‘I'll show you presently,' promised Charis, giving her sister's hand a grateful squeeze.
More she refused to disclose, only shaking her head when questioned, and folding her pretty lips tightly together. But when they reached Upper Wimpole Street, she took Frederica to her own bedchamber, and laid before her the latest number of the Ladies' Magazine, opened to display a sketch of a willowy damsel elegantly attired in a three-quarter dress of white sarsnet fastened down the centre with rosettes of pearls, and worn over a white satin petticoat. ‘W-what do you think, Frederica?' she asked, directing an anxious look at her sister.
Critically surveying the sketch, and mentally eradicating from it such additions to the ensemble as a purple-puce shawl, a tiara, and a black lace head-veil, Frederica came to the conclusion that Charis's instinct had not betrayed her. She was a tall girl, though not (mercifully) as tall as the lady depicted, who appeared to be quite seven-foot high, and the long smooth line of the over-dress would admirably become her. ‘I like it!' she said decidedly. ‘It's simple, and yet not in the common way. You are perfectly right, Charis: it would be excessively becoming to you! Particularly those soft, graceful folds to the petticoat, without any flounces or trimming round the hem.'
‘I knew you would say so!' breathed Charis.
‘Yes, but –' Frederica paused, a frown gathering on her brow. She raised her eyes to the melting blue ones so pleadingly fixed on her face, and said: ‘You would like Franchot to copy it, I collect. But would she? I am not very sure, but I fancy that London modistes use only their own designs.'
‘No, no, no!' said Charis, with unusual vehemence. ‘I mean to make it myself!'
‘No, that you shall not!' replied Frederica. ‘What, make your first appearance in a home-made dress? Never! Charis, if you knew for how long I have dreamed of presenting you with everything fine about you – !'
‘You shall! I promise you shall, my darling – my best of sisters!' Charis declared, warmly embracing her. ‘Only listen to me! I know I'm not clever, or bookish, and I don't paint, or play the pianoforte, but even my aunt will own that I can sew! Yes, and I can cut things out, too, and set a sleeve! Why, don't you remember the dress I made to wear at the Squire's party, and how everyone tried to discover whether Aunt Scrabster had sent it from London, or whether we had found a dressmaker in Ross, or Hereford, no one else knew anything about? Even Lady Peasmore was hoaxed, for she told Marianne that there was a certain sort of something to my dress which clearly showed that it had been designed by a modiste of the first stare! And I like doing it, you know I do, Frederica!'
This was unanswerable, for Charis was indeed a notable needlewoman; but it was not until Miss Winsham, alone with her favourite niece, said stringently: ‘Let her! If she makes a botch of it – which she won't, for this I will say: she may be a ninnyhammer, but she has cleverer fingers than you, Frederica! – it will keep her occupied, and out of the way of that encroaching coxcomb next door!'– that Frederica agreed to the scheme.
Ten
Miss Winsham being only too glad to depute the duty of chaperoning her nieces to Lady Buxted, the Misses Merriville set out alone on the evening of the Alverstoke ball, Miss Winsham, at the last moment, flinging up a window to demand whether they had provided themselves with pocket-handkerchiefs, Buddle adjuring them to take care not to allow their skirts to brush against the step of the carriage, and Owen handing them tenderly into this vehicle. Each of the sisters looked forward to the party in the expectation of spending a delightful evening; neither betrayed (or, indeed, felt) any of the nervousness common amongst young ladies making their first appearances in society. Charis, untroubled by ambition, and unmoved by the extravagant compliments she received, was confident that the party would be enjoyable, because she always did enjoy parties: people were so kind! No fears assailed her that her hand might not be solicited for every dance, for such a thing had never happened to her. If she had thought about the matter at all, she would have said that it arose from the circumstance of having so many acquaintances in Herefordshire; and if it had been suggested to her that in London, where she was unknown, she might be obliged to sit amongst the chaperons for a considerable part of the evening, she would have accepted the warning perfectly placidly, and without the smallest feeling of pique.
Frederica was not without ambition, but it was centred on her sister. Once satisfied that Charis was in high bloom, and that the gown Charis had made for herself would challenge comparison with Franchot's most expensive creation, she knew no qualms: Charis's beauty, and her unaffected manners, would ensure her success. As for herself, being (in her own view) so far past her prime as to have become almost an ape-leader, her only concern was to provide Charis with an impeccable background. She could see no difficulty about that. She had been the mistress of her father's household for too long to suffer agonies of shyness; the orange-blossom dress made for her by Miss Chibbet, and given a touch of à la modality by Charis's clever fingers, was just the thing for a lady who, without being precisely stricken in years, knew herself to be beyond the marriageable age; the diamond necklace, bestowed by the late Mr Merriville on his wife, gave her dignity; and the little Alexandrian cap with which, deaf to Charis's protests, she had completed her elegant toilette, clearly demonstrated that she was to be ranked amongst the dowagers.
Frederica might not be wholly conversant with the usages of ton parties, but she knew that in inviting her and Charis to dine at Alverstoke House before the ball, the Marquis was conferring a signal honour on them. The few lines he had scrawled on the back of the gilt-edged card, directed in his secretary's neat handwriting, left her in no doubt of his motive, which was to present them to his eldest sister, and several persons who might, he believed, prove useful. He underlined that word, certainly with malicious intent; and ended with a request (but it read more like a command) that they would come to his house a little before the stated hour. The brief message was rather too autocratic for Frederica's taste, but she decided to overlook this, since his lordship was clearly bent on paving the social way for her. She was not to know that he had, in fact, exerted himself most unusually on behalf of his adopted wards, arranging for their benefit a dinner-party composed, with a few exceptions, of persons whom he either avoided, or never noticed at all. Into the first category fell his eldest sister and her husband, his sister Louisa, his loving cousin Lucretia, and Lady Sefton, whose amiability did not, in his eyes, excuse the affectations which never failed to irritate him. The second category was comprised of his two nephews; his two nieces; the eligible and very dull Mr Redmure, who was betrothed to his eldest niece; his heir; his heir's sister Chloë; and the Honourable Alfred Parracombe, who had the doubtful felicity to be the husband of the handsome brunette whose name had quite recently been linked with his lordship's. It had been linked with several other gentlemen's names too, and the sight of it, on the scribbled list which included the names of the Ladies Jevington and Buxted, made Charles Trevor feel a trifle giddy. He knew better than to question it, however, Mrs Parracombe being one of those who were invited to provide leaven to what his lordship caustically described as ‘all this dough'. Further leaven was to be supplied by Lord and Lady Jersey, and by his lordship's lifelong friend, Mr Darcy Moreton. Mr Trevor, recovering from his astonishment at the names that met his eyes, conned them again, and detected a fault. ‘The numbers are uneven, sir,' he pointed out. ‘There are ten ladies, and only nine gentlemen, including yourself.'
‘And ten gentlemen including yourself!' said his lordship. ‘I've no doubt you'd prefer to be excused, and I don't blame you, but if you think I am going to preside over this atrocious party without support you have a very odd notion of my character!'
Charles laughed, but he coloured as well, and said, with a little stammer: ‘I – I shall be very happy! Thank you, sir! Am I – do you wish me to attend the ball too?'
‘Most certainly I do! Bend your mind while I'm away to the task of arranging the table: that should keep you as fully occupied as even you could wish!'
‘I must own,' agreed Charles, glancing down the list, ‘that it won't be easy to achieve an entirely successful arrangement. I mean –'
‘I know exactly what you mean, my dear boy, and have long since arrived at the conclusion that it's impossible. Do your best! Place my sister Jevington opposite to me: it will infuriate Lady Buxted, but that can't be helped. It would be most improper to set her above Lady Jevington – and I do feel we should consider the proprieties, don't you?'
Mr Trevor, with the name of Mrs Parracombe in mind, replied woodenly: ‘Yes, sir.'
The Marquis, mockery in his eyes, said approvingly: ‘Exactly, Charles! Having placed the matter in your competent hands, I may now leave for Cheveley with a quiet mind. No, perhaps I had better write to beg Lady Jevington to act as hostess at the dinner-party: that may mitigate her annoyance when she discovers that Lady Buxted and Mrs Dauntry are to share the honours of receiving the ball-guests. How very exhausting all these arrangements are! If anyone should come to enquire after me while I'm at Cheveley, tell him that I've gone into the country on a repairing lease. And for the rest – do as seems best to you! All I ask is that you should curb your zeal for economy, and refrain from t
ransforming the ballroom into a tent.'
‘With yards of pink silk! I should rather think not, sir! If you don't dislike it, I should like to deck the room with flowers.'
‘By all means!' said his lordship cordially. ‘I perceive – not that I ever doubted it! – that you will leave me nothing to do, which, as you well know, is always my goal.'
Owing to Mr Trevor's energy, his pronounced talent for organisation, and the tact that won for him the willing cooperation of such jealous persons as his lordship's butler and steward, this hopeful prophecy was fulfilled. The Marquis had only one fault to find with his arrangements. When Mr Trevor laid before him a careful plan of the dinner-table, he transposed two names, as a result of which Mr Trevor found himself placed beside the younger Miss Merriville. This was an agreeable alteration, but he thought it his duty to suggest that it was just conceivable that Mr Endymion Dauntry might not wish to sit beside his cousin Jane.
‘Very likely not – in fact, almost certainly not,' said the Marquis. ‘What gave you the notion that Endymion's wishes interest me?'
That was the sort of remark, reflected Mr Trevor, which made his lordship so incalculable. He could repel and attract at one and the same time. Nothing could be more alienating than the cold indifference he showed towards the members of his family; nothing more endearing than the consideration he gave to the probable wishes of his secretary. He could, with a shocking want of delicacy, include amongst his guests a lady who would certainly set his sisters in a bustle of virtuous indignation; but when he commanded his secretary's attendance, as though it were a part of his duties, Mr Trevor knew very well that all that was expected of him was that he should enjoy himself, and act in the manner of an aide-de-camp, as a secondary host.
He had never doubted that he would enjoy the ball, for this was a treat which seldom came in his way; and, thanks to the Marquis's intervention, he was now able to look forward to the dinner with pleasurable anticipation.
The first guests to arrive were the Jevingtons, bringing the eligible Mr Redmure in their train. Lady Jevington made her appearance regally attired, wearing a magnificent and very ugly diamond tiara, and in a mood of overpowering graciousness. This found instant expression when Alverstoke said: ‘I fancy I need not introduce Charles to you, Augusta?' She replied at once, holding out her hand to Mr Trevor, and bestowing upon him a smile of rare condescension: ‘Indeed, no! Well, Charles, how do you do? And how is your worthy father? And your dear mama? Such an age since I have seen them! you must tell me all about them!'
He was spared this necessity by the arrival, first of the Buxted party, and next, following hard upon their heels, of Mrs Dauntry and Chloë, Mrs Dauntry looking remarkably handsome in one of the clinging gowns which she habitually wore, and which so well became her slender figure. This one, which Lady Buxted mentally priced at fifty guineas, and Lady Jevington at rather more, was of lilac spider-gauze over an underdress of rose satin. She too wore a diamond tiara, by no means so imposing as the heirloom which crowned Lady Jevington, but far more delicately made. Over it she had cast one of her lace veils; lilac kid gloves (French, and not a penny less than five guineas, thought Lady Buxted indignantly) covered her arms; she carried a painted fan in one hand; and a frivolous little reticule hung from her wrist. The other hand she extended to Alverstoke, murmuring: ‘Dear Vernon!' As he gratified her, and infuriated his sisters, by raising it to his lips, she turned her huge sunken eyes towards those fulminating ladies, and acknowledged them by a faint, sweet smile which held affection but not so much as a hint that she regarded either as her hostess. ‘Dear Vernon!' she repeated. ‘Am I late? How naughty of me! But I know you will forgive me! And here is quite your most constant admirer! – Chloë, my darling!'
Miss Dauntry, who had attained her seventeenth birthday three days earlier, dropped a schoolgirl's curtsy, as much surprise as alarm in her heart-shaped face. Her mama having omitted to inform her that she considered her formidable cousin in the light of a fairy godfather, she was thrown off her precarious balance, and looked anxiously at Mrs Dauntry for guidance. The Marquis, observing her dismay, said affably: ‘And for how long have I been – how did you phrase it, Lucretia? Ah, yes! – first oars with you, Chloë? Or haven't I been?'