by Robin Helm
“My sincerest apologies, Mr. Bancroft. I am sure your time is much too valuable to be spent in this way – in tedious conversation with a woman well past her youth,” Lady Montclair lamented.
“Your ladyship is much mistaken!” the man replied, knowing full well he was beaten. “Nothing could bring more pleasure than your delightful company!”
“It is her birthday, you see, and her parents have come to celebrate. Have you another appointment?” she inquired, noting how the man absently fingered his pocket watch. He dropped it immediately into the pocket.
“Just a Lady Kensington, my lady.”
“Ah, yes. I know her well.”
In fact, the woman was a battle axe of a mother who would eat poor Mr. Bancroft alive. The daughter was a timid, mousy creature with no personal attributes and no ambition.
Georgiana’s mission was clear. “I know just the thing. Please excuse me for a moment.” Mr. Bancroft bowed deeply, reverently.
The Countess returned before being missed, as Mr. Darcy had taken Mr. Bancroft in hand. Darcy was as interested as he was astute, so his conversation was a comfort for the flustered instructor. Not half an hour later, yet another visitor was announced, a Miss Kensington. The announcement took on a coaxing tone as the girl was apparently reluctant to enter. Georgiana quickly crossed the room, hands outstretched in a show of eager welcome and apology.
“Poor Miss Kensington! Practically kidnapped from her doorstep, I wager,” she began. Her orders had been precise in the extraction of the daughter. Alone.
“Mama,” muttered the bewildered girl.
“Oh yes, your mama was unable to accompany you! I quite understand. The scheme was so last minute. Not to worry, my dear, your mama will have her invitation before you are home. I do not believe she would object to our company?” Lady Montclair finished in mock alarm.
The girl’s confusion was complete. She stammered something to the effect of “unexceptionable” and “an honour” and so on, but her fear was evident. Mr. Bancroft was not so slow and pounced on the opportunity to tutor his pupil in the present company.
“Your dress, Miss Kensington. You have forgotten your dress. Never mind. We shall perform without it today.”
“Frivolous, scattered thoughts that I have! Of course, you must borrow Charlotte’s extra dress. One can never be too sure of accidents and complete destruction when it comes to court dress, so we ordered two,” Lady Montclair explained in an aside to her brother. She and the instructor promptly delivered the girl into the hands of the lady’s maid who, in turn, ushered her upstairs for dressing. The scheme was working flawlessly.
Charlotte had also been briefed on the expectant arrival of a fellow pupil, and she was eager to do her part in convincing the girl it was a normal affair.
“Ah, hello, Miss Kensington! You are very welcome, I am sure. In good time, too, for I have just finished my preparations and can do what I can to help you.” The posse attacked the visitor to begin stripping, corseting, and fluffing. “I cannot do much, mind you,” Charlotte said, raising her voice to be heard over the grunts and orders of the maids, “for I cannot move, or more importantly breathe, in this atrocity.”
The maids, not feeling the need to be overly gentle, finished in record time, and the pair was ready to descend.
Charlotte’s performance went increasingly awry. Once poised and athletic, even in the extra widths and lengths and heights of the court dress, she proceeded to basically unravel, though, miraculously, doing no damage to her apparel or accessories. The sad truth being, however, that she felt it the only decent thing to do in light of Miss Kensington’s performance. The girl seemed hopeless.
When finally released, the young women slowly climbed the stairs to the dressing rooms. Charlotte discreetly shooed away their attendants for a brief discussion with her new protégé.
“I do not know why I must be presented at court! I do not understand how my mother managed to arrange it! We have no connections,” she lamented quietly, wringing her hands.
“If you have no connections and know no one who will be present, then you are in luck!” Charlotte said encouragingly. Miss Kensington looked up tearfully. “Tis true! There will be no one to offend, no one to disappoint, and no one to report back to your Mama,” Charlotte explained, taking the plunge.
“I had not thought of that,” replied the other girl after a moment of thought. For the first time Charlotte could remember, an expression of peace washed over the girl’s countenance. It was soon gone. “But my court dress! If this,” she stated, indicating the borrowed dress, “is the appropriate arrangement, then I will be a mockery!”
Charlotte considered the problem for a brief moment as she tapped a finger against her lips.
“You must ruin it! I will help.”
Much later, when Miss Kensington returned home to her enraged mother, she could only giggle nervously, knowing there was much worse to come.
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
“There he is!” whispered Fanny excitedly to her circle of friends, waving her fan in a general direction. Mary, Charlotte, and Agatha attempted to look around without being obvious.
“Soon to be the most eligible Mr. on the market!” Mary agreed, spotting the appellation.
“I hear the family may be awarded a baronetcy, in honour of the father’s military accomplishments,” Fanny continued, expertly flipping open her fan.
Charlotte laughed. She had no idea who was falling prey to her ambitious friends, but she pitied him.
“He is rather handsome, is he not?” Agatha whispered, seeing the gentleman approaching. “Look lively, ladies,” she said quickly, running a gloved hand over her skirts to smooth the nonexistent wrinkles.
“Miss Darcy,” he said, in a clear, smooth tenor. Charlotte’s head spun around quickly.
“Hen … Mr. Brandon!” she corrected. “How lovely to see you here.”
He bowed over her hand and released it, looking around the circle of ladies.
“May I introduce my friends?” she asked. Once that was done, Charlotte turned him towards the punch line and led him there slowly. “What a surprise! I did not know you were in Town,” she began.
“I am just arrived,” he acknowledged.
Charlotte now noticed the furrowed brow and dark smudges beneath his eyes.
“You are at a ball after that arduous journey?”
“It is why I am here.”
“I did not realize this ball was so appealing,” pressed Charlotte, looking skeptically at the somewhat thin crowd.
“Not this ball particularly.” He stopped, looked around briefly, and then bowed. “I must move on. Thank you for your company. I believe you can pour your own punch?”
“You have not asked me for a dance,” Charlotte said, insistently tightening her hand on his arm.
“The fourth, then. Now I must go,” Henry replied, gently removing her hand.
“But why the fourth?”
“It was your age when we met.” He bowed briefly and moved further into the crowd.
Before she could blink, her friends were at her side.
“You know Mr. Brandon?” they demanded in unison.
“Since I was four years old,” Charlotte answered in bewilderment.
“Our chances are drastically diminished,” Mary complained.
“They do not behave as lovers,” noted Fanny, slapping the abused fan into her open palm.
“See how her eyes search for him even now?” Mary countered.
“He removed her hand from his arm,” Fanny insisted.
“It is a secret agreement,” Mary said, sighing romantically.
“Are you in love with Mr. Brandon?” Agatha asked Charlotte directly, glaring at the other girls.
Charlotte stared at her blankly for a moment, blinked, then blinked again.
“In … in love? With Henry?” She looked around the room before focusing on her friend once more. “How absurd!” she scoffed. “Why, I may as well be in love with my
own brother!”
The girls stood silently staring at each other, some calculating, others just breathing to calm frayed nerves.
“Well, all is right then,” Fanny concluded happily.
“We have been properly introduced,” Mary added.
“He did not ask us to dance,” Fanny huffed, fanning her pinking cheeks.
“Why the sudden interest in Mr. Brandon?” Charlotte interrupted, her thoughts clearing.
Fanny and Mary looked at Charlotte, then turned back to face each other.
“Not like brother and sister at all,” Mary muttered in disappointment.
“His estate is a fair distance away,” considered Fanny aloud.
“The post,” Mary countered, eyes rolling.
“Answer me!” Charlotte demanded.
“He is expected to come into his inheritance any day,” Agatha answered gently. Charlotte shook her head slowly. Agatha continued. “His father is very ill.”
“No,” Charlotte said simply. After some thought, she explained, “Mr. Brandon would not leave his father’s deathbed to come … find a wife,” she spat out the last word with disgust. “No.”
Not the Henry I know. Not the Henry who came uninvited and unannounced to sit at my bedside when I was ill. Not the Henry who has an opinion on every illness and how they should be treated.
“I must take the air,” she decided, turning in search of the nearest exit. As she turned, she nearly planted herself directly into the waistcoat of a Lord Dunham.
“I believe this dance is mine,” he said, bowing elegantly.
Upset and confused as she was, Charlotte was undeniably English. She buried her sensibilities in favor of etiquette and used the exercise of the dance to calm her nerves. When Henry claimed her for the fourth dance, she was composed and determined to enjoy the rare treat.
“Our first official dance,” she said teasingly as he led her to the floor.
“And I pray not the last,” he returned, bowing over her hand before releasing it to take his place.
Conversation was punctuated by breaks as the dance steps demanded, so topics were typically simple and short. Due to the familiar terms of their past, the usual subjects of weather and arrangements were pushed aside.
“You are to be presented at court, I believe?”
“Yes, this week, in fact. You will be relieved to know that the dress requirements are much more relaxed and modern now.”
“I shall now rest in perfect peace,” he replied comically.
“Unless you are my friend. Her dress is about a century too late and belongs in Madame Tussaud’s Separate Room of Horrors.”
“I believe feathers are worn in the head dress. How many shall you wear?”
“My aunt attempted to bestow the full seven on me, but I restrained her. A simple three is more to my taste, if I must wear them at all. She is the countess; I am not.”
“Are you enjoying the Season?”
“It is a new experience.” This was her chance. “I was surprised to see you here.”
Pass.
Pass.
“You have heard, I assume, that the Colonel is ill.”
“You must be here on some important business for him.”
“I am here at his request.”
The dance ended. He bowed, she curtseyed, and he led her from the floor.
“Shall I return you to your friends?”
“Let us take some fresh air on the balcony. It is just there,” she said, indicating the exit just a few steps away, as if he would be more likely to accept her offer with the close proximity. Once they reached the balcony, they saw a few other drifters waiting to go inside, so Charlotte rifled absently in her reticule, finally withdrawing a fan. She did not open it but rather toyed with it in her gloved fingers, seeming to admire the intricate paintings and gilt accents on the sticks.
“What is that?” Henry asked with interest.
“What?” Charlotte replied, quickly adding, “oh, this!” as she realized what she held in her hand. “A treasure from a friend.” Then, with a saucy wink, she elaborated. “It was from My Valentine this year. I carry it with me always.” She placed the fan into his outstretched hand. As he opened it to admire the scenes on the skin, she continued. “I believe it is infused with good luck.”
“Why is that?” he asked smiling, folding it carefully to return.
“The one time I misplaced my reticule and had to leave for a ball without it, our carriage wheel broke off, I tripped during a dance, and I spilled punch all over my gown.”
The friends laughed, but the joy quickly faded into an awkward silence. Henry spoke first.
“I would rather be home.”
“Of course, you would!” Charlotte said comfortingly. “Please,” she said softly, placing a gloved hand on his arm for a brief moment, “please, do not do anything rash. You deserve perfect happiness.”
Henry’s smile was heart breaking. It said clearly that he had no choice.
⸟ﻬ⸞ﻬ⸟
The day of the Presentation arrived, and Charlotte had much to accomplish. The Countess of Montclair had graciously opened her doors to several young ladies, with their respective entourages, who were to be prepared and presented on the same day. Among those invited was an obscure Miss Kensington.
“Miss Who?” Fanny asked blankly, wracking her usually very sharp memory for any tiny bit of information.
“Kensington,” repeated Charlotte, enjoying this monumental lapse.
“The daughter of Lady Hatchet Kensington?” Mary asked in surprise.
“I heard the wife came from Trade and was only wed to save the family from ruin,” Fanny added in disgust – for the source of the money, not the source of ruin who had been the previous, extravagant Baron Leighton of Kensington.
Fanny and Mary’s eyes widened considerably at Charlotte’s affirmation.
“But Hetta is a dear, I assure you,” she said reassuringly, “and I am counting especially on you two to welcome and encourage her.”
Lady Kensington and her daughter arrived in due time and were ushered into the rooms designated for the preparation process. A procession of maids was enrolled for the arduous task of bringing in the dress. While the mother fussed and fretted over every clumsy attempt to crush the material, the onlookers had every opportunity to take in the complete travesty and horror that signified the monstrosity. What first caught the eye was the hoop – it required two maids rolling it like a wheel through the door – and still two more maids with long sashes thrown over the top to decrease its height. The colours were bold and matronly, nothing like what a young, hopeful bride would want to wear, the train was longer than the room, and the headdress was frightening.
“Shall we be seeing only bald birds in the Park this Season?” Fanny whispered to Mary behind her fan.
“Not to worry,” Mary comforted, “they shall die of mortification first.”
The birds were soon forgotten when the new bearer of their plumage was seen in all her glory. Tears rolled silently down her pale cheeks as her ever-present Mama pecked and harped on all and sundry.
“We must do something,” Fanny said after gathering their small group of schemers together.
“She has not yet made it across the room without tripping,” Mary agreed.
“Very likely blinded by her tears,” Fanny added.
“I have a plan,” Charlotte announced, face gleaming with pride in her friends.
Small snifters of wine, a few laced with brandy, were ordered to help calm the frayed nerves of the girls. Blankets were wrapped around the precious garments to prevent spillage, but somehow, a major catastrophe still occurred. No clear account was ever consistently given, but it began just after Lady Montclair’s toast, while the glasses were raised. Miraculously, even the careful consideration of pouring snifters instead of full glasses had no effect on the magnitude of destruction.
“Aunt, it was my fault! I attempted to move into sight of you and trampled Miss Kensington�
�s train. I immediately leapt off …,” Charlotte began.
“But I was following too close behind where she could not see me, and we collided. It was my fault!” Fanny insisted.
“Nonsense!” Mary interrupted. “I was reaching for Charlotte to help guide her into a better position. She is as graceful as a gazelle and would have made her leap free and clear, if she had not been holding my hand.”
“If only there had been enough sheets to cover all of Miss Kensington’s dress!” bemoaned Charlotte.
“The torn train mayhap could be mended in time,” Fanny added encouragingly.
“And only half of the feathers were injured,” comforted Mary.
“Little fools!” hissed the enraged matron. “Do you have any idea to what lengths I had to go for that dress to be assembled?”
“Did you have to rob a display at the Abbey?” mumbled Fanny behind her fan.
Charlotte snorted delicately into her gloved hand.
Lady Montclair affected a glare at the girls, offering a most profuse apology to the distressed mother.
“Fortunately, my niece has another dress with all supporting pieces. The poor dear can be so clumsy at times, I thought it best to have an additional one made up. You daughter is welcome to wear it.”
Lady Kensington stood frozen and mute for one wonderful moment before adopting an expression of suspicion.
“My daughter and your niece are not at all similar in size or shape. What is this trickery you are playing?” she asked, leaning towards her hostess.
“That is my offer,” Georgiana said simply. “You may use the dress or not.”
“And what of your niece? Is she to have no repercussion?”
“As her mother,” rang a voice from her shoulder, “I can assure you that my Charlotte did nothing with the intention of hurting your daughter. It is well she did not spoil her own dress and require the spare.”
Lady Kensington inhaled sharply, ready to spit venom at such lower class gentry with their poor country manners but decided to swallow it with what poise she could muster. Her daughter needed a dress or would not be presented. She would therefore not be as marketable, and the girl needed all the help she could get. Her mother was not blinded by affection.