“When all the gentlemen would retire after supper to brandy and cigars, Portly would insist on my accompanying him. It raised many eyebrows, I can tell you, Cassandra, and several times we were nearly cut for his eccentricities. Men might include their mistresses among such company from time to time, but never their wives. I used to return to the drawing room, my garments reeking of tobacco smoke; my maids pleaded with me for mercy,” she laughed. “They detested airing my gowns after such outings. Some of my friends would fairly beg me to tell them what their husbands conversed about outside their presence. Others, of course, were just as glad to be rid of them for an hour or two. Among our set were dozens of aristocratic ladies, legally compelled to share their husbands’ beds in loveless marriages and bear them lawful heirs, but who knew nothing about them, nor did their spouses care to learn what interested their wives. Such concerns were not the way of the world when I was a young girl. Of course, not so much has changed. True love, my dear, is the exception in high society, rather than the rule. The upper classes are expected to forge alliances of money and property—not passion. For passion, one takes a lover—providing it is discreetly done—unless of course you’re a member of the royal family, in which case one dares not question your behavior. But I adored Portly. I used to dance for him, Cassandra. Not the sort of dancing one does in the ballroom, which of course we both enjoyed immensely. But late at night, in the privacy of our bedchamber, I . . .” She broke off her narrative when her voice began to break. “One day, I hope you will know the kind of love I had. And you will want to dance for your husband.” The countess reclaimed her emotions and gave her “niece” a wink. “It puts a little ginger in a marriage.”
C.J. returned her focus to her tapestry. She had been daydreaming again, an easy feat when Lady Dalrymple became engrossed in one of her card games. No one thought to trouble her, and she found it rather refreshing to be left alone.
“Miss Welles.”
C.J. glanced up from the embroidery hoop and saw Lady Oliver beckoning her with a jeweled finger. There was something about this woman that truly unnerved C.J., although she did her best to try to conceal her apprehension. She felt as though Darlington’s aunt could see right through her new sarcenet gown and her cambric undergarments, straight to the marrow of her bones, whereupon the dragon would publicly denounce her as a fraud.
C.J. dropped a quick curtsy before her judge. “How may I be of service, your ladyship?”
Lady Oliver recited the facts in a steely voice. “My nephew has invited you to dance at the Assembly Ball this evening in the Upper Rooms. You have accepted his invitation.”
“Heavens!”
The entire party was startled by this rude interjection. C.J. turned to face the speaker and stifled a laugh. The culprit, now feigning disinterest, gnawed on a bit of biscuit at the bottom of his gilded cage. C.J. smiled at Lady Dalrymple, who assumed a sober countenance and nodded to Willis to place a cloth over Newton’s residence.
Lady Oliver elected to ignore the parrot’s editorializing. “It is most improper. Most improper indeed. You have come from nowhere, child. You may have just as well dropped down from the sky. Your father was—nay, is—such an objectionable creature that we do not even speak of him in polite society.”
“And yet this is the second time I have heard your ladyship mention him in as many encounters,” C.J. replied boldly, adding, “And as this evening has been pleasant and genial thus far, and I may allow that I have been passing it in polite society, it would be proper indeed if neither my father’s name nor mention of his unfortunate circumstances—nor even, by extension, my own—should pass from our collectively respectable lips.”
Lady Oliver refused to permit herself to be discommoded by the placid look on C.J.’s face and found a new focus for her disdain by remarking upon C.J.’s pale blue silk gown.
“Euphoria, I trust that your niece will have a more suitable frock to wear to a ball in the Upper Rooms.”
Lady Dalrymple beamed triumphantly at her bosom friend. “My dear Augusta, on your own recommendation Miss Welles is wearing one of the day dresses Madame Delacroix designed. It so artfully becomes her, does it not? It was delivered this afternoon along with one evening ensemble. The rest of my niece’s gowns will be ready in no time.”
Lady Oliver wrinkled her nose in evident disapproval. “Euphoria, I wish to make it quite clear in front of the young lady that I shall not permit her to dance more than once with my nephew, and even that I will consider to be an act of charity toward the poor relation of my dearest friend.”
Mr. Fairfax evinced some discomfort at his being privy to such a conversation. His wife’s pink ears perked up, however. The grand behavior of the upper crusts of society into which her nouveau riche status accorded her the privilege of mingling never ceased to impress her. “Such condescension,” she exclaimed approvingly to her shuddering husband, who attempted to shush her lest her remark be overheard.
“How kind of you to express such concern, Augusta,” Lady Dalrymple said sweetly. “If Percy were to dance more than three sets with my niece at her very first ball, the entire city of Bath would expect him to offer for her.” She laid the ace of hearts on the felt-covered gaming table.
“Ha-ha, I do believe she has trumped us,” Mrs. Fairfax giggled, whereupon her husband motioned for the footman to remove his wife’s sherry glass from the table.
THE FAIRFAXES HAD DEPARTED for
