Harriet Llewellen wept steadily for the entire train journey back from Southampton, with Vicky and Aunt Alice buttressing her like whale-boned bookends one on either side, while Meriel glowered at all three of them all across the carriage.
‘So where does this leave me?’ she thought resentfully. ‘In a pretty average sort of hole, that’s where!’ Without Da’s approval and no further on with Ashby, she felt a little like an acrobat who, having just released one pair of strong male hands has yet to grasp the next. Although in the end a glimpse of her own face in her aunt’s cloakroom mirror had been all she needed to restore her confidence.
‘Listen you,’ she told herself severely. ‘You’re going to pin that young man down, and do it soon before somebody else does!’ She followed the instruction with the hideous gargoyle grimace she’d perfected as a child to make the grown-ups laugh, and instantly felt much better.
The problem was that, unlike Simmie, Meriel seldom bothered to consider her own motives to any kind of depth – with the result that she not only failed to understand herself, but was no better at assessing others. She knew that she had fallen hopelessly in love. She recognised good breeding when she saw it, in men as well as horses. But having pegged her would-be lover as thoroughbred, she’d not the first idea of how to rope him in.
The answer came to her within the week and from an unexpected quarter. It seemed that Reggie Baxter must have been, if not afraid, at least in awe of Da. Because Da’s ship had barely left Southampton Water before the drongo begged an interview with Harriet, to ask her for her elder daughter’s hand in marriage. The Mater, naturally enough, was quite beside herself with joy for having secured so good a catch, waiting only for Da’s cabled confirmation before announcing the engagement in The Times. And amidst the hugs and tears that such occasions seemed to warrant, Meriel concluded that her sister must know more than she did about hamstringing men.
‘So how did you pull it off then?’ she asked as soon as she and Vicky were alone together in the double guest room that they shared in Pimlico. ‘Does Reggie know how poor we are? Or aren’t you going to tell him ’til you’ve tied the knot?’
‘My, and aren’t we a lovely shade of pea green this evening!’Vicky gave a tinkling laugh that made her sister itch to slap her. As children they had never liked each other greatly, had often fought like Turks. But it was clear to Meriel that the knowledge she was after would have to be paid for, so she simply bit her lip and waited.
‘Well, if it’s advice you’re after,’ said Vicky, looking faintly disappointed, ‘you’ll need to take more trouble with the way you look if you want to get anywhere with men.’
‘But I was wearing my best Parma violet rig-out the morning Ashby saw me at Miss Simms’s, and even Mater thinks that suits me.’
‘Ashby is it? Well I might have known that you’d have someone in your sights.’ Vicky turned to give her sister full attention. ‘Whatever Mother says, that walking costume’s well on the loud side of good taste. Although if you really want to know, it’s less the clothes that matter than what’s underneath them.’
‘Do you mean drawers and shifts and things that no one sees?’
‘No of course not.’ Vicky simpered. ‘What I mean is that there are few things a man values more than an alluring female form.’
To illustrate the point she smoothed the flimsy chemise she was wearing down over her own generous breasts. ‘One has only to choose one’s moment to stoop low in a skimpy little evening gown, shall we say, or show an ankle on the stairs, to have the poor things on their knees. Which naturally is where one wants them,’ Vicky maintained smugly, ‘kneeling on the carpet with a ring.’
‘Right you are Ashby my lovely, if it’s a body that you’re after,’ Meriel muttered underneath her breath, ‘then nothing could be simpler.’ She and Aunt Alice were on their way to Madame Lena, the dressmaker in New Cavendish Street who’d made her violet walking costume. Across her knees in the cab lay a bolt of shimmering silk which made Meriel’s spirits rise whenever she looked at it. They’d bought it at John Barker’s the previous morning against Aunt Alice’s better judgement.
‘It’s too dark and too conspicuous for a young lady’s evening gown. The lighter the tint the better as a general rule, my dear. I don’t believe that someone of your age can go far wrong with plain white satin. It looks so fresh, well innocent you know.’
If the Mater had been there she would have known from Meriel’s face that the battle was already lost. But Aunt Alice still had things to learn about her younger niece. She was a nice, well-meaning sort of person. But it was clear to Meriel that she’d failed to grasp the critical importance of the gown, for this first ball of the season to which she and Ashby were both invited. And if she thought for a moment that Meriel would be prepared to lose herself amongst all those insipid whites and creams and pinks, then she would have to think again. Because, as anyone could see, the deep chestnut coloured silk was perfect for her! No other shade would bring out the warm lights in her hair and eyes, or show off the whiteness of her shoulders quite so well – or of her breasts.
Following her sister’s revelation, Meriel had come to see the tactical importance of her bosom as she’d never done before, having mainly thought of it as little more than a convenient support for bodices of various kinds. So while Vicky took a bath that evening, she’d stood before their wardrobe looking glass entirely naked, with both hands cupped beneath her breasts in a bold gesture that went back, had Meriel but known it, to the very dawn of history. They felt soft and heavy in her palms, and rather good. Deliberately she feathered her small nipples to bring them out of hiding, then stooped to gather her chemise and drape it over them in the most daring décolletage she could possibly envisage.
‘But what a shame,’ she thought, experimenting, ‘that nipples are entirely outré. Because I’m sure that mine are nicer than most girls’’ She unveiled them slowly, this time with the look of incredulous delight that she imagined Ashby might exhibit when presented with them at point blank range – then with a sigh collected the clean nightgown the maid had laid out for her and dragged it hastily over her head.
So much for the bosom. Now, as the cab drew up at the dressmaker’s, Meriel moved on into the next stage of her master-plan for the new gown.
‘Oh jinks! We’ve forgotten the new lace, Auntie. And Madame Lena was so particular about having all the fabrics, to have the new gown ready in the time. She’ll never manage otherwise, I know she won’t!’
‘Nonsense, my dear; we can drop the lace in later, or get Effie to do it. It’s only for the sleeves and trimmings after all, and Madame won’t be doing those ’til last.’
‘Oh no, no that won’t do!’ Meriel exclaimed in her best imitation of the Mater’s histrionics. ‘I promised Madame faithfully that we would bring it all today, and I can’t show her what I want without the lace!’
‘Well, I suppose that if you think it’s vital, I could take the cab back for the lace,’ Aunt Alice suggested doubtfully. ‘Although I did assure your mother that I’d be there with you to discuss the final pattern…’
‘Would you, oh would you, Auntie?’ Meriel swept the inconvenient assurance aside to plant a smacking kiss on her aunt’s cheek. ‘You’re an angel, I have always said so! Besides, the pattern’s all agreed. Why even Mother thought it was too suitable for words.’
The thing involved a calculated risk. But by the time Aunt Alice returned with the prescribed eight yards of imitation antique lace, Meriel had everything in hand. ‘It’s all settled,’ she said briskly, popping out of the dressmaker’s doorway the moment her aunt’s hansom came to rest. ‘No sense in letting the cab go, Auntie. I’ll just nip this up to Madame and be back in half a tick.’ And she was off upstairs before Aunt Alice could object.
The interim fitting hadn’t proved a problem. Timed as it was for an afternoon on which both Harriet and Alice were At Home to callers, Vicky had been detailed to accompany her sister to Madame’s. ‘And the least that you can do is to keep quiet about it,’ Meriel told her fiercely in the cab. ‘It’s more than half your own idea in any case.’
‘You needn’t worry, the less said the better.’ Again the irritating silvery laugh. ‘But you’ll never get away with it you know. There’ll be a first class row as soon as Mother sees it. She’ll scream the house down first, and then forbid you to go out at all.’
‘Yes she very likely will,’ thought Meriel grimly. ‘But it’ll take more than one of the Mater’s carry-ons to stop me on the night!’
The ball in Grosvenor Crescent was to be one of the last events of the London Season, before society abandoned the free-for-all of the capital for the quieter pleasures of its country estates. Reggie Baxter would be going, naturally. He and his cronies practically made a profession out of that kind of affair, and he had seen to it that both Llewellen girls had been sent invitations. Meriel who’d been to swell events like this before, was less than keen at first. Everything would be ‘awfully’ or ‘frightfully’. The snooty English girls would stare rudely at her poor primrose chiffon, while their brothers and their cousins pestered her for dances and then laughed idiotically at everything she said. The Mater would be there to chaperon them, getting tiddly on cold punch. And to cap it all, Vicky would have a simply spiffin’ time with Reggie, and then humbug about it afterwards until everyone was sick to death with gowns and coiffures and all the latest titbits of society gossip. Oh Lord, how dull!
Then Meriel had heard from Simmie that young Ashby was invited through some acquaintance of his grandmother’s, and all had changed completely! With Prince Charming in attendance, the ball became immediately of first importance – the chance she had been waiting for since Meriel first saw her destiny reflected in Ned’s Ashby’s startled eyes.
With so little time for the new gown to be made, and even less to prepare the Mater for it, Meriel judged it best to skip the final fitting, and to arrange for the dress to be delivered on the afternoon of the ball itself. That way, she told herself, there would be no going back. When the time came, she’d personally received the dress box from the hands of Madame Lena’s assistant, and commandeered Aunt Alice’s maid to iron it out for her before supper.
‘And be sure to use brown paper with the box-iron, Effie,’ she called after her. ‘I can’t have it scorched, not now. D’ye you hear me, Effie? Test it on your apron first!’
Vicky always bathed and dressed a good two hours before it was strictly necessary. So Meriel waited until her sister was well clear of the bedroom before emerging from her own hasty bath.
‘Plenty of time, lots of it,’ she assured the Mater, who’d been calling through the bathroom door. ‘There’s still an hour before we have to leave, and Effie’s here to help me dress.’
‘But I haven’t even seen your dress!’ her mother wailed. ‘What if it doesn’t fit you, Meriel? If it’s too short or drags behind? You’ve left no time for alterations – you’re leaving it too late!’
‘Don’t be silly, Mother, it’s going to look just fine.’ Crossing the landing wrapped up in a towel, she waved an airy hand. ‘We still have lots of time, and I’ll be down in just a jiff.’
Inside the bedroom it was quite another story.
‘Hurry, Effie, HURRY UP!’ she hissed. ‘I’m late as anything, and at this rate we’re never going to make it! No, not the corset. It’s hair isn’t it – hair first for heaven’s sake! Where are the curling tongs, then? Have you got the spirit lamp? Well light it then! Oh, give it here while you start brushing out. Honestly Effie, I thought that you were good at all this sort of thing? We really will be late you know, if you don’t get your skates on!’
Evening dress suited Ned, which was more than could be said for formal dances in Belgravia. It was all very well for Grannie to pitch him into a ballroom of landed-gentlewomen and then await results. She didn’t have to dance with them, or fake interest in their silly chatter – or wrestle with ridiculously shaped bow-ties that were next thing to impossible to put on!
He gave up in the end and took it down to Simmie in the parlour.
‘Ned dear, how handsome you look, quite the dandy!’ she told him, reaching up to coax the bow into position.
‘I wish that you were coming, Simmie,’ he said quietly, and bent his head to kiss her fingers as she gave the tie a final little tug for luck.
‘Dear Ned.’ She dropped her hands quite casually as if she hadn’t noticed. ‘Do you know, I’m very glad that I’m not coming. Between you and me, my dear, I never did care much for lavish entertainments – and besides that Ned, you will have Meriel and her sister there to dance with. Did I mention they were going?’
She hadn’t mentioned it because, as they were both aware, he would have written to decline the invitation if she had! Ned turned away from her to hide a scowl of irritation.
Meriel Llewellen! She was all he needed! You couldn’t talk to that girl sensibly; she said such unexpected things. You couldn’t look at her because she stared so hard – you couldn’t even think about her without developing two left feet!
‘Well, here goes then!’ Meriel gave Effie a conspiratorial smile and rustled to the door. The little maid stood by the dressing table with her palms pressed tight together, and an expression on her face that told Meriel everything she wanted to know.
‘I felt like that when we’d just finished decorating the Christmas tree,’ she thought complacently beginning her descent into the hall. The merciless diagonal-seam corset was so long in the busk that she could scarcely bend down far enough to see her feet – and what with all the petticoats, the train, and her two-and-a-half-inch Louis heels, the simple act of walking downstairs took on a new, exciting character. Meriel giggled. If she fell and broke her neck it would be Ashby’s fault, she thought, and serve him right! Her satin shoes were dyed to match the dress, and lifting them she caught a white glimpse of her new silk stockings. Her kid gloves were white as well from fingertip to elbow, powdered inside and fastened with twelve white pearl buttons. In her right hand she carried a small spangled fan.
‘Yes, oh yes,’ she thought exultantly. ‘I’ll have that man on toast!’
Down in the sitting room Harriet Llewellen was doing her best to be hospitable, with one prominent eye on the clock and the other on the open door.
‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am, Mr Baxter, that you and Victoria no longer need a chaperon now that you’re engaged. These functions are all very well for the young, I daresay – although I must confess that for myself I find the noise and crush intolerable!’ She pressed a plump hand to her forehead as if she could already feel the headache brewing.
‘I’m so obliged to you for taking my little Meriel,’ she went on breathily, with both eyes now upon the door ‘She’s thrilled, she’s absolutely thrilled! We’ve had a new gown made especially for the occasion. So I know that you’ll forgive her if she delays you for a… Oh!’
Meriel had at that moment swept dramatically into the doorway, to pose there with her fan extended. Her dark brown hair had been combed up, twisted on itself and pinned into a shining crown high on her head, to reveal her mother’s best pearl drop-earrings swinging from the small ears it exposed. But nobody was looking at her hair or earrings. They were all too busy staring at her breasts, pushed up, and very nearly out of Meriel’s tight bodice – so that, as she stared back at them she saw three mouths; the Mater’s, Aunt Alice’s and Reggie’s, pop open into three round Os.
The pattern that they’d approved for Madame Lena had shown a charming little gown with a bloused bodice, lace around its modestly scooped neckline and lacy elbow-sleeves. The reality as worn by Meriel had no neck, no blousing and no sleeves worth mentioning. Her shoulders, upper arms and most of her white bosom emerged entirely unconfined. Two little puffs of gathered fabric stood out like wings on either side above her elbows, and from its slender waist the gown unfolded into shining swathes of chestnut silk.
‘The lace Meriel? What have you done with all that lace?’ Aunt Alice, the first to find her voice, took refuge in a detail.
‘Invaluable!’ her niece pronounced with a triumphant smile, turning in the doorway to display a huge lace bow, stitched to her chestnut rump and trailing in an elongated swallowtail to the end of her silk train. ‘We made one or two little changes to the original,’ she added, rustling on into the room. ‘Do you like it?’
She was looking pointedly at Reggie Baxter, who jumped in gallantly, if slightly late on cue. ‘Aha – um, awfully swanky, what?’
If Reggie hadn’t been to hand, or had shown the slightest hint of disapproval, Harriet would certainly have staged the first class row Vicky anticipated, and at the very least forced Meriel to change. As it was, she’d had to settle for a compromise.
‘Well of course the wretched woman’s made it far too low!’ She hauled vainly at her daughter’s décolletage as if she could be hoisted up by force. ‘You’ll just have to wear a fichu, that’s the answer,’ she decided, and marched Meriel off into the sewing room to cover her exposed anatomy with a Venetian-point lace shawl, pinned into place with one of Alice’s Torre del Greco brooches.
The result, she thought when she stood back, was gratifyingly effective, although of course the dress was still too dark. And one way or another Harriet had been so busy saving Merial from social suicide, that she not only forgot to scold her for the theft of her pearl earrings, but failed to wonder at her daughter’s meek acceptance of the fichu.
‘So more fool her,’ said Meriel to Vicky twenty minutes later in the Grosvenor Crescent cloakroom, as she removed, first cape and then the fichu, and dropped the cameo pin-brooch into her bag. ‘Righto, lead on Mc Duff. I’m ready!’
The scene that evening had been one she was never likely to forget – arriving like a princess in the Baxter carriage, to have the step let down by a bewigged and liveried footman, and move through a tremendous crush of people through the doors and up the stairs. Candlelight gleamed, winked and glittered on the clothes and jewellery of the guests. Great banks of flowers; carnations, lilies, gladioli, filled every alcove and embrasure, and music from the ballroom drifted through the throng. It was by far the grandest function that Meriel had yet attended; a far cry indeed from the Assembly Room subscription dances back in Ipswich, and she was breathless with excitement. At the top of the second flight of stairs there waited a receiving line of titled names, limp hands and frosty eyes – all staring fixedly at her emphatic bosom. Beyond them were what seemed miles of polished floors alive with dancing figures.
And beyond the dancers, standing on his own against a marble pillar, there was Ashby.