Chapter 15
Women are always counseled to keep quiet and let men do the talking. This might be good advice under some circumstances. One can learn a great deal by allowing someone else to fill an uncomfortable silence. However, this strategy is woefully inadequate for dealing with the likes of Lawrence Sinclair. I swear, silence is his native state.
—from the diary of Lady Caroline Lovell
Lord and Lady Frampton’s home in Mayfair was not quite as grand as Lovell House. Caroline remembered from last Season that there was no dedicated entertaining space on their topmost story. Instead, the drawing room on the ground floor was transformed into a ballroom. All the furniture was removed, except for chairs and settees, which were pushed to the perimeter of the space to provide seating for those who did not dance but wished to watch those who did.
Lady Frampton’s parlor was pressed into service as a card room for those who preferred games over “tripping the light fantastic toe.” The spacious dining room was already being prepared for the upcoming midnight supper, and no doubt a first-story parlor had been transformed into a ladies’ retiring room.
Upon arriving, Caroline planned to seek out that room. Anything to escape the watchful eye of her parents. She wished she could have accompanied her brothers later, when they came in the Chatham carriage’s second trip. The Lovell boys always made for a jolly party. But Lady Chatham had insisted Caroline ride with her and Lord Chatham. This arrangement made it easier for Caroline’s mother to pepper her with advice the whole time they bounced over the cobbles.
“Your posture has been sadly lacking of late. Stand up straight, but don’t square your shoulders. A lady’s should be delicately rounded.”
“Yes, Mother.” I wonder what she’d have to say about my posture if I decided to stand on my head in the middle of the dance floor?
“Don’t meet anyone’s gaze too boldly, but don’t be unapproachable either.”
“Yes, Mother.” Honestly, walking a tightrope would be easier than this narrow path.
“Be sure to greet everyone. The last thing you should do is disappear into a corner with those simpering friends of yours.”
“I happen to like my simpering friends.” And by the way, only I am allowed to call them simpering.
“Your loyalty does you credit, but gossiping in the corner is never attractive.”
“We don’t gossip.” Not all the time.
“The pool of eligible gentlemen is a bit slim this year. You need to show yourself to best advantage.”
The rebellious thoughts that had been running through Caroline’s head finally found their way out of her mouth. “Perhaps we ought to take out an advertisement in the Times listing my sterling qualities.”
“Caroline,” her father said gruffly. He seldom reproved her, so his tone was enough to leave her thoroughly chastised.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Don’t be sorry,” her mother said. “Do better. This is likely your last Season, you know.”
God be praised nearly sprang from her lips, but she was certain her father would recognize her pious outburst for the mutinous exclamation it was. So she merely nodded, grateful the carriage finally rolled to a stop before Lord and Lady Frampton’s town house.
Once inside, her mother couldn’t resist one last bit of instruction.
“The more time an unattached lady has to see and be seen before the festivities begin, the more likely her dance card will be full,” her mother explained as the footman took their wraps at the door. The footman handed her a gilded dance card with her name at the top and the order of dances to be performed listed in ornate script.
“There seem to be no partners penciled in on my card,” she told her mother.
“Ah! That’s Lady Frampton for you. She prefers to allow the assembly to sort itself out instead of having partners preselected. She’s always been a bit eccentric,” her mother said, clearly wishing their hostess had left less to chance. “That’s why we made sure you arrived before your brothers, you see. This way there’s ample time for gentlemen to request a dance before the festivities begin.”
“Indeed, Mother,” Caroline said, softly enough that her father couldn’t hear. “The bird that hangs most prominently in the butcher’s window is always the first to be sold.”
“Behave,” her mother whispered and shot her a look of censure as Caroline’s father headed for the card room.
“Oh, look. There’s Lady Ackworth,” her mother said. “No, don’t look. She’ll think we’re talking about her.”
“Perhaps because we are?”
“Lady Ackworth considers herself the final arbiter of propriety.” Lady Chatham was careful to keep her voice soft. “If she gives you a black mark, it doesn’t go away.”
The obnoxious busybody divided the ton into two camps. One was either her sycophant or her target. Even Lady Chatham, the most proper of countesses, was terrified of finding herself in the vindictive witch’s sights. Caroline’s mother palmed her cheek.
“You see now why I admonish you to be on your best behavior. I’d walk through fire for you, sweeting, but even the most doting mother cannot protect her daughter from that old scold’s tongue.”
When her mother took that tone, Caroline felt a stab of guilt over her rebellious attitude. Not enough to change, of course, but she did regret causing her mother grief.
“I’ll try, Mother,” she promised. Trying wasn’t always succeeding, so she didn’t feel as if she’d fibbed. Given half a chance this evening, Caroline intended to misbehave in the extreme.
Then Lady Chatham spied a group of her friends near the punch bowl on the far side of the room and threaded her way through the press to them. Caroline made for the base of the broad staircase. Before ascending to seek the retiring room to make sure the gem-studded pins Alice had tucked into her coiffure had survived the carriage ride, Caroline stood still for a moment, searching the crowd.
Lawrence was nowhere to be seen.
Drat the man! He promised he’d be here.
Instead, Horatia, with Frederica at her side, caught Caroline’s eye. Across the room, Horatia gesticulated wildly with her fan in Caroline’s direction. Since her debut, Horatia had been studying what she called “the language of the fan.” It was an arcane set of stylized movements, more suited to the previous generation’s flirtations than theirs, but because it had fallen out of fashion, Horatia was convinced the three of them could use the gestures to communicate clandestinely when they were in public.
It might have worked if Freddie had possessed a better memory or Caroline had shown the least interest in learning the signals. So instead of conveying a secret message, Horatia looked as if she were being accosted by a cloud of midges.
When Caroline didn’t respond in kind, Horatia and Frederica scurried across the room to her, nearly bowling her over when they reached her.
“Oh, Caroline, where’ve you been?” Horatia complained. “Well, no matter. You’re here at last.”
“We thought you were coming early, dear,” Frederica explained.
“I thought I did.”
“Never mind. You’re here now,” Horatia hissed. To the glittering assemblage, her friend presented a brittle smile. However, Caroline spotted real tears trembling on Horatia’s lashes. “Perhaps you can think of a way to salvage the situation. I confess I’m at a loss.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“It’s a disaster, I tell you,” Horatia said, still smiling bravely. “A total, unmitigated disaster.”
“Indeed one might class it a disaster of biblical proportions,” Frederica said agreeably. “Truly, how shall dear Horatia ever show her face again?”
“It’s not my fault, you little goose. Why are you acting as if I’m to blame?”
Frederica blinked at Horatia with the innocence of a newborn lamb. “Well, whose fault is it, then?”
“Come now. Settle down, you two,” Caroline said, pulling them off to a quiet spot. The rest of Lord and Lady Frampton’s guests were milling about in clumps of twos and threes, so their conference in the corner should call no undue attention. Unless, of course, her mother should happen to spot her “gossiping with her simpering friends.” In that case, Caroline would catch it later, but she’d deal with her mother’s scolding then. Horatia was in real distress now. “Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as all that.”
“Oh, yes, it can,” Horatia said miserably. “Look.” Setting the spangles on her headdress quivering, she jerked her head to the right, indicating where Caroline should direct her gaze.
Across the ballroom, Caroline spied Miss Penelope Braithwaite. She was decked out in an almost exact replica of Horatia’s ensemble. If the gowns had been perfectly identical, Horatia might have been satisfied. Between the two of them, she easily had the more fashionable figure. Penelope’s bosom was far too full to be stylish. But it was the almost exactness of their gowns that tipped the scales in Miss Braithwaite’s favor.
The cut and style of the gowns were the same. The shade of ivory was like two matched pearls. But while Horatia’s gown was of lustring, Miss Braithwaite’s was fashioned of much costlier watered silk, covered with silver netting. The dear seed pearls and silver embroidery on Penelope’s gown made Horatia’s spangles seem tawdry and common by comparison. Their head dresses were also identical, save that Penelope’s boasted a splendid ostrich feather. Its grand height made the headdress seem like an achievement of major architectural importance.
By contrast, Horatia’s was a mud-speckled shack.
“How could this have happened again?” she almost wailed.
“Hush.” Caroline grasped Horatia’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “If you let others know you’re bothered by this, it will be worse for you. Your gown is perfectly lovely.” That would have been true had Penelope not been wearing the drastically improved version of it. “Chin up, my dear, and ignore her. Others will, too.”
Penelope’s laugh made their gazes swivel toward her and the older gentleman at her side.
As part of her “finishing,” Caroline had been taught that a lady’s laugh must be genteel. “An ethereal sound no more obtrusive than an angel’s sigh,” her deportment teacher had told her. Penelope’s laugh was more like a demented cackle.
“How can we ignore that?” Frederica asked.
The older gentleman with Miss Braithwaite made a courtly obeisance over her gloved hand, then left her to make his way to the card room.
“Who was that with her?” Caroline asked.
“Lord Ware,” Horatia said dully. “He’s been hovering about Penelope like a bee around a flower since we got here.”
Maybe that’s why Lawrence hasn’t come. He knew his uncle would be here.
“Have you seen anyone else we know?”
“Oh, my, yes,” Frederica said excitedly. “We’ve encountered Miss Cowper and Lady Greenhalgh and those three sisters—I forget their names, but they’re the ones who play wind instruments so…memorably.”
“By memorably you mean wretchedly, dear. And they’re the Misses Harewood—Letitia, Lavinia, and Lucinda,” Horatia supplied. “I so pity the one who plays bassoon.”
“It does sound rather like a gander with a head cold, doesn’t it?” Freddie added.
“Forget how it sounds. The poor girl who has to play it must make sure her skirts are plain enough not to catch on the unwieldy thing. Imagine having to forget fashion for the sake of a musical instrument.”
Forget fashion? The musical world will never forget the way the Harewood sisters desecrated that transcribed Boccherini trio last week, Caroline thought but didn’t say. If speaking ill of others was a prayer to the devil, she didn’t dare. How was Caroline to wrangle a declaration from Lawrence tonight if she didn’t have help from every angel in the vicinity?
“Is there anyone else here I should know about?” she asked.
Frederica colored up prettily. “Lord Rowley has arrived. He smiled at me when he first came in.”
“He smiles at everyone,” Horatia said pettishly.
“Anyone else?”
“No, Caro. Your Mr. Sinclair has not shown his face yet,” Frederica said.
Caroline blinked in surprise. Sometimes she underestimated Freddie’s powers of observation. “Again, he’s not my Mr. Sinclair.”
“Not for lack of your trying,” Horatia muttered.
Caroline glared at her.
“Oh, dear Caro, don’t frown so.” Frederica patted her forearm soothingly. “Your face might stay like that.”
“Freddie, you sound like my mother. I shall frown if I please.” Caroline pulled what she was sure must be a truly horrific expression. “And whatever face I end up with, I will deserve. At least it will be because of my own choices. For pity’s sake, can I not have one evening without everyone trying to tell me what—”
“Lady Caroline, if that frown is any indication, you are still a damsel in distress.” Oliver Rowley appeared before the three of them. He made a formal leg to the girls, a bow that would have been more at home in the ballroom of a generation past. Despite his actions, his grin was anything but proper. Frederica giggled nervously, but Rowley kept his focus on Caroline. “Judging from your dreadful scowl, there must yet be a dragon lurking in your haymow.”
“No, just a rogue standing before me,” she said, extending a hand for him to make a civilized obeisance over. She smiled back at him, remembering the boy he’d been. “Rowley, it is good to see you. You’ve been such a stranger since you and Teddy came home.”
“Yes, well, there were a number of matters that required my attention upon our return.” His gaze swiveled to Frederica. “Miss Tilbury, how enchanting you are this evening. I look forward to sharing the supper dance with you later, but now I must beg Lady Caroline for the minuet.”
A string quartet was beginning to tune up in an alcove adjoining the drawing room. Judging from the purity of their scales and singing tone, this ensemble would far exceed the musical endeavors of the Harewood sisters.
“Surely the dance master has already designated a couple,” Caroline said. Few dancers knew the minuet and even fewer could do justice to its intricate steps. It was often skipped over when the lady of the house called the order of dances. If the minuet was performed at all, it was done only as an exhibition. The dance was spritely and elegant, and Caroline’s toes tapped inside her slippers, itching to try it. “I shouldn’t wish to push myself forward.”
“You’re not,” Rowley assured her. “I’ve already done the pushing for you. I know what a brilliant dancer you are, so I brought you to the attention of the dancing master.”
“Thank heaven the master didn’t catch you making that horrible face,” Frederica said.
“Quite,” Rowley agreed. “In any case, the master remembered your dancing from other fêtes and suggested we pair up for the minuet. Say you will.” Then he drew himself up to his full height to issue the formal invitation. “Lady Caroline, may I have the honor of this dance?”
Caroline often railed against the lack of choices in a lady’s life and indeed, she had none now. So long as she knew the gentleman who asked her to dance, a lady was required to accept his invitation or remain a wallflower for the rest of the evening.
Lawrence had been adamant that Freddie should turn Rowley down for the supper dance. Since then, Caroline had suffered a number of niggling reservations about her old friend.
But she had no reservations whatsoever about dancing the minuet with him. She dipped into a low, graceful curtsy.
“The honor is mine, Lord Rowley.”