of all manner of carriages, curricles, phaetons and pedestrians with interest, until a tap on the door pulled her attention away. Molly entered to hang up Brie's scant wardrobe in the clothespress and to prattle about everything that she had seen in Town thus far.
Brie interrupted her before she could describe the various Platt footmen. "Thank you, Molly," she said firmly. "I believe I will try to rest now. Angela— Lady Platt, that is— wishes me dressed for dinner and the theatre at seven, so please return to assist me at six." Brie was just as glad the maid would be going back to Gloucestershire in a day or two.
Molly left quickly, and Brie managed to relax somewhat, though not to sleep, and renewed her resolve to give Angela the benefit of the doubt, in spite of their inauspicious beginning. After all, she had given her this lovely room for the Season, so her intentions, at least, must have been good, Brie reasoned. She would try to help her sister to carry them out.
When Molly returned, the two of them surveyed in mutual dismay the six dresses Brie had brought along. None of them appeared even remotely appropriate for an evening at the theatre, as Brie's wardrobe had always been more serviceable than fashionable, even by country standards.
"It was Angela's idea that I accompany them tonight," said Brie finally, with a slight shrug. "She must have known I could have nothing suitable as yet, so it is on her own head if she finds me an embarrassment. I suppose it will have to be the yellow, Molly. It is the only silk."
She donned the gown with Molly's help, then surveyed herself critically in the glass. It fit well enough, as it had been taken in for that purpose before her departure, but still it was hardly flattering. The dress was an old one—a very old one—of her mother's and, unfortunately, it looked it. As if the unfashionable cut of the gown were not enough, its dull yellow colour made Brie look positively sallow and seemed to steal the sparkle from her eyes.
Turning quickly away from her reflection, she seated herself at the pretty blue-and-white dressing table and allowed Molly to restore some semblance of order to her hair— the severe bun again, as Molly was capable of no other style. Finally, picking up her ivory shawl, which did not match the gown in the least, and her reticule, which was too large for fashion, Brie descended to dinner, pointedly refraining from another look in the mirror.
In the imposing dining room, which was not, Brie thought, decorated as tastefully as her own chamber, she was presented to her host, Sir Seymour Platt.
"So this is little Gabriella, all grown up!" he drawled in the affected nasal whine Brie had done her best to forget. The overabundance of lace at his throat and wrists, as well as the rich (and brightly coloured) embroidery of his waistcoat proclaimed Sir Seymour one of the dandy set. Raising his quizzing glass to one slightly bleary eye he examined his sister-in-law curiously.
"No chance to go shopping yet, I take it? You may be wondering how I could tell," he went on loftily. "Well, I daresay you could search all of London and not find another chap who knows so much about the current fashions as myself. And that gown, my dear, ain't it! Take the neckline, for example—"
"Do stop blathering, Seymour," his wife broke in dampingly. "You must know that I intend to take my sister to the shops before the Season gets under way. Any fool can see that her gown is atrociously dowdy, but it will do for the theatre tonight, I daresay, as long as she doesn't leave the box."
"Of course, dear, er, quite," replied the self-proclaimed arbiter of fashion, and gave his attention to his soup.
Brie listened with more amusement than embarrassment. It was obvious, if not surprising, that her sister kept her graceless husband firmly in his place. She wondered idly how he comported himself when out from under his wife's watchful eye. Angela's blunt categorisation of her gown, as accurate as it was tactless, she refused to dwell on.
Dinner passed slowly, it seemed to Brie, the overly rich dishes but little lightened by her brother-in-law's aimless chatter. Finally, as he concluded a maundering tale about a wager he had won last month, owing entirely to his incredible skill in handling a snuffbox, the ices were cleared away and the meal was at an end. Leaving Sir Seymour to his port, she followed her sister out of the room.
"I suppose that was the best you could manage for tonight?" enquired Angela in bored tones as they entered the drawing room. Actually, it suited her quite well that Gabriella's first public appearance should be in such a gown. The transformation she intended for her sister would thus be the more obvious, and would prove to all observers that Lady Platt was charity itself. In truth, she rather regretted the money which would have to be spent to make her sister presentable, but if it restored herself to the forefront of Society, no price could be too great.
"It is the only silk I have with me. It was Mama's, as you might possibly remember."
Angela regarded her sister sourly at this reminder of her neglect of the family in recent years.
"Before we go, I thought it best that we have a talk about how you should conduct yourself in Society," she said, changing the subject. "I could not fail to notice you were quite outspoken this afternoon, and I must tell you that such candour is neither necessary nor appreciated among the higher circles, which I had hoped you might aspire to." Her tone indicated that she was now doubtful of such an achievement. "I will undertake to prepare you for the best society, and I tell you to your head that the time and money involved will be no small thing, but your clothes are only a part of the entire effect. It will do your credit no good for it to be generally known that your father was a common farrier. If asked, you may say that he was the second son of Reginald Gordon, Lord Chapin, and leave it at that."
"Papa was not a farrier, and well you know it, Angela," her ungrateful sister broke in indignantly. "He did very little blacksmith work, and that only as an occasional favour. He was a veterinary surgeon, and proud of his skill, which saved more than one farmer from ruin. I am not at all ashamed of that! Are you?" She regarded Angela keenly.
"Be that as it may, you may take my word that his profession is not highly regarded among the haut ton." Angela chose to ignore that last question. "You will oblige me by not speaking of it again. Nor would it be good form to let on that a full year has not quite passed since his death. There are a few high sticklers who might look askance at your participation in the Season before the formal mourning period has passed."
Brie considered commenting on the fact that her father happened also to be Angela's, but decided it would do little good. It was quite true that her sister was going to bear the total expense of her come-out, whatever her motives might be, and equally true that Angela was far wiser in the ways of Society than she was. Though it did some violence to her feelings, she forced herself to be somewhat conciliatory.
"Very well," she said finally. "I will do my best to say nothing which seems likely to embarrass you. Though," she continued, with a firm set to her chin, "if I am asked direct questions I will not undertake
to lie."
Angela regarded her narrowly for a moment, then abruptly donned a glittering smile. "That is settled, then," she said brightly. "Let us fetch our wraps, for if we are to catch the first act we must be off directly."
The theatre was a novel experience for country-bred Brie. Not only had she never seen so many people under one roof before—or, indeed, so many people anywhere— but the variety of dress and manners, from that of the lowliest commoner on the floor to the titled leaders of Society in their boxes, was well worth observing. She almost felt that the play would be superfluous, with such a show already in progress.
Their own box was fairly crowded as well, rather to Brie's surprise, for she had expected to share it only with the Platts. Mr. and Mrs. Ancroft, a dashing young couple recently married, were introduced to her, and Brie could not help noticing that Mrs. Ancroft, a petite brunette whose face looked suspiciously painted, wore a gown every bit as immodestly cut as Angela's. Also present were three apparently single gentlemen. By far the handsomest of these was Sir Frederick More, a tall, distinguished-looking man with fair hair and a small, clipped mustache. The other two were as dandified and affected as Sir Seymour, and Brie found them more amusing than attractive.
It soon became apparent that the three unattached gentlemen were there for the sole purpose of flirting with the two married ladies, who, as far as Brie could tell, made no effort to discourage their advances. Nor did their husbands seem to take offence at the particular attentions being paid their wives, though Sir Seymour might very well have been too foxed to notice.
Sir Frederick, however, after paying her sister a few outrageous compliments, drifted over to sit next to Brie. "It is lonely, I know, to be so new to Town, Miss Gordon, but I hope you will believe me when I say that a young lady so personable as yourself will have no difficulty making friends quickly."
Brie looked up quickly to encounter Sir Frederick's charming, and surprisingly kind, smile. "Why, thank you, sir," she said in a low voice. "You are very perceptive, for I was feeling a bit out of things."
"Perfectly understandable," he assured her. "I believe I understood from your sister that you have never been to London before?"
Brie admitted this to be true, and he proceeded to tell her of some of the sights in store for her, as well as to warn her against certain places— and people— that she would be prudent to avoid. As the curtain rose, Sir Frederick lowered his voice but showed no sign of relinquishing his place by her side, which Brie found both flattering and agreeable. There was nothing of the flirtatious in his manner; rather, he seemed genuinely concerned that she should enjoy her stay in Town.
Brie could not know that Sir Frederick was an accomplished judge of women, and had divined immediately which approach would be most likely to win this inexperienced girl's confidence. He had correctly guessed that the suggestive flattery Lady Platt thrived on would only cause her young sister to withdraw into herself like a snail into its shell and conducted himself accordingly.
His solicitude did not escape the notice of the other occupants of the box. While the others were amused at the unusual sight of the notorious Sir Frederick whiling away his time with a rustic schoolroom miss, Lady Platt was less than diverted. For over a year Sir Frederick had been her most devoted admirer, taking her husband's place as escort when Sir Seymour was incapacitated by drink (some of the more unkind gossips hinted that he also took Sir Seymour's place in other ways, though this last was not—as yet— true) and she was ever jealous of any attentions he might bestow on another.
Not that Gabriella could possibly be a serious threat, she thought. Why, just look at her! Not only was her dress atrociously dowdy, but her manner was also completely unsophisticated, and that bun would be unfashionable on a scullery maid. To distract herself from Sir Frederick's possible motives (the most obvious being a desire to gratify her, of course) Angela began to calculate just what would need to be done to render her sister presentable.
Brie, meanwhile, was watching the play, the first she had ever seen, although her complete attention was not claimed. Having read The Taming of the Shrew more than once, however, she was not concerned that she would lose the thread of the plot. Sir Frederick had asked to take her driving on the morrow, and it was this which was currently occupying her thoughts. She had not missed the slightly sour look Angela had directed at the pair, and wondered whether she might refuse permission for such an outing.
She hoped not. She was aware of a purely feminine thrill of gratification at Sir Frederick's attentions, which helped her to forget, for the moment, her sister's barbed comments about her appearance. Sir Frederick seemed not to find her dowdy at all! Though, she admitted to herself, that could be simple politeness, for even she realised how démodé she was. Thus, her thoughts began to parallel her sister's.
During the drive home, Brie tentatively brought up the subject of Sir Frederick's proposed outing. "May I go, Angela?" she asked hopefully.
Lady Platt had feared something of this nature, but luckily a ready excuse presented itself. "Why, certainly I have no objection to your driving out with Sir Frederick, who is, after all, one of our closest friends" (which stretched the matter slightly, as Sir Frederick and Sir Seymour were barely nodding acquaintances), "but you must agree that your wardrobe must be our first consideration, before you can afford to be seen so publicly."
Brie murmured that she supposed this was so.
"I had thought to spend the greater part of tomorrow at one or two of the better modistes, and perhaps to stop by one of the bookstores on the way home."
As she had expected it would, this last item successfully diverted her younger sister's thoughts.
"A bookstore! I should love that!" she exclaimed. "There is one in particular I wish to look for, as I promised Gabe to try to find it." After a moment's happy consideration of the treat in store, she returned to the original subject. "I suppose you are right, anyway, about the drive. I shouldn't wish to embarrass you by appearing in the Park dressed like this."
"Nor would I wish you embarrassed," said Angela, with artful sincerity. "Since that is settled, I shall just send a note round to Sir Frederick first thing in the morning with your excuses." As well as a few pointed remarks on her own behalf, she thought.
"Thank you, Angela. You're being very good to me," said Brie and, to her surprise, she meant it. Perhaps it would be as well if she allowed herself to be guided by her sister, at least in some things.
* * *
CHAPTER 4
"Gadslife, Dex, it's good to see you back in Town!" exclaimed Lord Garvey, rising from the table at White's where he awaited luncheon. "Will you join me?" He motioned towards the empty chair opposite him.
"It was with that intention that I followed you here," returned his friend with a smile. "I barely missed you at your lodgings, but your man told me I would find you here."
"Yes, Graves is invaluable. Keeps better track of me than I do myself." Lord Garvey brushed back his perpetually askew fair hair with one hand. "So, what news? Were you successful with the beauteous Monique, or do I win the wager?"
"I'm afraid you do, damn your luck, Barry!" Ravenham favoured his companion with a twisted grin; he had not yet fully recovered from that blow to his pride.
"Luck had nothing to do with it, m'boy!" crowed Garvey. "Told you she was holding out for royalty— not that she'll necessarily get it, mind. Though something I heard night before last about one of the Dukes—"
"Cut the gossip, I beg you," broke in Ravenham hastily. "You've won your wager, but as I recall, you have yet to name the stakes. Couldn't it just be money this time?"
"Too dull, Dex! Can't be getting a reputation for conformity!" said Garvey with the boyish smile which certain ladies had been known to find irresistible. He put a thoughtful finger to his chin. "I have it! The next man through th
e door shall determine your penalty— you'll owe him a favour of his choosing."
"I only hope it's someone more reasonable than yourself." Ravenham turned towards the door. "Of course, my odds of that are excellent."
A scant minute later a figure entered which caused one of the watching gentlemen to stifle a groan and the other to chuckle quietly. "Of all the accursed luck!" muttered Ravenham. "Why is that nodcock allowed in here in the first place?"
"Joined before the bottle claimed him, I believe, though I'll admit he was a nodcock even then," returned Garvey. "Fact remains, though, you owe Sir Seymour Platt a favour of his choosing!"
* * *
Angela and Gabriella returned to the house from an exhausting day of shopping just before tea to be informed by an obviously curious Madsen that Sir Seymour was closeted in the library with the Duke of Ravenham, and had been so for nearly an hour.
"Did he say what his business was?" enquired Lady Platt, feeling the liveliest curiosity herself.
"No, my lady."
"Was my husband— er—in a condition to receive him?" she then asked almost tentatively. Why the illustrious Duke might have called she could not imagine, but it was to be devoutly hoped that he might carry away a good impression. His patronage could mean everything —he was thick as thieves with most of the patronesses of Almack's, for one thing— and his censure could lead to social ostracism, so high was the Duke's standing.
"I believe so, madam," returned Madsen, much to her relief. "He had arisen but an hour before, and had not had time to fortify himself with more than a single glass of wine, to the best of my knowledge."
Thus reassured, Angela seemed to suddenly recall her dignity. "Thank you, Madsen. Tell Mrs. Madsen to serve tea in the front drawing room in a quarter of an hour."