SUCH WAS THE STATE of affairs in three different quarters when, after much anticipation, the day of Sir Valerian’s party arrived.
15
Love gilds the scene, and women guide the plot.
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, The Rivals
THREE YEARS OF DEPRIVATION had robbed the former belle of Lancashire of whatever vanity she had once possessed, but Daphne, regarding her reflection in the cheval mirror that took up far too much space in her tiny bedchamber, could not quite suppress a little thrill of satisfaction. The gown had not sustained any injury during its long exile, and if it was not quite as fashionable as it had been when she had first received it from the hands of the dressmaker, it was unlikely that anyone at tonight’s entertainment was sufficiently au courant with the latest modes to recognize this.
Most of the good jewelry had been sold in the weeks following her father’s death, but Daphne had managed to keep the pearls he had given her for her seventeenth birthday. These now encircled her throat, and a single pearl trembled in each ear. As for her hair, she had washed it that morning in a preparation scented with violets and brushed it until it shone. It was now piled high on her head and threaded through with pearls—false ones, alas, unlike the ones she’d been given for her birthday, but the effect was charming nonetheless—with little ringlets escaping at her temples and the nape of her neck.
She tried to calm the butterflies cavorting about in her stomach by reminding herself that this was a far cry from the court presentation that was to have been hers, but this argument was silenced by the knowledge that he would be there, and had claimed her for the first waltz. Under such circumstances, it was impossible to remain blasé; in fact, no young lady making her first appearance at Almack’s had suffered a greater agitation of spirits.
Her turbulent thoughts were interrupted by a light tapping on the door, and a moment later her mother peered into the room. “Daphne, do you need any assistance? How I miss the days when I used to have a lady’s maid to help with—oh, my dear!” she exclaimed in quite a different voice. “Never have I seen you in such looks! Such bright eyes! Such a rosy glow! When I think of the brilliant Season you might have had, and the match you might have made, it puts me all out of patience with—but never mind that! I am sure all that is to be put right, for Sir Valerian has only to look at you to—to—” Here she was obliged to seek recourse to the lace-edged handkerchief she carried in her sleeve.
“I’m glad you are pleased, Mama,” Daphne said in a curiously flat voice. How could she tell her mother that it was not the prospect of dazzling Sir Valerian that had put the sparkle in her eyes and the color in her cheeks? Worse yet, even if her mother were to be proven right, and Sir Valerian were to make her an offer, how could she possibly accept, when her heart belonged to Mr. Tisdale? And yet, how could she not, when marriage to Sir Valerian might well be, as her mother claimed, their only chance at a better life?
THEO, IN THE MEANTIME, had wrestled all week with a dilemma of his own: the question of what to wear. He could hardly send to London for his evening kit; besides giving his valet palpitations, he would have to offer his present company some explanation for his possessing clothing of such quality. And yet, he could not tolerate the thought of presenting himself to Miss Drinkard dressed in his secondhand work clothes. In the end, however, he was forced to do exactly that, selecting the better—but not by much—of his two shirts and doing his best to compensate for its shortcomings by reclaiming the cravat he’d abandoned after his first day at the mill (although its appearance might have been greatly improved by a liberal application of starch) and the plain brown tailcoat.
His toilet complete, Theo descended the stairs to the drawing room where, on this occasion, everyone was to assemble before removing to the dining room in a formal procession. The reason for this departure from the usual arrangement soon became clear: Mrs. Drinkard had invited the more respectable of Sir Valerian’s party guests to dine before the event, just as if she had been hosting a ball in her own home. Once these had arrived—the squire and his lady, the doctor and his wife, the vicar along with his spinster sister and his sixteen-year-old daughter—the company paired off and progressed to the dining room, led by Mrs. Drinkard on the arm of Sir Valerian. Theo, as (apparently) the lowest in rank amongst the males of the party, offered his arm to the vicar’s daughter, a well-behaved girl whose plain countenance concealed a keen intelligence. Theo, finding her disconcerting gaze upon him, rapidly calculated how long it had been since he had attended divine services with his sister and her family, and how old this unnerving young lady must have been at the time.
Upon entering the dining room, however, all such thoughts were driven from his head, for here it must have become clear to the meanest intelligence that Mrs. Drinkard, having been asked to act as hostess, intended to do the thing properly. The room had undergone a stunning transformation since the previous night’s evening meal. A cloth of crisp white linen overlaid with fine Irish lace now covered the table, anchored by porcelain bowls of late chrysanthemums. Tall beeswax candles in silver candelabra (which, had Theo but known it, Daphne had spent the better part of the morning deedily employed in polishing) had
