Relieved of their cloaks and escorted to the upstairs drawing-room, the sisters made their curtsy to their fashionable grandmother. Lady Merion surged towards them, enveloping them in a mist of gauzes and perfume. Her blonde wig was perfectly set above a face still graced by traces of the pale beauty she had once been. Sharp blue eyes watched her world, set above a long straight nose and a mouth only too ready to laugh at what she saw.
‘My dears! I’m so glad to see you safely arrived! Now sit down and let me give you some tea. My chef, Henri, has sent up these delicacies to tempt you after your journey.’
Drawing them to sit around the fire, already burning brightly, Lady Merion noted that neither sister was looking her best. ‘Tonight we’ll have a very quiet time. You must both retire immediately after dinner. Tomorrow morning we’ve an appointment with Celestine, the most fashionable modiste in London. You must have recovered from your journey by then.’
As soon as they had eaten the delicious pastries and drunk their tea, Lady Merion rang the bell. It was answered by Witchett, a tall, angular woman with sparse grey hair whose peculiar talent in life lay in being able to turn out her elderly mistress in the most suitable of the currently fashionable styles. She was burning with curiosity to view the latest challenges to her skill. A quick glance at the Misses Darent told her that Mellow, the butler, had not exaggerated. In spite of their tiredness, their potential was apparent. The younger, properly dressed, would be a hit. And Miss Darent had that certain something that Witchett, a veteran campaigner, instantly recognised. The sisters were therefore favoured with a thin smile.
‘Ah, there you are, Witchett. Please conduct Miss Darent and Miss Cecily to their rooms. I suggest, my dears, that you rest before dinner. Witchett will see your things are unpacked, and she’ll take charge of your dressing until we can find suitable maids. Off with you, now.’ She dismissed them with a wave of one heavily beringed white hand.
They followed Witchett to two pretty bedchambers, obviously newly refurbished, Dorothea’s in a soft pastel green and Cecily’s in a delicate blue. Everything was already unpacked, and Witchett helped them undress. ‘I’ll return to assist you to dress for dinner, Miss Darent.’
Dorothea sank thankfully into the soft feather bed and immediately fell asleep.
Lady Merion had instructed her chef that a light and simple meal was all they required that evening. Consequently there were only three courses, each of some half a dozen dishes. Luckily both Dorothea and Cecily had recovered their appetites and were able to do justice to their first experience of the culinary delights of London.
Their grandmother was pleasantly surprised to find them considerably restored. Throughout dinner she monopolised the conversation. ‘First and by far the most important task is to have you both suitably gowned. For that, Celestine’s is first on our list. She’s the best known of Bruton Street’s modistes for good reason.’
Lady Merion had paid a visit to Celestine as soon as she had decided to launch her granddaughters into the ton. She had made it clear that she required that lady’s best efforts. Celestine had built her highly successful business through shrewd assessment of her clients’ abilities to display her creations in ton circles. Lady Merion’s granddaughters would be paraded at all the most exclusive venues. Having extracted a description of the young ladies, she had graciously agreed to do all possible to ensure their success.
‘Celestine’s talents are truly stupendous. After that, we’ll have to get your hair seen to, and I’ve organised a dancing master as well. I don’t expect you know the waltz?’ She paused to help herself to some buttered crab. ‘Once you’re presentable, our first outing will be a drive in the Park. We’ll go about three, which at this time of year is the right time to meet people. I’ll introduce you to a number of the leaders of the ton, and hopefully we can find some of the younger generation for you to make friends with. In particular, I hope we’ll meet Lady Jersey. Her nickname is “Silence”, because she chatters all the time. Don’t be put out if what she says seems rather odd. Princess Esterhazy should also be there. Both these ladies are patronesses of Almack’s. You need vouchers from them to attend. If you’re not admitted to Almack’s you may as well give up the Season and go home.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Dorothea. ‘I’d no idea it was that important.’
‘Well, it is,’ answered her grandmother with absolute conviction. She continued in this style, pouring forth an abundance of information. Dorothea and Cecily listened avidly. Possessing a fair degree of common sense, they needed no urging to learn all they could of the mores and practices of the fashionable from their experienced grandmama before their first venture into the critical world of the ton.
At nine o’clock, seeing Cecily stifle a yawn, her ladyship brought her lecture to an end. ‘It’s time both of you were in bed. Ring for Witchett, Dorothea. She’ll help you change. Go along, now. You’ve had enough for one day.’
As the door shut behind the sleepy girls Lady Merion settled herself more comfortably in the corner of her elegant sofa. She was going to enjoy this Season. Lately, her accustomed routine of fashionable pleasures had been sadly lacking in excitement.
She had not spent over sixty years at the hub of aristocratic life without learning to gauge the qualities of those around her. Every bit as shrewd as she was fashionable, she had been agreeably impressed by her rustic granddaughters when she had met them, for the first time in many years, at Darent Hall. On the basis of one afternoon’s reacquaintance she had decided it would be highly diverting to unleash them on the ton. While she had little doubt she would become sincerely fond of them, her main purpose had been purely selfish. Now, having re-examined their fresh faces and charmingly assured manners, she wryly wondered whether she would be able to cope.
Thinking again of the girls, she frowned. Dorothea had seemed strangely preoccupied. Hopefully she had not conceived a tendre for some country gentleman. Still, even if she had, the delights of a London Season would soon distract her from her sleepy country past.
Her cogitations were interrupted by a knock on the door. Dorothea, clad in a delicate pink wrapper with her dark hair swirling over her shoulders, put her head around the door. Seeing her grandmother, she entered.
The fair brows over the sharp blue eyes rose to improbable heights. ‘Why, child, what’s the matter?’
‘Grandmama, there’s something I must tell you.’
Ah-ha! thought her ladyship. Now I’m going to find out what’s bothering her. She motioned Dorothea to sit next to her.
Sinking gracefully down, Dorothea fixed her eyes on the fire and calmly let fall her bombshell. ‘Well, for a start I have to tell you that the Marquis of Hazelmere will call on you tomorrow.’
‘Good gracious!’ The exclamation was forced from Lady Merion as she jerked bolt upright, her fascinated blue gaze riveted on her grandchild. ‘My dear, how on earth did you meet a man of Hazelmere’s stamp? I didn’t know your mother was acquainted with the Henrys.’
Hermione was conscious of a dreadful sinking feeling at the mere mention of Hazelmere’s name. Drat the boy! He’d been the bane of many a hopeful mother’s life, proving so fascinating to their impressionable daughters that there was no doing anything with the silly chits. As he had proved impervious to the charms of all but certain delectable members of the demi-monde, careful mothers were wont to advise their daughters that, in spite of his undoubted eligibility, Lord Hazelmere did not feature on their lists of likely suitors. Dorothea’s words had started all sorts of hares racing in her mind, but why Hazelmere would want an interview with herself was more than she could imagine. She settled herself so that she had an uninterrupted view of her granddaughter’s face. ‘Start at the beginning, child, or I’ll never understand.’
Conscious of the steady scrutiny, Dorothea nodded and carefully began. ‘Well, the first time I met Lord Hazelmere was while I was berrying in Moreton Park woods last August. He had recently inherited the estate from his greataunt, Lady M
oreton.’
‘Yes, I know about that,’ said her ladyship. ‘I knew Etta Moreton quite well. In fact, she wrote to me after your mother’s death, urging me to take a hand in your lives.’
‘Did she?’ That was news to Dorothea.
‘Mmm. But what happened when you met Hazelmere? I presume he made himself charming, as usual?’
Dorothea reminded herself that she had no idea how charming Hazelmere might be expected to be. She stuck to her edited story. ‘He introduced himself. Then, because I was unattended, he insisted on walking me home.’
Lady Merion, reading into her granddaughter’s careful tones rather more than Dorothea would have wished, leapt to a conclusion. ‘My dear, you needn’t be shy about telling me he made love to you shamelessly. He does it all the time. That devil can be utterly undeniable when the mood takes him.’
Her gaze wildly incredulous, Dorothea saw the crevasse yawning at her feet only just in time. Lady Merion had used the term ‘made love’ in the sense in which it was used in her heyday, to denote suggestive flirtation. Swallowing the words she had so nearly uttered, she forced her voice to calmness. ‘Charming? Actually, I found him rather arrogant.’
Her ladyship blinked at this cold assessment of one of society’s lions.
Dorothea hurried on. ‘I met Lord Hazelmere again at the inn last night.’
Lady Merion would have described herself as being inured to the ways of those around her. It was consequently with some surprise that she realised that her granddaughter, having been in the house for only a few hours, had managed to seriously shake her calm. She repeated weakly, ‘The Marquis was at the inn last night?’
‘Yes. And so were a large number of other gentlemen, because there’d been a prize-fight on near by.’
Lady Merion closed her eyes, asking herself what next this outrageous child would reveal. She received Dorothea’s carefully censored version of events at the inn in silence. She was, in fact, more than a little puzzled. While Hazelmere had acted most properly in rescuing Dorothea, his subsequent actions were much harder to understand. She could not see why he had been so angry. Highly unlike him to lose his temper at all, let alone with a chit he hardly knew.
Aware that Dorothea was waiting for her verdict, she put the puzzle of Hazelmere’s behaviour aside. ‘Well, my dear, I cannot see anything in your conduct which should cause you undue concern. I would not wish you to go about anywhere unattended, that’s true. But I know your life at the Grange lacked the formality it might have had. The happenings at the inn were highly regrettable, but you could not have known how it would be and thankfully Hazelmere was there to rescue you.’ She paused, suddenly thoughtful. ‘Do you have any idea why he wishes to see me tomorrow?’
Dorothea had given that particular question a great deal of thought. ‘I wonder whether it was because of the other gentlemen in the stableyard. He knew them, and they now know he has met me previously. I assume we’ll have to agree on some acceptable tale to account for that?’
Lady Merion considered this, then nodded. ‘Yes, that’s a likely explanation.’ Hazelmere would be well aware of the possible consequences of that public acknowledgement of their acquaintance, and it was quite in character that he should seek to minimise any damage. Whatever else he might be, Hazelmere would always behave as he ought.
Relieved of the nagging worry that she had committed some heinous social sin, Dorothea enjoyed a blissful night’s sleep. Cecily, too, slept the sleep of the innocent and was fully recovered from their travelling. Arriving in Bruton Street, they were met by the great Celestine herself. One look sufficed to tell that sharp-witted modiste that in the Misses Darent she had models equal to her talents. Five minutes in their company convinced her that, with their charmingly open manners and that unconscious air of the truly well bred, they were destined to be among the foremost hits of the Season.
The last thing needed to make her throw all her most prized designs at the Darent feet was provided when, on their arrival, Lady Merion took her aside. ‘My granddaughters’ affairs are moving apace, madame. Miss Darent has made the acquaintance of one of the unmarried peers. I can’t, of course, reveal his name, but he is most eligible. Lord H is definitely behaving with very much less than his usual sang-froid. I have every hope to see her creditably established before the Season ends.’
No mean player of society's games, Lady Merion was confident of the response her indiscretion would elicit. At the very least, Hazelmere’s intrusion into her granddaughter’s life should be put to good use. She had no illusions about her elder granddaughter. Cecily would take very well; she was virtually the epitome of the current craze for blonde beauties. Dorothea was striking, but would, she was sure, pale into insignificance in her ssister’s companyister’scompany. And, on top of that, she was far too much in command of herself to appeal to any gentleman’s chivalrous instincts. Although a brilliant match was wishful thinking, a good match was still well within her reach. Particularly with Celestine’s help.
On the matter of style, Celestine, a superbly gowned dark-haired woman of indeterminate age, made her pronouncements with a slight French accent. ‘Miss Cecily is so young and so fair that she must be dressed à la jeune fille! For Miss Darent, however, I would recommend a more sophisticated style. With your permission, my lady?’ She glanced speculatively at Lady Merion.
‘We are entirely in your hands, madame,’ responded her ladyship.
Celestine nodded. If that was so, she would seize this opportunity with both hands. Dressing the simpering daughters of the ton rarely gave her scope for her genius. To be presented with a client of the quality of Miss Darent was a God-given chance to display her true skill. Good bonestructure, perfect poise, regal deportment, striking and unusual colouring, a truly elegant figure and an arrestingly classical face—what more could a first-class modiste desire in her client? When she had finished with her Dorothea Darent would stand out in any crowd and, thank the lord, had the confidence to carry it off. Her black eyes sparkled. ‘Bon! Miss Darent’s colouring is sufficiently unusual. Also her deportment…so much more—how should I say?—elegant, poised. We will use daring colours and severe styling to make best use of what God has created.’
The next two hours were spent in a haze of gauzes and silks, muslins and cambrics as the relative merits of the various designs, materials and finishes were discussed and measurements taken.
After giving an order for a staggering number of gowns, some to be delivered later that evening for their first promenade in the park the next day, Lady Merion triumphantly led her granddaughters back to their carriage.
Returning to their rooms after a light luncheon, the girls found that in their absence Witchett had been shopping too. Opening their drawers, they found them fully stocked with underwear liberally edged with lace, stockings of the finest silk, ribbons of every hue, together with gloves, reticules, scarves, fans—in short, everything else they could possibly need. Witchett, coming up to see if they needed any assistance, found them exclaiming over their finds.
Seeing her at her bedchamber door, Dorothea beamed. ‘Oh, thank you, Witchett! I’m sure we would have forgotten all these things until we were about to go out!’
Witchett found herself, uncharacteristically, returning the smile. ‘Well, miss, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of other things to think about.’ Really, it was very hard not to fall under the spell of these happy young things. ‘Now, Miss Cecily! I see you’ve crushed that pretty dress of yours terribly. You’ll have to be more careful with your new London gowns. Betsy can press it while you rest. She’s waiting in your chamber to help you undress.’
‘Oh, but I don’t want to rest!’
The querulous tone alerted Dorothea. Cecily could wilt rapidly when over-tired, and it was only the day before that they had been travelling. Catching Witchett’s eye to enjoin her silence, Dorothea, examining a lace collar by the window, calmly said, ‘If you don’t wish to rest then no one shall make you. Of course, we’ll have
to pay attention this evening while Grandmama teaches us about society’s ways, but as long as you’re sure you’ll be awake I see no point in resting. It’s such a beautiful day that I think I’ll take a stroll in the park in the square. Why don’t you come with me?’
Witchett held herself aloof.
The expression on Cecily’s face turned thoughtful. On consideration, she was not so sure she could sustain another evening of dos and don’ts without fortification. ‘Oh, maybe Witchett’s right and I should rest. I always find it so difficult to remember things when I’m tired. Enjoy your walk!’ With an airy wave she drifted across the corridor.
Dorothea remained at the window, looking at the cherry trees swelling into bud and the children playing on the lawns underneath. ‘Witchett, I’m not perfectly sure, but is it acceptable for me to walk in that park?’
‘Yes, miss. Provided you have an attendant.’
‘Who would be an appropriate attendant should I wish to go for a walk now?’
‘I’ll accompany you, miss, as is right and proper. If you’ll wait for me in the hall I’ll just get my coat and join you there.’
Witchett was as prompt as her word and within five minutes Dorothea was strolling under the cherry trees, enjoying the sensation of sunlight on her face. Her pelisse kept out the cold breeze as she wended her way around the paths past beds of bright daffodils and early crocus. A child’s ball suddenly landed at her feet. Stooping to pick it up, she looked around for the owner. A fair lad about six years old stood uncertainly on the lawn on the other side of the daffodil bed. Smiling, she walked around to him, holding out the ball.