Chapter Thirty-Eight
Emma and Charlotte had a herculean feat to accomplish in just five days’ time. This distraction made it easier for Emma to bear her husband’s avoidance. She tried not to think of it, instead declaring that their limited time dictated abandonment of all but the most imperative training for Charlotte’s debut ball—dancing, dresses, and basic comportment. Their days consisted of dance lessons each morning followed by outings in the afternoon, for Charlotte needed not only dresses, but undergarments, hats, gloves, and a complete wardrobe of shoes. Emma spent each evening closeted with the housekeeper and butler of Worley House, planning every last detail of the event, while Charlotte was given time to herself.
Two days before Charlotte’s debut ball the ladies attended a final gown fitting at the shop of Madame Desmarais. The dressmaker had proven most graciously willing to forgive Charlotte’s prior poor behavior in light of the liberty with which the duchess accumulated purchases and the haste with which the duke’s steward settled the charges on her account.
On this particular afternoon, the ladies were ushered to a private room where Charlotte donned the nearly completed creation.
“Oh, Madame Desmarais, you were so very wise,” Aunt Agatha gasped when she saw Charlotte in the gown. Most of the other fabrics the ladies had chosen for Charlotte were shades of blue or lavender that brought out her stunning eyes. On their first visit, Madame Desmarais had looked at Charlotte’s mass of raven hair and sapphire eyes and announced she had the perfect vision.
She had proceeded to show the ladies a bolt of rich satin in such a muted dusty rose, that nearly blended with the skin. All three ladies had attempted to tactfully suggest to Madame Desmarais that perhaps the color was too drab. The countess pointed out that most women would not find their complexion flattered by the shade they’d been shown. But Madame Desmarais had been insistent.
And she had clearly been correct. Emma could not believe how effectively the dress transformed Charlotte from a lovely young girl into an elegant, exotic-looking woman. While Emma’s brown hair and golden brown eyes would have been washed out by the bare rose color, Charlotte’s rich, dark locks and sparklingly blue eyes were strikingly bold in contrast to the pale fabric.
In her creative genius, the dressmaker had not accented the dress with any color that would have lessened the effect, but rather heightened the contrast between the pale dress and Charlotte’s dark coloring by trimming it with handmade Venetian lace dyed midnight black. The lace began at the lower left corner of gown’s raised waistline and spread like a creeping, tentacled vine across her chest and over her right shoulder. The lace angled across Charlotte’s back in meandering scrolls and wound its way down the left side of the long skirt.
“It is absolutely stunning,” Emma announced. “You look sophisticated and mysterious in this gown. You will be declared an incomparable.”
Charlotte was completely engaged in spinning in front of the mirror and admiring her reflection in the dress. “I do look mysterious, don’t I?”
Emma laughed, pleased with Charlotte’s growing enthusiasm. “You certainly do.”
One of the shop girls bustled into the room and whispered to Madame Desmarais, who smiled at the ladies. “I must see to another matter. I will leave you to admire the beautiful Lady Charlotte for a little while longer and return in just a moment.”
“Of course,” Emma responded. Charlotte seemed perfectly content gazing at the reflection of her new self.
The seamstress left and soon her loud greeting of another customer filtered to them in their privacy. Emma’s face pinched as she recognized the voice that responded. Lady Wolfe. Emma caught her aunt’s eye and they both looked at Charlotte, who remained enraptured with her appearance and none the wiser that the Queen of Gossips had just entered their midst.
“Ah the lovely Georgiana,” they heard Madame Desmarais gush. “I do love to dress such a beautiful young lady.”
“She is not as young as when you first dressed her,” came Lady Wolfe’s curt reply. “I will not have her in a third season without a serious suitor. Her dresses must get her noticed.”
“Certainement.” The dressmaker’s lilting voice sailed past the awkwardness of Lady Wolfe’s harsh comment. “No one will fail to notice you in my next creation, darling. You may be sure of it.”
“I…I don’t think I would be comfortable in anything too bold,” Georgiana’s soft voice declared.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” snapped her mother. “If you were willing to be bold, you’d be married to the Duke of Worley now, instead of that ridiculous upstart he rejected years ago.”
That comment drew Charlotte’s attention. Her eyes shot to Emma’s in the mirror.
Emma went to Charlotte’s side. “It’s no matter,” she said quietly. “There will always be unkind people. Why don’t we get you out of this dress?”
Emma began unfastening Charlotte’s new dress. She could only imagine the depth of poor Georgiana’s embarrassment. She hoped for the girl’s sake the shop was otherwise empty.
“It’s for the best anyway, I say,” Lady Wolfe continued eventually, completely contradicting her prior criticism. “I wouldn’t want a respectable daughter of mine charged with launching Charlotte Brantwood into society. I have heard from a reliable source that she isn’t even his sister. She is his Spanish mistress and he has brought her to England right under his new duchess’s nose. Scandalous.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened at this latest slander. The flush rose quickly from her chest to her hairline and her eyes narrowed. “Who is that woman?” she hissed.
“Lady Wolfe. She is a ridiculous gossip,” Emma said quietly, aiding Charlotte in stepping out of the dress. “Those who prefer to be unkind will repeat the things she says, but most among the ton know she is considerably more mean spirited than she is well informed.”
“My, well…” The dressmaker’s voice faltered. “I certainly know nothing about all of that, but I do know dresses, and we shall have you in lovelier gowns than you could possibly have imagined. Why don’t you come with me into my private office?” she suggested conspiratorially. “I have drawings there of some new designs I’ve been working on. I think we can find something entirely original for Georgiana.”
The offer to have her daughter at the cutting edge of fashion was enough to tempt Lady Wolfe into the shop’s back office. When Madame Desmarais returned to the private dressing room in which Emma and her family waited, the dressmaker looked positively stricken. “Your Grace, I do so sincerely apologize…”
“There is no need,” Emma said, with a dismissive wave. “You are not responsible for the poor behavior of your customers, Madame. We are overwhelmingly pleased with all you’ve prepared for us, particularly this latest gown for Lady Charlotte. I have decided she must have it for her debut ball. Will it be ready in time?”
Madame Desmarais clasped her hands together. “Absolument! Oh, I am so glad. She will be stunning,” the seamstress said, with a beaming smile toward Charlotte. “Très belle.”
The seamstress shuffled off again and Charlotte gazed mournfully down at the dress, now lying draped across the shop’s table. “Emma,” she said uncertainly.
Emma stilled. It was the first time Charlotte had ever called her by name. “Yes, Charlotte?”
Charlotte’s playful joy was gone. “Are you certain this is the right dress for my debut?” She ran one hand over the trail of black lace down the gown’s side. “This dress is beautiful, but I look so different in it. We all agreed. Given what I’ll be facing, I think we should choose one of the other gowns. One of the plainer gowns that would never be described as exotic or mysterious.”
“Oh, Charlotte, you are wrong. This dress is exactly what you need. Tomorrow afternoon Aunt Agatha will bring her friends for tea and we shall discuss the whole thing. I’m not the least concerned about Lady Wolfe. She will be more help than harm. Just wait.”
* * *
Emma found an opportunity to address one of the final, more important details of Charlotte’s debut when she shared a few moments with Mr. Brydges in the drawing room while awaiting John and Charlotte for dinner.
“We are just a few short days away. Such an important day for us all,” Emma commented to open the conversation as she seated herself on the sofa. “I am so proud of Charlotte’s progress. She has a lovely way about her when she dances. She will draw attention, I am certain.”
“She will draw attention if she stands in the corner,” was his droll reply. “Given the stories that are circulating.”
“Charlotte should have no trouble finding a bevy of suitors,” Emma continued, ignoring his reference to the gossips. “I believe Mr. Greystoke is still in need of a wife,” she offered casually.
Mr. Brydges charged forward in his seat. “That’s preposterous. He’s ancient.”
Emma feigned indignation at the voracity of his response. “I don’t see how it’s so preposterous. He was, after all, considered a perfectly acceptable suitor for me. I should think he would be so for Charlotte as well.”
“He’s not good enough. She’s…she’s the daughter of a duke, for one thing.”
Emma’s expression remained placid as she digested the voracity of his response. “I am the daughter of an earl. Besides, even though she is the daughter of a duke, you must allow her background is not entirely conventional. She was raised in America, after all.”
“In Boston, for God’s sake, not by a pack of wolves.”
She continued without regard to his darkening expression. “And as we’ve discussed, there are the inevitable rumors of her legitimacy.”
“Lies, all of it. If any of that tripe ever reaches her ears…”
The implied violence of his incomplete thought had Emma softening her tone. “You can’t protect her from it.”
“Like hell, I can’t.”
Emma smiled. Satisfied she had her answer, she straightened her shoulders. “Good,” she clipped. “Then I may count on you to be in attendance at Charlotte’s come out and at more than your normal number of events for the remainder of the season? If we are to put the strongest foot forward on her behalf, we’ll require a show of solidarity.”
Hugh grunted. “Greystoke. Preposterous.”
Emma wasn’t fooled by his noncommittal response. “I’ve come to care about Charlotte a great deal. I’m sure she is greatly comforted to know she can rely upon your friendship through this daunting experience.”
“She does not require friends who are intent on steering her into marriages to ancient men.”
Once again ignoring his comment, she reached out to place a hand on his arm and smiled warmly up at him. “Just as I have come to consider you a friend.”
He raised a questioning brow. “A friend, Your Grace? Are you sure it’s wise to become friends with an insufferable oaf such as me?”
Emma laughed. He was teasing her with her own words, but this time he meant it kindly. He loved Charlotte and so she could love him, particularly if he would protect Charlotte with the ferocity she’d glimpsed that afternoon. Charlotte was not in need of suitors. She, at least, would have a love match. He had her blessing, did he understand that? There was no way for her to explain while he was not ready to admit his feelings, but she would have liked to be able to tell him.
“Yes,” she said, with her hand still on his arm, “I think I shall be very glad of your friendship.”
* * *
Emma spoke little as Liese arranged her hair for the evening’s event. Her mind, however, was not quiet as she stared at the elaborate jade-and-pearl evening gown she would don when her hair was finished. The event was not only Charlotte’s debut. It was Emma’s debut as well—her first society appearance as Duchess of Worley.
Most importantly, though, it was the fulfillment of her bargain. Her marriage was built upon this night. All that her husband had asked of her would be measured by the conduct of one girl and the reactions of a hundred others. Yet the question that occupied her mind was not one of success or failure.
Was she satisfied with the bargain she had struck?
She looked at her dress again. It was without doubt the most extravagant garment she’d ever owned. She had not married John for fine dresses or any of the other trappings of life as a duchess. She had bargained for her mother’s garden and a boy’s life, and she had received those things, but she was not satisfied. She now wanted something entirely different for her side of the trade. Even mercenary dealings allowed for renegotiations, did they not? She had already given more to the bargain that she had ever intended. Could she ask for more in return?
There was a knock on her chamber door and, with a fleeting and futile hope that her husband had come, she sent Liese to answer it. Liese went quickly to the door, spoke a moment, and returned, her eyes wide with concern.
“It seems you’re needed, Your Grace. There’s a man downstairs to see you.”
A man. Not a guest. A man. Carriages bearing their arriving guests were expected to begin appearing any moment, but if this man were a guest, the staff would have known what to do.
“Were you given a name, Liese?”
“Pritchard, Your Grace.”
Pritchard? “Where is my husband? Inform him of the visitor at once.”
“His Grace is not in. That’s why I’m to send you. The gentleman asked for the duke first.”
Emma’s chin fell. She briefly closed her eyes and allowed herself one slow, deep breath. She could hear Lucy’s voice in her mind, urging her to be practical. If she intended to ask for more from her husband, then she must be all that he expected of her as well. Tonight she would prove her mettle. Charlotte’s success would be her success and then, just perhaps, she could recapture her husband’s attention.
She opened her eyes and instructed Liese calmly. “Tell them to put Pritchard in His Grace’s study. I will speak with him there. Also, if my uncle or Mr. Brydges have arrived, they should be informed as well and join us in the study.” She exhaled. “Then hurry back, as I’ll require your assistance to get into this dress as quickly as possible.”
* * *
John cursed as he felt the carriage come to a stop yet again. He and his men had spent an entire wasted day tracking Pritchard, only to have him evade them again. He had remained steadfast in his determination to search for the man until the last possible moment at which he must return home. John was barely arriving back at the town house in time to don his evening finery and appear at his family’s side to greet their guests.
He rapped on the carriage. “What is the hold up?” he called.
“Can’t get through,” his coachman called back. “There’s a line o’ carriages in front of the house, takin’ up the square.”
John moved to the small window and peeked out. “Take me around to the mews,” he called. He would have to enter the house through the kitchen. He couldn’t very well arrive along with the guests.