“Your lordship?”
“I shall come straight to the point, Miss Welles. I have already compromised you too much. That is what I desired to speak to you about.”
“Compromised? How do you mean?”
“It was both forward and thoughtless of me to walk with you unchaperoned to your aunt’s home a few mornings ago.”
“But you assured me that every propriety was observed.” Feeling wounded, C.J. looked up at Darlington, worrying that this might signify an immediate end to their acquaintance, which, brief as it had been, she had found exceedingly enjoyable. “I was not offended, nor did I feel in any way violated,” she hastened to add.
“Your forgiving nature, Miss Welles, does not excuse my impertinence and my heedlessness. My waggishness could have caused you—an innocent and trusting party—irreparable harm. You are blameless of course, but it will not cease any censure. I am entirely at fault. If you and your aunt will permit me to call upon you, I shall take care in future to see that you are properly chaperoned. Miss Austen has but recently arrived in town and has lamented her lack of friends and companions here. She enjoys long walks and shopping expeditions as well as any young lady, and as you have expressed the wish to know her better, I shall endeavor to enlist her company so that you will not become exposed to idle gossip and speculation. And no doubt, her aunt, Mrs. Leigh-Perrot, who is equally fond of shopping, would also welcome an opportunity to show you the sights along Milsom Street.”
“Percy.” Lady Oliver’s command had the effect of cold water on a wintry morning. “I should like some punch. Surely there must be some refreshments remaining.”
“Happy to oblige, Aunt Augusta,” Darlington replied as pleasantly as one might between clenched teeth.
The exchange did not pass unnoticed by Miss Austen. C.J. drew Jane aside to ask, “Whatever might I have done that Lady Oliver should so fear my association with her nephew? Surely I have never given her occasion to be displeased with me.”
Jane took her new friend’s hand. “Where there is a disposition to dislike, a motive will never be wanting.” She shook her head and agreed that a specific objection might offer some degree of consolation. At least one knew where one stood, and why.
Mr. King opened the second half of the evening’s dancing. According to Lady Dalrymple, he was ordinarily the Master of Ceremonies in the Lower Rooms. None of the young ladies in C.J.’s party wanted for a partner during the remainder of the evening; and in one instance, a red-faced but amiable gentleman led C.J. to the top of the longways set. She felt somewhat nervous in so prominent a position but summoned her theatrical training to overcome her anxiety. Thank goodness, the tune was “Apley House,” one she had the good fortune to know well from her New York English country dance workshops. When it ended, the ladies, rosy-cheeked and giddy, made their way across the crowded dance floor to their chairs, although in the crush, Harriet Fairfax’s gown was trod upon by a gentleman displaying the staggering effects of too much mirth.
“Sister, look!” cried Miss Susanne, pointing to Harriet’s tattered hem.
“Oh dear!” Miss Fairfax surveyed her gown. “Mother! My best frock!”
Mrs. Fairfax rose to inspect the damage. “What a boor of a partner to tread so clumsily on my daughter’s finest muslin. Don’t you agree, Miss Welles? Still, had the offending gentleman been a man of means, it would have been a lucky turn of events,” she loudly declaimed, and turning to her husband, who was looking upon his good wife’s ranting with a degree of mild bemusement, added accusingly, “It’s thanks to you, Mr. Fairfax, that a suitable class of gentlemen shies away from our girls.”
“Mama, I should like Miss Welles to accompany me downstairs so that my gown may be repaired.”
Miss Fairfax took C.J.’s hand and pointed the way to the retiring room where a few seamstresses remained on call, employed expressly to remedy such unhappy occasions. While her hem was being mended, Miss Fairfax treated C.J. to an enumeration of Captain Keats’s finer attributes, not the least of which was his stunning scarlet coat with its buttons as shiny as newly minted coins.
When they returned to the ballroom, the earl was being presented by his aunt to a pretty young heiress identified by Miss Fairfax as Lady Charlotte Digby, and to an elegant couple in their forties who must have been Lady Charlotte’s parents. Lady Digby, tall, with an angular face, was expensively gowned in seafoam-green silk. Her fashionable turban, striped in shades of pale green and rose, accentuated her regal cheekbones. The daughter, though fairer complected, clearly took after her rather than Lord Digby, a slightly florid gentleman with thinning auburn hair. The earl appeared to smile quite favorably upon Lady Charlotte, his manner nothing like the cool formality he had exhibited when he was introduced to the Miss Fairfaxes earlier in the evening.
C.J. suddenly felt sick to her stomach and doubted that it was the negus that was making her queasy, although she was admittedly unused to drinking the warm wine. Perhaps it was nothing more substantial than her intuition, but something about the picture before her made her heart sink. Preoccupied by the discomfiting scene, she returned to the Fairfaxes in the company of their elder daughter. Lady Dalrymple, who was pretending to listen to Mrs. Fairfax express her displeasure regarding the latest fashion of bonnets, was nevertheless keeping an interested eye and both ears on the conversation between Darlington and the Digbys.
It could not have been more than
