“Nor should you. The third shelf on the east wall, behind the Gibbon, there is a collection of French fairy tales that Godmama pretends she does not own. They are wonderful.”
“You have exposed my only secret, Allegra,” Lady Sophia said. “I shall have to find a new hiding place.”
“You have been hiding them there since I was nine. I believe they are quite settled.” Allegra turned back to Elizabeth with the frank, open manner of a woman who made friends easily. “Godmama tells me you have two sisters here as well? Miss Bennet and Miss Mary?”
“Jane is upstairs, and Mary is at the pianoforte with Miss Darcy. They have become inseparable.”
“Georgiana Darcy? Oh, how lovely. She is the sweetest creature—painfully shy, but so talented. I am glad she has a friend her own age.” Allegra’s face brightened with a pleasant smile. “And who is this dog?”
“Nettle.” Elizabeth looked down at the terrier, who was investigating the hem of Allegra’s dove-gray skirt. “She bites people who deserve it and licks people who don’t. She appears to be reserving judgment on you.”
Allegra extended her hand. Nettle sniffed it, considered, and wagged her tail—a measured wag, not the full surrender she had given Lady Sophia, but a provisional approval that suggested she was willing to be persuaded.
“I shall earn my way into her good graces,” Allegra said. “I am told it is worth the effort.”
“Allegra, my dear,” Lady Sophia said, “I wonder if I might impose upon you. My bones are not equal to Bond Street, and these girls need wardrobes. The modistes, Gerrard’s, Hyde Park—everything they will need for the Season. I should not ask, but I cannot think of anyone better suited.”
“Godmama, I should love nothing more.” Allegra turned to Elizabeth with an eagerness that was, as far as Elizabeth could detect, entirely sincere. “The styles this Season are quite forgiving—empire waist is still the thing, thank heaven, and the muslins are beautiful. I know a dressmaker on Bruton Street who does the most exquisite work and will not bankrupt you, though I suppose bankrupting you is rather more difficult now than it would have been a month ago.”
“Considerably more difficult,” Elizabeth agreed, and the shared amusement that passed between them felt natural and uncomplicated in a way that surprised her in its generosity.
“Tomorrow, then. We can make a day of it—the modiste first, then Bond Street for gloves and ribbons, and Gerrard’s for ices if you survive the fitting.”
“I should like that very much,” Elizabeth said, her mind already wandering toward the delightful frivolity of silk and sugar.
Mrs. Alford again appeared at the doorway. “I beg your pardon, Madam. Lady Prideaux and Sir Weston have arrived for Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Elizabeth felt the sudden splash of the marriage market—the appearance of a suitor she was ill-prepared for. What was sheexpected to say or do? She’d always counted on her mother to make all the remarks and ask all the questions at Longbourn.
Lady Prideaux entered with the momentum of a tall sailing ship, her purple silks rustling.
“Lady Sophia! You look remarkably well,” Lady Prideaux began, her gaze already sweeping the room to calculate the cost of the draperies before settling on Elizabeth with a predatory gleam. “And this must be Miss Elizabeth Bennet. My dear, your complexion is quite… healthy. The country air, no doubt. It is a pity it so rarely survives a month in town.”
“I shall endeavor to keep my complexion as long as the London soot allows, Ma’am,” Elizabeth replied, the dip of her curtsy as precise as if she had been born to it.
“And may I present my son?” Lady Prideaux said, her voice swelling with the pride of a merchant displaying a prized clock. “Sir Weston.”
The young man bowed with a stiffness that suggested his coat was too tight across the shoulders, then resumed a posture of such alarming rectitude that Elizabeth wondered if he breathed at all.
“Will you please be seated?” Lady Sophia smoothed over the silence.
Lady Prideaux settled herself as she looked about the room. “It is a triumph, Sophia. Truly. To open a house in such a manner after so long a retreat! One hears the most extraordinary rumors about the renovations. I suppose with the New Drury Lane rising from its ashes like a great, expensive phoenix, everyone feels the need to polish their own façades.”
The tea service was set out, and Elizabeth busied herself with pouring the tea. A thin stream of fragrant Hyson trickled from the fluted spout of the silver teapot into fine china teacups.
“The theater is a massive undertaking,” Lady Sophia replied, accepting a cup and saucer from Elizabeth. “Benjamin Wyattis certainly making a statement with the design. One hopes the acoustics will be more favorable to the actors than to the carpenters’ pockets.”
“Indeed,” Lady Prideaux said, leaning forward between her own dainty sips. “We were at Covent Garden only last Friday. The crowd was quite… mixed. But the opera! Sir Weston found the soprano most striking, did you not, Weston?”
“She had a very loud voice, Mother,” Sir Weston offered, his first contribution to the morning’s oratory.
“Power, Weston. It is called power,” his mother corrected with a sharp smile toward Elizabeth. “And we are all looking forward to Haymarket’s summer season. It is so much more manageable in the heat. Do you intend to frequent the theater this year, Miss Bennet? Or do you find our London entertainments a bit too robust after the quiet of the country?”
“I have always found that a crowd provides its own species of quiet,” Elizabeth replied. “One can observe so much more when everyone is busy looking at the stage.”
Lady Sophia’s eyes flickered with amusement. “Miss Elizabeth has a most discerning eye, Lady Prideaux. I suspect she will find the ‘mixed’ crowds at Covent Garden far more entertaining than the actual production.”
“Discerning? How very… useful,” Lady Prideaux murmured, though her expression suggested she found a discerning young woman about as welcome as a draught in a sickroom. “And Sir Weston is a great patron of the arts. He is particularly fond of the pantomime, are you not, dear?”
