Maria and Julia were now too anxious to be happy, and too happy to sleep. On Saturday night, they both attended a ball at Mrs. Stanhope’s, and it was hours after midnight when they returned, yawning and footsore, to the bedchamber they shared, but they lay talking together of the ordeal of the coming Monday—the announcement of their names by the Chamberlain, the advance and the deep curtsey, the brief conversation with the Queen, the final curtsey, and, most difficult of all, the retreat, backing away while facing Her Majesty, the train gathered up and draped over one arm.
Finally, Julia exclaimed, “Oh, Maria! We must go to sleep—look, it is already dawn!”
Maria looked, perplexed. “But Julia, our windows do not face the east but the south.” Curious, she got out of bed and stuck her head out of the window. “I believe there is a fire in the distance.” Soon both girls, all pretence at elegance forgotten, and with their hair in curling rags with shawls around their shoulders, were leaning as far out of the window as they could without falling into the street. The distant sound of pealing bells reached them, soon followed by the appearance of a wheeled cart, filled with long handled axes and grappling hooks, pushed by a group of panting young men, toward the distant blaze. A servant hallo’d down to them, to ask whither were they going and came the answer –
“The palace—St. James’s Palace is on fire!!”
The early morning brought confirmation of the dismal fact. Large crowds milled around the edges of the Park to view the sight—half the Palace lay in smouldering ashes, and no one could deceive themselves that there would be any receptions hosted there this season.
Upon hearing the news later that morning, Mary Crawford quizzed her brother on his whereabouts the night before—whether he had been in the vicinity of St. James’s Court with a torch, and to what lengths was he prepared to go, indeed, to avoid a public announcement of the understanding between himself and Maria Bertram? Mr. Crawford joined in the joke, but explained that he was, as always, the child of good fortune, and counted on that luck to continue to preserve him from wearing the matrimonial yoke.
The overthrow of all their hopes of meeting royalty, of distinction, of being the object of all eyes at the reception, was a bitter blow indeed for Maria and Julia, and no less so for the father who had laid down money, in the form of convivial dinners and gifts of sherry, to bring it about, and moreover, had had his pockets emptied by the most exquisite dressmakers London had to offer. Sir Thomas hoped he could persuade his daughters that with some alterations, the presentation gowns could be wedding gowns one day.
Chapter Twelve
Mrs. Butters was loyal to the fashions of her youth, feeling that the high-waisted gowns then in vogue looked ridiculous and immodest on a woman of her proportions. At her age, the necessity of wearing her corset and stiff bodice, and sitting at the sidelines of a ballroom until well after midnight, listening to tedious talk and watching foolish young people behaving foolishly, had lost no small amount of its charm. But the good-natured widow had agreed to escort the daughters of an old friend who was indisposed, and thus she found herself at Lord and Lady Delingpole’s ball, with her fellow chaperones, watching over the new crop of Society beauties and the men who pursued them.
“There—that is Miss Crawford, is it not?” She asked her companion, Mrs. Grenville. “I haven’t seen her for this age. How lovely she looks. Her partner is very handsome. Do you know him?”
“I believe he is the son of Sir Thomas Bertram, the baronet—you may recollect—he used to be the member for Northamptonshire. What a fine-looking pair they make! One of his sisters is here as well, the tall girl with the golden hair, in the next set of couples.”
“Hmmm, very striking. Is this her first Season?”
“Yes, and she has an older sister also making her debut. They both will have ten thousand pounds.”
“And young Mr. Bertram? What are his prospects?”
“He is not the heir. I am not certain.”
“Miss Crawford appears to like him nonetheless, I perceive.”
“Wasn’t there something—something about Miss Crawford last season? I cannot recollect….”
“I think, my dear Mrs. Grenville, you are referring to rumours concerning Miss Crawford and the Earl of Elsham. I am told that Lady Elsham once met her at a reception and gave her the cut direct.”
“Of course, I give no credence whatsoever to rumours.”
“No, they only serve to entertain us until we can go home and be comfortable again. Blast these stays!”
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Butters, only look. There is the Earl himself.”
Edmund Bertram and Miss Crawford were in the thick of a crowded throng, attempting to dance—though sometimes buffeted by persons moving through the ball room to gain the card tables or tea tables on the other side—when a tall, distinguished man of aristocratic mien, whose hair was shot through with grey but whose trim figure spoke of health, discipline and vitality, accosted her thusly:
“My dear Miss Crawford! At last! I feared we would not see you this season. You appeared to have buried yourself in the country, most utterly.”
Mary started, and paused in the dance. “My Lord, what an honour and a pleasure to see you again.” Quickly recovering, she made a graceful curtsey. “Lord Elsham, may I present—”
“I think not.”
Lord Elsham, without another word, took Mary’s gloved arm and walked away with her, leaving Edmund alone amongst the dancers.
“My Lord,” Mary remonstrated, “we will be remarked upon.”
“I am always being remarked upon,” he replied. “I am the Earl of Elsham, after all. And you,
