| |
Greer directed his hired hackney to the Rare-Foure residence on Baker Street. Tonight was their first foray into high society. Happily, it would be on familiar territory, at the Duke and Duchess of Pelham’s home. He didn’t feel nervous so much as anticipatory. He might meet his future wife that very evening.
The Foure butler opened the door after a long pause, but Greer was used to the man. This was his third visit in as many weeks. He didn’t know a lot about butlers, as his mother and friends in New York City more often had housekeepers or maids who answered their doors. But he did know that the Foure butler was far more casual than the Pelhams’ butler and apt to go missing entirely.
The Foures didn’t appear to mind, and almost seemed to think it a favor the man ever answered the door at all.
That night, Greer didn’t let the butler take his hat or coat since they were due at St. James’s Place within the half hour.
“If you’ll please tell the Rare-Foure sisters I’ve come to collect them,” he instructed the man, who nodded and wandered off down the hallway.
While waiting, he walked in circles on the polished floor of the foyer, thinking about the dance steps he’d memorized, until a herd of buffalo came charging down the staircase. The herd turned out to be merely Beatrice and Charlotte. They came to a sudden stop at the foot of the stairs, looking surprised to see him.
“You two could wake the dead,” Greer told them, noticing their finery. The toffee-maker wore the blue gown with silver lace and ribbon he’d seen her in at the dressmaker’s, and she was easily the most fetching woman he’d ever laid eyes upon. Her younger sister wore pale green with cream trim. Both had low necklines, not that he was staring, and the shortest of sleeves, displaying their graceful arms. And each had a spray of flowers tucked into her hair. The effect was enchanting.
He swallowed. “I hope I am dressed well enough to escort you two lovely ladies.”
Beatrice gave him a long, measuring look, taking in his black suit, well-fitting trousers, his low white waistcoat, showing off his new shirt, and a black cravat.
However, Miss Charlotte spoke first. “Mr. Carson, you look handsome indeed. That suit fits you to perfection.” Then she clapped her hands, already clad in short lacy gloves, as were her sister’s. “Isn’t this exciting?”
“It is,” he admitted, wishing Beatrice had said something kind about his looks, as well. “Are you ladies ready?”
“Yes. I wonder where our man is,” Miss Charlotte mused.
“Your man?” Greer asked. “Do you mean the butler?”
“Father thinks butler is too grand a term,” Beatrice explained. “Anyway, Mr. Finley ought to have brought our mantles, or we could ask Delia.”
“Didn’t this Finley fellow tell you I was here?” Greer had assumed he’d gone up the back staircase to summon them.
“No,” Beatrice said, “but I’m sure he was about to. Mr. Finley is relaxed but usually reliable. Anyway, Delia makes up for any slack on his part. I’m sure she’s put them right here.”
Going to the closet under the stairs, she withdrew two cloaks. They didn’t match their dresses but instead were neutral black. He supposed they were designed to go with anything.
“Was I remiss in not insisting you purchase a cloak specifically to go with each gown?”
The girls looked at one another, then they chuckled.
“Oh, Mr. Carson,” Miss Charlotte said, “how sweet of you to think about such a thing. But that seems so wasteful since we shall leave them in the cloakroom anyway. Besides black goes with nearly everything, don’t you think? We match your attire, at least, and that is as good as we can hope.”
Another compliment from the younger sister. Greer could get used to her nice manners. He draped each one’s cloak across her shoulders, noticing Beatrice’s warm vanilla scent.
He wanted to tell her how delicious she smelled, but that seemed inappropriate. Even more so when it made him want to bury his nose in her hair.
“What about your dancing slippers?” he asked, recalling how they’d changed into them each time they’d met at the Pelhams’ home to practice.
In response, Miss Charlotte grasped her gown and drew it up a few inches, sticking out a dainty foot.
“Already wearing them” she said, as he got over the shock of her raising her skirt, no matter how little.
“Charlotte!” Beatrice admonished her. “Whatever you do, don’t do that at Amity’s, and also no—”
“Whistling. I know,” Miss Charlotte said, snatching up her reticule from the hallstand and handing a blue one to Beatrice.
Beatrice turned to him once more. “I know there are many times when ladies take a change of footwear, especially if it’s wet out or bitterly cold, but with this being such an easy trip to our sister’s, we decided to wear them. If mishap occurred to our slippers, Amity would have extra.”
Miss Charlotte chuckled again. “Your foot would never fit into one of Amity’s slippers, any more than I could fit into one of her slender bodices.”
Beatrice sighed with exaggerated exasperation and shook her head. “And to think I was concerned that I might say something untoward.”
“What did I say now?” Miss Charlotte asked, and Greer decided to get them moving along.
“Are your parents here to see you off?” he asked.
“Father and Mother went on ahead,” Beatrice answered. “They decided seeing all three of their daughters out at a ball was too remarkable an event to miss, and they wanted to watch us make our grand entrance into society.”
“I wish I had a man of my own and didn’t have to share yours,” Miss Charlotte said.
Instantly, Beatrice’s cheeks reddened, and Greer hastily went to the door to open it since the butler had never returned.
“Really, Charlotte,” Beatrice muttered going ahead down the single step and along the path. “Mr. Carson isn’t mine. And after all, that’s the whole point of tonight and the entire Season, isn’t it? To find ourselves men of our own. Whatever you do, don’t—”
“Whistle. I know. You already said that.”
He helped them into the hackney, and they continued to talk as if he wasn’t there.
“I didn’t mean Mr. Carson is yours, as in yours.” She waggled her eyebrows. “I meant as in your escort. Besides, I am not searching for a husband. I simply want to dance and to look at the other gowns. And don’t you snap at anyone,” Miss Charlotte added.
Beatrice stopped arranging her skirts and stared hard at her sister.
Greer wanted to laugh but averted his face, looking out into the dark street as if he were in a different carriage altogether.
After a moment, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Beatrice relax, leaning back onto the seat.
“I suppose it is fair for you to say such. I shall try to hold my tongue, as long as no one says anything rude or cutting or positively stupid.”
At this, Greer could keep silent no longer. “Miss Rare-Foure, in a gathering of any size, especially when privileged people are involved like we shall mingle with tonight, it is highly probable someone will do at least one of the things that causes you to snap. Perhaps we should develop a system by which we douse your fire before it explodes.”
“Douse my fire?” she murmured, raising a lovely eyebrow, and he wondered what she was thinking. “I suppose it is a good idea, as my temper has been known to reach a boiling point faster than unwatched milk on a stove.”
“Godey’s Lady’s Book says you must not give off the slightest indication of ill-temper. Perhaps one of us will poke you in the ribs if you start to seethe,” Miss Charlotte offered.
“Ha!” Greer exclaimed before he could stop himself. “She’ll be black and blue before the dinner break.”
Beatrice crossed her arms until her sister reminded her she might wrinkle her bodice, and then she rested her hands gracefully in her lap.
“Speaking of dinner,” Miss Charlotte said, “what shall we do at the eleventh dance if we’re not all partnered? Will we go to dinner together?”
Greer looked at Beatrice and then back at Miss Charlotte. “Our aim is to be partnered with others. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Anything else we should be mindful of?”
Miss Charlotte nodded sagely. “As to you, Mr. Carson, do not speak with any lady to whom you haven’t been introduced. And the proper way to ask her to dance is something like, ‘Will you favor me with your hand for this or the next dance?’”
“Will you favor me?” he repeated.
Miss Charlotte continued. “For heaven’s sake, do not sit next to a lady, even if you’ve danced with her, unless she expressly invites you.”
Beatrice laughed, but the younger Rare-Foure wasn’t finished yet. “Sister, dear, don’t forget the other rules as expressed in the Lady’s Book. In your speech, avoid affectation, and with your expression, you must not appear to be frowning or quizzing.”
“Is that all?” Beatrice asked, appearing surly at the notion of such rules.
“No, it’s not,” Miss Charlotte said. “No loud laughter, loud talking, or staring.”
“Can the staring be loud?” Greer asked.
They all chuckled, and then Beatrice said, “It hardly sounds like fun if we cannot laugh, nor barely look at one another.”
Greer wasn’t worried. That night was the beginning of all his hopes and dreams, and even if he didn’t find his future wife, he did intend to have fun.
***
AMITY HAD TRANSFORMED her luxuriously elegant home into a glittering palace of candles and flowers and sparkling champagne, at least in the ballroom, and Beatrice was reminded of the extreme wealth of a duke. The rest of the house was immaculate as usual, with staff taking ladies’ cloaks and gentlemen’s hats as soon as guests entered the foyer, before more staff escorted them upstairs to the party.
Deciding to do nothing by halves, the Pelhams’ esteemed butler announced each guest who arrived in the double doorway of the ballroom.
“I cannot believe we were announced,” Charlotte murmured as they crossed the floor toward the windows where their parents were waiting. The musicians already played softly, not music for dancing but merely to keep the guests entertained.
“I hope not too many of the hoity-toities realize we’re shopgirls at Rare Confectionery after hearing our name.” Beatrice couldn’t help but fret.
“I’m not embarrassed by our wonderful shop,” Charlotte returned.
“That’s hardly the point. If we seem inauthentic, we shall hurt our chances and possibly Mr. Carson’s.”
“There’s hardly anyone here yet to have heard your names,” the American pointed out. “I think that was your sister’s plan in having us arrive when we did.”
Beatrice thought him correct, seeing how only two of the many tables dotted around the room had been claimed, and one of those was by her parents. Besides, more guests were being announced every moment.
“But we are not going to lie, are we?” Beatrice asked Charlotte. “It wouldn’t do to meet our future husbands and start with a falsehood.”
“Of course not,” Charlotte said. “I want my husband to fall in love with who I really am anyway, wherever I may meet him. Don’t you?”
Beatrice nodded, but silently considered her sister’s statement. She was a toffee-maker, an unremarkable middle sister, and considered cranky by many. None of that seemed particularly worth loving.
“Good evening,” their father boomed. “You three look splendid. Dressed to the nines!”
“I am happy for you,” their mother agreed. “This is the perfect treat for my hard-working girls. And you look dapper as well, Mr. Carson.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“We’re going to mingle and make ourselves scarce,” Armand Foure said, “so you can have our table.”
“Whyever for?” Beatrice asked.
“If we’re all together, it will be harder for your scheme to play out.”
“Our scheme?” Charlotte asked, sounding delighted.
“Your father means if the whole family is standing around, it is less likely you two will be seen as mysterious heiresses,” said their mother.
“But we’re not mysterious heiresses,” Beatrice pointed out, starting to feel a little panicky, again wondering what would happen if they were quickly discovered to be shopgirls amongst the bon ton. Even though it was Amity’s house, she and Charlotte didn’t belong. They should be at one of the regular dances for commoners, held at a hotel ballroom or a music hall.
“Tonight, in the safety of your sister’s ducal mansion, you can be whomever you please,” her mother said, reaching out to touch her hand. “Beatrice, look at me.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“You’re a beautiful young woman with much to offer any lucky man. And don’t forget Farrah’s.”
“Thank you.” She would keep reminding herself of that. She wasn’t simply someone who knew the best proportions of butter to treacle and sugar. On the other hand, she wished her mother hadn’t spoken in front of Mr. Carson. Beatrice thought it made her sound slightly pathetic, with no vim and vigor of her own.
“And you, too, Charlotte,” her mother added. “Any gentleman will consider himself lucky once you decide upon him.” Then she took her husband’s hand. “We’ll see you at the dinner hour. Amity says it will be substantial, not mere soda biscuits and cheese.” Then their parents wandered away through the growing throng.
“What or who is Farrah’s?” Mr. Carson asked.
Distractedly, glancing around the room at those entering, Beatrice responded, “Mr. Farrah started making toffee in Harrogate in 1840, giving people something to take away the terrible, sulfuric taste of their renowned healing water.”
Mr. Carson blinked. “They ate toffee because of bad water?”
Beatrice shrugged. “Farrah’s is sold all over now. Mother reminds me of it now and again as proof that toffee isn’t merely a frivolous sweet. But of course it is! It’s a delicious confection, and using it to clean one’s palate doesn’t make it medicinal or elevate my abilities in any way. Such nonsense!” Then she took a long breath. “But I do love when Mother says it, anyway. It’s like a soothing balm.”
“The room is filling up,” Charlotte remarked, “and the single gentlemen will start to make the rounds and ask us to dance. I hope you remembered a spare pencil.”
Beatrice felt a flutter of nerves. Her sister, who was more a devotee of the society pages and the gossip rags, not to mention used to dealing with numerous strangers in the front of the shop, seemed much more composed.
“We all know how it works,” Beatrice told her, turning to encompass Mr. Carson. “And yes, I have a pencil for any ill-mannered clout who didn’t bring one. Do you have one?”
Mr. Carson grinned crookedly. “Even if I’d forgotten, I wouldn’t tell you and risk being labelled an ‘ill-mannered clout,’ would I? Besides, I bet our hosts have plenty to spare.”
“Then you don’t have one,” she guessed. “Here, take mine. I won’t dance with a fog-pated jackdaw who has forgotten his.”
Charlotte giggled.
Beatrice sighed. “Except for you, Mr. Carson,” she said, retrieving the small pencil from her reticule and handing it to him.
“The best part of our arrangement,” Charlotte continued, “is that our cards won’t be pathetically empty. When other men take a look, we shall have a partner already written in, if Mr. Carson will allow and if you won’t be such a cross-pot,” she added, glaring briefly at Beatrice. However, since Charlotte could never hold an ounce of anger or a grudge for more than a second, she smiled again almost instantly.
“Quick, now, Mr. Carson, gentlemen will start to come over any minute.”
Charlotte held out her card, and the American scrawled his name next to the polka, fourth down on the list. Beatrice decided she might as well follow suit, for her sister’s logic made sense.
“Shall we dance?” she asked Mr. Carson.
“We shall,” he agreed. “And since we are new to this, why don’t I sign up for the Grand March leading into the first quadrille.”
That was perfect. Beatrice had been dreading the very first time she stepped out onto the floor with all the experienced lords and ladies, and being with her usual dance partner would make it far less nerve-wracking.
“Just remember,” she said, repeating the duke’s words of wisdom imparted during their lessons, “the lead couple, namely my sister and the duke, will have the fireplace on their left.”
“Right,” Charlotte said.
Beatrice frowned. “Are you agreeing, or are you saying I am incorrect?” she asked.
“Incorrect. The lead couple will have the fireplace on their right, taking the room lengthwise, of course. And the third couple will be on the right of the first. That’s what the duke said.”
“What about the second couple?” Beatrice asked with mounting panic.
The three of them looked at each other blankly.
Charlotte suddenly cocked her head. “Of course, it depends on whether it is a march in file or in column. Did Amity mention anything about it being a serpentine march or an arbor one? Did she say it might be a Grecian cross or — ?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Beatrice was positive a bead of sweat was now trickling down her back under her shift, and her palms felt decidedly moist.
“I’m sure it will all come clear,” Mr. Carson said. “We’ll muddle through.”
“What about me?” Charlotte asked, sounding equal parts anxious and thrilled.
“I doubt you’ll have to worry. It’s the gentleman’s job to lead,” Beatrice reminded her. To the American, she added, “You’d best get a move on, or the other ladies’ cards will fill up before you get a chance.” She glanced around. “Look, there’s my sister, ready to take you under her wing and make introductions.”
“I’ll see you soon,” he promised. With a nod to Charlotte and wink for Beatrice, he went over to Amity, and they disappeared into the burgeoning crowd.
Beatrice tried to take a relaxing breath, but then occurred the most terrifying moment so far — the duke approached with a handsome stranger.