Barbara Metzger (12 page)

Gentleman after gentleman entered the box, as Priscilla knew they would. Lord This and Sir That, here was her devoted court. For the first time in Miss Ponsonby’s reign as an accredited beauty, however, the callers had not come to worship at her throne. Instead of poetic tributes to her face and form, instead of invitations to late suppers and carriage rides, instead of pleas for a dance at the next ball, the gentlemen all wanted introductions to that underbred, overblown Jacey Trevaine! It was too much for a delicate—and not so generously endowed—female to bear.

“It’s so very close in here, I fear I might faint,” she lisped to the only gentleman who was paying her any attention, Lord Malcolm Anton-Fredricks. “Do you think you could accompany me to the hall for some fresh air?”

“My very heart’s desire.” The well-oiled nobleman’s reply fairly oozed.

Priscilla departed, making a great to-do over her incipient swoon, which no one noticed, shamefully leaving Jacelyn alone with a box full of strangers and only a mortified Mr. Sprague to play chaperone.

The situation didn’t faze Miss Trevaine an iota. Goodness, if she could deal with the worldly earl, what were a few boys, more or less? Laughing, showing her dimples, she treated them all alike, even a Spanish count and the son of a duke, all the same way she treated Lem or her neighbours’ schoolboy sons—like friends. Soon they were all laughing over some of Pen’s exploits, for the big dog had certainly not gone unnoticed in Hyde Park, and dogs were such an easy, comfortable topic of conversation. No one had to think up flowery compliments or discuss the weather when an item like Pen was around.

Talk soon flowed from the subject of one four-footed creature to another, the major interest of the sporting gentlemen.

“I say, Miss Trevaine, do you ride?”

“You forget I’m a country cousin, Lord Milbrooke. Of course I ride, if you call your Hyde Park trails much of a course.”

“My groom mentioned a lady riding with Claibourne this morning. That must have been you, then. He said you were a real goer, your pardon, ma’am.”

Jacelyn chuckled. “No apologies needed, and thank him for the compliment. I like riding above all things.”

There followed suggestions for day rides to Richmond and Surrey, so many conflicting invitations that Jacelyn had to smile and mention that her aunt may have plans. Then Viscount Farthingale had such a splendid idea he had to raise his voice to make sure that Jacelyn heard: “What about a fox hunt, Miss Trevaine? I know Ponsonby’s uncle keeps a pack. We could—”

“My lord.” Jacelyn’s voice rang out in the quiet following the viscount’s shout. “I do not hunt. My friends do not hunt. If you choose to pursue such a grisly hobby—note I do not say sport—then I think you should consider something less gruesome, like bashing each other’s heads in at your Gentleman Jackson’s. Either way, I must request that you not discuss this topic with me, as it distresses me greatly.”

The shocked silence was broken by Arthur’s gagging. He and Claibourne had returned with the lemonade, which Arthur swilled at the first mention of a fox. Claibourne was about to come forward when the
Conde
de Silva, a polished fellow more interested in his clothes than his horses, put in, “No one would think of distressing such a charming
señorita, si
? Not when your laughter has more music than the
periquitas
on the stage. Who needs such exertion anyway, when just seeing you in your magnificent blue gown is enough for mortal man?”

Jacelyn’s dimples returned. “
Gracias, seńor,
” she said, “but I am sure you exerted more effort on your costume than any of us!” bringing the laughter back.

Priscilla was not taking chances with the second intermission. She commandeered Arthur to escort her to the vestibule. Since a mere brother added nothing to her consequence, she lowered herself to invite the secretary, Sprague, along too. Aunt Amabel stayed put, having been unpleasantly reminded of her duties by Lady Ponsonby’s: “I see the chit’s behaviour is still as common as her dress. My sympathy, of course.”

In this
entr’acte
, however, curiosity overcame diffidence, as many of the mothers of the previous visitors called at Lady Parkhurst’s box. This time Aunt Amabel performed the introductions, and Jacelyn answered prettily, not even bristling when quizzed about her pedigree by the Duchess of Hockney.

“Ah, Trevaine’s daughter. I’m sorry to hear of his ill health. Yes, you have your mother’s look. What a cheerful girl she was; we all miss her. Glad to see you’ve got her liveliness too, instead of your father’s bookish ways. Not to say a girl should have more hair than wit, but we can use a little lightheartedness. This place has gotten so proper”—with an eye on Clothilda Ponsonby—“a lady dasn’t belch. Why, in my day…”

Jacelyn and Claibourne were still chuckling when Her Grace and the others left and Priscilla returned to the box.

“I suppose that old dragon warned you away from her son, Farthingale,” Miss Ponsonby hissed as she took her seat next to Jacelyn.

“Why no, she invited me to tea.”

The Ponsonbys did not stay for the third act.

*

The next day being Sunday, everyone went to church, St. George’s in Hanover Square, naturally, where everyone who mattered could be seen at prayers. Everyone except Mme. Aubonier, that is, who announced she would rather attend St. Francis d’Assisi, a Roman church popular with the French emigrés.

“I have been a loyal and devoted member of the Anglican church at Littleton in Durham, the only church in Littleton,
n’est-ce-pas
? for nearly thirty years. Today, when I have the chance, I would like to visit a church of my younger days. Perhaps I shall renew some old acquaintances, who knows?”

“Of course, Aunt Simone,” Jacelyn agreed, immediately calling for another carriage to be brought ’round. “But doesn’t it matter? I mean, I thought one was either a Catholic or an Anglican or a Methodist or whatever.”

“It is the same God, no?
Le bon Dieu
can find me when He wants me, I am sure.”

*

Lady Parkhurst was still fussing about it on the carriage ride home from church. “A Papist, Jacelyn, of all things! She barely speaks English, she dresses as if she’s in mourning for the whole French aristocracy, and now this. How your father thought she’d lend you countenance, much less make a respectable lady out of you, I’ll never understand. Your behaviour last night was so bold, and that dress! Where was your chaperone then, miss? I don’t know what I’m to tell your father.”

Jacelyn was nodding and saying, “Yes, Aunt,” having learned a great deal from Mme. Aubonier, and wondering what she should wear for the afternoon’s carriage ride with Leigh.

Her aunt’s tune changed abruptly when they entered the house. Resting on a silver platter, on the Sheraton table, in the marbled hall, was a thick cream envelope addressed to Miss Trevaine. Hand-delivered, according to the butler, who was grinning almost as widely as Lady Parkhurst. Marcus had won two shillings; Aunt Amabel would be able to show her face. Miss Trevaine was invited to Almack’s.

Then it was “Perhaps you should take dear Mrs. Aubonier for a drive in the park, or maybe she would like to invite some of her friends for tea. I did mention the yellow parlour was at her disposal, didn’t I? I’ll have to write to your father immediately after luncheon; so proud, my dear. I knew you’d be a success. We’d better make plans for your come-out ball before all the dates are booked. I hadn’t wanted to make anything definite until…that is, in case…you know.”

“Yes, Aunt.” Jacelyn went off to tell Madame the happy news. The old lady had her shoes off, her feet up, and a book in her hand. “This is what you wanted, yes? Now it is up to you.”

Pinkie more than made up for Madame’s lack of enthusiasm, dancing around with Jacelyn’s pelisse in her excitement, then tearing open the clothespress for a hasty inspection. “We’ll show them us country girls know a thing or two. My own lady goin’ to Almack’s! Won’t mum be proud.”

“If you want to write and tell her, I’ll ask Uncle Parkhurst to frank the letter for you.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but my writing’s not so good, and mum’s got no reading at all.”

“Would you like me to help you with some lessons? Maybe your mother could find a neighbour or a curate to read her your letters, so she’ll feel easier about you being so far from home. I taught Lem to read and write, you know.”

Pinkie’s face was scarlet as she stammered her gratitude. Jacey didn’t think the girl could be embarrassed over her poor education, since most servants had even less. “Lem? Has he been teasing you, Pinkie? You tell me if he has, and I’ll talk to him. He’s a great one for pranks, but he means no harm.”

“No, ma’am, he’s been real kind.” The girl’s eyes still didn’t meet Jacelyn’s.

“I see. Well, just stay away from that second footman Eugene. He’s a real flirt.”

Pinkie giggled. “Yes’m. I already put him in his place. But Miss Jacey, about Almack’s, if it’s all right with you, maybe I could ask Hammersmith for some suggestions about your hair, since you won’t hear of cutting it.”

“Hammersmith, Mme. Aubonier’s maid?” Jacelyn was mystified. Aunt Simone certainly did not show off her dresser’s skill, and besides, everyone in the household seemed intimidated by the sharp-featured maid. “Why not Lady Parkhurst’s abigail?’

“Your pardon, ma’am, but Miss Hammersmith’s been teachin’ me all manner of things. She knows all about what’s proper for when, and she takes a real interest in your success, she does. Lady Parkhurst’s abigail only worries that we won’t do the house proud. We’ll show her, won’t we, miss?”

Jacelyn just shook her head. It seemed she still had a lot to learn about London ways, front stairs and back.

Arthur Ponsonby rode up to the landau where it was positioned near a tree. Mme. Aubonier was speaking French with an elderly gentleman on foot who wore his hair powdered in the old style; Jacelyn was talking to Claibourne, alongside on Baron.

“Miss Trevaine, Leigh, just the people I wished to see. My mother’s getting up a party for this evening. No cards or dancing; Sunday, don’t you know. A musicale, she calls it. I think that means Marcella Chadwick is going to play the harp and m’sister the pianoforte. Will you help a fellow out and attend?”

“It sounds dreadfully dull, Arthur. Why don’t you just beg off?” Jacelyn couldn’t bring herself to call him Lord Ponsonby, not when he looked so much like a squat old bulldog, bow-legged and testy.

He gave her the look he’d always given her: contempt mixed with conceit. You are impertinent, it seemed to say, but I am older and wiser, so I will ignore it, and you. He leaned past an amused Jacelyn to extend the invitation to Claibourne’s aunt, who had finished her own conversation.

“Nothing very deep, ma’am, family commitment, don’t you know,” he added for Jacey’s benefit.

Madame flatly refused. Jacelyn might go, she said, if Lady Parkhurst would attend with her, though why anyone would inflict such an evening on their friends was beyond her comprehension.

Jacelyn read the message in Claibourne’s slight nod and told Arthur she would ask her aunt. Then she warned Arthur to get down and check his saddle’s girth; she’d heard a strange creaking noise when he bent near. His bottom jaw shot out, and his brows lowered, reminding her even more of a bulldog—and of the pouty child he used to be, though she couldn’t understand why the nodcock would be in such a swivet, nor why his face was turning the colour of his waistcoat, a bilious purple. She said she’d go, didn’t she? Then Claibourne leaned over and whispered, “He’s wearing stays.”

Instead of looking contrite and apologising for drawing attention to such a personal matter, Jacey went into the whoops. Claibourne joined her, and even his aunt smiled, until Arthur had to grin too.

“Oh Arthur,” Jacelyn said when she could talk again, “wouldn’t it be easier just to leave the second cream puff? I know, you’ll have to come riding with us in the morning.”

*

Lady Parkhurst did not really want to attend—no one did; Parkhurst claimed a speech to memorise—until she recalled the invitation to Almack’s. What was one more boring evening against the chance to gloat?

As the audience of twenty or so sufferers politely applauded the final duet, both Miss Chadwick and Miss Ponsonby having done solo turns previously, Jacelyn turned to Claibourne. “There, that wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

“That was only the first half, puss. We get to find some nourishment to sustain us through the second half.”

Aunt Amabel’s groan confirmed it, but encouraged Jacelyn to enquire, hopefully, if her aunt had a headache. “I am sure La Ponsonby would understand if we had to take our leave early.

“No, she wouldn’t. Clothilda is one of my closest friends, but she can be somewhat overbearing. Claibourne, take my niece and find her some refreshment.”

The supper room was crowded; the table was not. Lady Ponsonby was heard to comment that since it was such an informal gathering, and Sunday besides, they must all have had their fill at dinner. Fruit punch and little honey cakes were the only offerings.

“Get used to it, Jay-bird, the Almack’s patronesses are just as nipcheese.”

“What, are you going to Almack’s?” Arthur asked, coming toward them with a plate full of the thin slices. “Lord, they must have relaxed their standards. Don’t let the patronesses catch you in britches!”

Jacey looked around quickly to make sure no one else heard. “At least my britches don’t need a tent’s worth of fabric!”

“Children, children.” Claibourne held a cup to Jacelyn’s mouth, effectively blocking her next comments, and reminding Arthur that they were here only as a favour to him. “By the bye,” he added, changing the subject, “your sister’s over there with that Anton-Fredricks fellow again. He turned her pages for her too. Do you look for a match in that direction?”

“Dashed if I know. I thought m’mother was looking toward Farthingale, Hackney’s heir, you know. I hope they don’t choose Anton-Fredricks, at any rate; chap’s all flash, no bottom, if you get my drift. I don’t know if he’s dropped the handkerchief yet, nor if m’sister would have him. Not my place to pry, you know, until he comes asking me if he can pay his addresses.”