Lily gently pressed a finger to Violet’s lips, careful not to disturb a curl or a hint of the subtle pink lip rouge. ‘Don’t worry, darling. Just think about today. This is so very important. Mother and Papa aren’t even here. They can do nothing. I am a duchess now, and Rose’s husband is related to a duke. I can surely use this to help my family. They can’t hurt us.’
They couldn’t hurt Lily or Rose, but Violet wasn’t yet married. They could hurt her. Without her allowance, and denied her inheritance, she had nothing, no career. Her options were limited.
But Lily was right. She had to get through today. It was vital that she do well at Court. It was her great hope now.
She took up the fan and the bouquet and stood very still as the maids smoothed her tulle-edged train. She would grit her teeth and get through it all with a bright smile. She was a Wilkins girl after all, and they never gave up.
Tomorrow—she would work out how to deal with Harold Rogers.
* * *
The line of carriages backed all the way up the Mall and beyond, a creaking, creeping train of gleaming black and blue and burgundy barouches and landaus, some with coronets emblazoned on the doors and liveried footmen perched behind. None was as grand as Aidan’s crest, none of the horses as pretty as his matched bays, but it wouldn’t buy them even an extra inch through the standstill scrum. The palace was still so far away, a shimmering mirage of pale stone and gleaming windows and empty balconies that seemed to laugh at so many overdressed supplicants.
Violet sighed and sat back against the tufted leather seats of the carriage. At least Aidan, or rather Lily, had ordered the best. They could be bored in relative comfort, ermine rugs over their laps and warmed bricks under their satin shoes, as well as a picnic basket waiting beneath the seat. But she had to be very careful to sit up straight and not brush her feathers against the carriage roof.
She sighed again and drew her fur-edged cloak closer around her. ‘Whoever devised such a torturous process?’ she grumbled. ‘Why couldn’t we all just wander by in our walking suits and say, How d’ye do, Your Highnesses?’
Lily laughed, squinting a bit as she filled in the word puzzle on her travel desk. Her tiara gleamed in the light. ‘History, I suppose. Tradition. If you had been presented to Queen Charlotte in the last century, you would have had to practically kneel on the floor when you curtsied, then stand up again. It’s not so very bad now.’
‘Well, it makes absolutely no sense.’ Violet wiggled her aching toes in the satin shoes, which seemed to be growing smaller by the moment, and wished she could loosen the thousand pins in her aching head.
‘Nothing about the English aristocracy makes much sense, darling. But I’ve learned to live with it all and so will you.’
‘Unless I am married off to Mr Rogers and shipped back to moulder in Newport.’
Lily gave a firm shake of her head, her feathers waving. ‘That will not happen. Not while Rose and I have breath in our bodies.’
Violet glanced out of the window, glimpsing some of the other girls in their own carriages, so pretty and placid and golden in their pastels and feathers and pearls, so very English. So content with their lot. Why could she not be that way? She never had been. ‘But why Mr Rogers and why now? They never even hinted at such a thing before. Do you think Papa’s business is in some trouble?’
Lily frowned in thought, tapping at her crossword with her little gold pencil. ‘Papa’s business affairs have often gone up and down, but he always recovers. I’m sure Mr Rogers just harboured some secret passion for you, Vi, and now that you’re of age...’
Violet laughed to think of old Mr Rogers, with his dry, silent ways, harbouring a ‘passion’ for anyone, let alone a girl his daughter’s age whose skirts were always splashed with photographic chemicals and whose hair was always tangled. No, she was sure there was more to it than that. But Lily was right—today was not the day to worry about such matters. She had enough to twist herself into knots over with the palace looming before them.
‘Do you have any more sandwiches in that basket?’ she asked Lily.
‘You ate the last one before we even turned into the park,’ Lily said. She pulled a flask from the basket her cook had packed so carefully early that morning. ‘There’s tea and maybe some seed cake. But have a care—there’s bound to be only one or two chamber pots and hundreds of nervous girls.’
‘Ugh. A whole palace and no sufficient indoor plumbing?’ She sipped very carefully at the cold tea and touched her temples with dots of Lily’s rose water.
At last they glimpsed the gates of Buckingham Palace, tipped with gold, emblazoned with the royal arms, and the broughams, landaus and hansom cabs followed four lines to roll slowly past the guards in their red tunics and bearskins into the cobbled courtyard. Violet’s stomach lurched and she rather regretted that bite of seed cake, but her boned bodice held her upright.
They finally reached the front doors and Violet alighted from the carriage to follow Lily and the long line of other white-clad debs into the palace itself. She stared at the furniture, marble-topped tables holding large Chinese porcelain vases of white and pink roses, portraits of William IV and Queen Adelaide peering down at them. There were rows of satin chairs embroidered with VR and crowns in gold, reminding her of where she was—a royal home. They snaked their way up a horseshoe-shaped flight of stairs, slowly wending towards the throne room.
When they at last reached the head of the queue, maids waited to smooth skirts and straighten feathers, to fold the long trains over ladies’ arms while a stern-faced major-domo checked their cards. For a panicked instant, Violet was sure she’d forgotten that vital square of pasteboard, but Lily had them tucked into her beaded reticule. They were ushered along with the other ladies, like a kind of pastel, bejewelled line of peacocks, through a side door and a small, scarlet-carpeted antechamber. They burst out on to a soaring double staircase with gilded banisters and red carpet, watched by portraits of long-dead kings and queens, lit from a domed skylight that made the ladies’ diamonds sparkle.
But no matter how grand, it was just as packed full, just as stuffy. The warm air smelled of woollen uniforms, furs too long packed away, the heady lilies in tall silver vases, the ladies’ myriad perfumes, the sweat of fear and lemon polish.
Violet tried to take a deep breath, to ignore the claustrophobia of the space and examine all her fellow debs. They were, after all, her fellow inmates of this luxurious prison. There were diplomats and cabinet ministers in dark suits and sashes of orders, some older men in full Court dress of black satin breeches and silk stockings, cocked hats under their arms, even swords gleaming at their hips. There were also Scots officers in their glorious kilts of reds, greens, blues and tans, vying for attention with the ladies in their satins, jewels and feathers.
The Coldstream Guards band, in their red dress uniforms, played a lively, popular dance tune as cloaks were taken and tiny glasses of sherry handed out. Violet wondered if it was to be the only refreshment offered all day. Her feet already ached in their new heeled shoes, but she was entranced by it all. Everywhere she glanced she saw new inspiration for photographs, new ideas, new art and furniture and people.
At last they were formed into lines again, two by two with their sponsors, and led slowly up the staircase. Violet’s hands, damp and shaking in her gloves, clutched at her fan and flowers. At the top landing, they handed their cards from the Lord Chamberlain’s Office to the equerry at the doorway to what she thought must be the throne room itself. But, no. There were five more drawing rooms for waiting.
‘It’s all quite absurd, isn’t it!’ the lady in front of Violet said with a weary giggle.
Her spritelike beauty matched her musical laugh; she was tiny, fresh-faced and pug-nosed, with a froth of pale gold curls beneath her bandeau-style tiara and feathers, her pure white satin gown embroidered with silver. She pulled a flask out of her bouquet of whi
te roses and offered Violet a swig.
Violet was quite sure it did not hold tea and she did very much want some, but she feared being sick all over the fine palace rugs. She declined even though Lily wasn’t paying attention, talking to some of her own friends.
‘I’m Thelma Parker-Parks, by the way. The Honourable, but that sounds so silly,’ the sprite said. ‘Didn’t I see you at Lady James’s tea party last week?’
So this was the notorious Miss Parker-Parks. That made sense. ‘Oh, yes,’ Violet said. ‘Lady James is my sister. I’m Violet Wilkins.’
Thelma’s already large hazel eyes widened. ‘The American! Wild Wilkins. Of course. How very wonderful. I am quite dying to hear all about America. I bet you don’t have nonsense like this there. So archaic. No curtsying to President Washington?’
‘Well, Washington has been dead for decades, so no. But they do have their own little traditions, especially in New York.’ Like Mrs Astor and her Four Hundred, which Violet’s mother ached to join.
‘But not as silly as this, I’m sure.’ A plump older lady in gold brocade and lace called to Thelma, who waved at her impatiently. ‘In a moment, Mama, I am talking to someone!’
Violet, no matter how bold she was in her manners, couldn’t quite imagine talking to her mother like that and she was rather impressed. Thelma turned back to Violet with a roll of her eyes. ‘You will come to Parker House soon, won’t you, and meet some of my friends? They’re rather a younger, arty set, lots more fun, none of this stuffy nonsense. They would love to know a wild American.’
A wild American? ‘Well, I...’
Thelma caught Violet’s gloved hand in hers, nearly crushing her fan. Despite her dainty, sparrow-like appearance, she was rather strong and her hazel eyes were beseeching. ‘Oh, do say yes, please! I could certainly use a new friend. Mama is always after me to marry some unsuitable boy or other now and it’s so dull. And I know we shall be good friends, Miss Wilkins. I can always tell.’ Her lips suddenly turned down and her eyes hardened. ‘I will be a duchess one day and it could be very soon now, you’ll see.’
‘Thelma!’ her mother snapped and, with one more giggle and waggle of her fingers, she skipped away to her place in line.
‘Was that Thelma Parker-Parks?’ Lily said, a strange strain in her voice. ‘Do you know her?’
‘Not really. She says she was at Rose’s tea party and invited me to meet some of her friends.’
Lily carefully smoothed a creased bit of satin at Violet’s sleeve, not quite meeting her eyes. She had a worried expression on her face. ‘I would be careful around her, darling.’
‘But why? She seemed a bit—changeable, but interesting. London can be so dull.’
Lily’s lips tightened. ‘They say she is rather fond of the card rooms. Most impracticable, considering her family hasn’t much money. And there was the matter of a broken engagement. To a duke. She was sorry she let him go afterwards, of course, but it was done.’
‘Really? A gambler and a jilt?’ Violet gasped. ‘She said she was practically engaged again. To another duke, maybe?’
Lily glanced up in surprise. ‘A duke? How many can there be in London, and who would take her on now? Which one was it?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘Interesting,’ Lily muttered, straightening her tiara. ‘Well, we shall see when the announcement is in the papers, won’t we? In the meantime, I don’t think her parties are any place for you, Vi.’ As Violet opened her mouth to argue, Lily shook her head firmly. ‘We cannot afford any scandals in your first real Season. Especially if you want to attend the royal wedding.’
Violet nodded. A scandal would certainly be the perfect excuse for Harold Rogers and her parents to whisk her away. She had to be very careful. No matter how much she wanted to go to a fun, artistic party.
There was a great fanfare of trumpets, and all the rustles and laughter stopped. A major-domo in the red-and-gold royal uniform opened a set of gilded doors, and a silent procession of nervous debs and their sponsors inched slowly forward, trying to avoid each other’s trains. Footmen waited with golden rods to drape those trains over the girls’ left arms, bouquets clutched in the right. One by one, their cards were handed again and names were called out.
‘Miss Agatha Peterson and the Marchioness of Eastley. Lady Mary Cartley and the Countess of Peterloff...’
They all vanished into the main throne room, two by two.
Then it was Violet’s turn. Lily handed over their cards and two footmen in their red coats and powdered hair bearing gold rods of office smoothed their skirts behind them and made sure Violet’s train was properly arranged. Something like a thin sheet of ice seemed to come down over her, after all those hours of practice in Lily’s sitting room, and it seemed to her as though she watched herself from high above. As though she sat among the painted cherubs of the plaster ceiling and watched it all as in a theatre. The royal family were gathered on a dais at the far end of the vast room with its slippery parquet floor and velvet curtains muffling any daylight.
She carefully removed one glove and glided slowly to the dais, praying she would not trip, would not rip her gown, lose her feathers, laugh or scream or otherwise disgrace herself.
She bit her lip and studied the people waiting for her, as she would for a photograph. Prince Bertie and Princess Alexandra, who presided over such official events since the Queen stayed in seclusion still, were the only ones sitting down, on red-and-gold high-backed chairs. The Prince was indeed rather large, his coat and satin waistcoat straining against the ribbon and star of the Garter, his bearded face red, but he smiled kindly. The Princess was even more beautiful than in her photographs, slim as a reed, dark-haired, faintly smiling as her husband did. She was dressed in a gorgeous gown of dark purple satin trimmed with black beaded lace and covered with diamonds, a spiked tiara on her hair. The ladies-in-waiting and equerries clustered behind them, looking rather bored.
Off to one side was Prince Alfred, the new bridegroom, wearing his naval uniform and a full, almost bushy beard. She wondered if he would still have it at his wedding. Next to him was a lady Violet recognised as one of the younger Princesses, the lovely Louise, who whispered to her brother and made him laugh. To either side of the dais was a crowd of courtiers, watching, watching, always watching.
One man caught Violet’s attention for an instant, making her falter. Was he real? How could anyone be so very handsome, so very haughty-looking? With such very green eyes? She could see the piercing light of them even from where she was. And he looked rather familiar...
Of course! He was the man on the horse, the gorgeous stranger. But now he looked so very stern. She looked away sharply, hoping he did not notice her.
‘Her Grace the Duchess of Lennox, presenting her sister Miss Violet Wilkins,’ the major-domo announced.
Bertie’s small blue eyes brightened and Princess Alexandra smiled vaguely.
Violet curtsied low to Bertie, holding up her head with one of her most practised smiles, praying she would not wobble. Bertie’s smile widened enthusiastically, and he reached out to raise Lily up and kiss each of her cheeks, a great honour usually reserved for royalty itself, along with Lily, it seemed. ‘My darling Duchess Lily, the American,’ he said, with his rolling r’s. ‘We have seen too little of you this Season!’
‘I have been rather busy, sir,’ Lily said with a laugh. Restoring a crumbling ducal castle and creating a new baby duke-to-be had indeed kept her busy, Violet thought.
‘But we shall all be in St Petersburg together soon, yes? And we have your lovely sister with us now.’ Bertie reached out to clap the shoulder of Prince Alfred, whose golden naval epaulettes shivered. He was much slimmer than his older brother, though perhaps getting a bit plump since leaving his ship, with handsome eyes above his beard and tanned skin from all his travels. ‘Though why he must go all the way to those snowy steppes to find a
bride...’
‘The Duke and I are most grateful to be invited,’ Lily said with a sweet smile. ‘And of course so is my sister Miss Wilkins. She longs to see Russia.’
Violet offered her own quivering smile and imitated Lily, holding out her bare hand for the Prince and Princess to take and curtsying again, as low as she dared. If only she didn’t tumble over! She trembled and noticed Princess Alexandra giving her an understanding smile.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ she murmured, managing to lift herself up again in one piece.
‘Lovely, lovely,’ the Prince said, his beady eyes taking her in from feathers to shoes. But she knew she was safe enough; they did say he only liked married ladies. ‘You are so like your fair sisters. We do like Americans here at Court.’
And then he turned away and Lily and Violet made their obeisance to the other royals. At last they came to the bit Violet feared the most, walking backwards out of the room.
She put on her glove, held out her arm and let the page drape her train back over it, neatly folded. Carefully, carefully, most especially to avoid that green-eyed man’s regard, hardly daring to breathe, she slowly backed out of the vast room and found herself in one of the anterooms where another glass of sherry waited on silver trays.
‘Very well done, Vi!’ Lily said.
Violet let her breath out with a great whoosh—as much as her tightly boned bodice would let her. She had done it! She hadn’t fallen or laughed loudly or made a gaffe. Even better, she’d seen several people she would love to photograph. Lords and ladies...princes and princesses.
The man with the green eyes.
Relieved, she let go of her long train and reached hungrily for a biscuit. As she followed Lily across the room, she heard a terrible loud noise, the rip-rip of satin cloth. But she was quite frozen in place.
Playing the Duke's Fiancée--A Victorian Historical Romance Page 4