Page 50 of Debtor’s Daughter

“Caro, darling. You are too young to remember, but I recollect very well coming to town with your mama and watching her ready herself for the theatre.”

“You do?” Caro exclaimed, immediately diverted. She sat down on the bed, regarding Maggie eagerly.

“I do,” Maggie said with a smile and sat down beside her, taking her hand. “And your mama told me there was one very important rule that must always be observed. For one goes to the opera to be seen, but one goes to the theatre to see. For the opera, you may dress as lavishly as you like and pour your jewellery box over your head for good measure. The theatre, however, is not the place for too much ostentation, and a stylish promenade dress is far more appropriate than full evening dress.”

“Truly?” Caro looked rather disappointed.

“I fear so,” Maggie said with a sympathetic smile. “Consider also that you have not yet been presented. We will have enough scandal attached to our names, plus censure for not wearing mourning for a full year. I believe it might be prudent to be a little more circumspect and not make spectacles of ourselves. What do you think?” she added, disinclined to once again be thought of as the voice of doom.

Caro nodded with a sigh. “Mama was always the height of fashion, Papa said, so I must bow to her judgement. I would not wish people to think us outrageous or… or fast,” she added, whispering the word as if it were too awful to contemplate out loud.

“I think you are very wise,” Maggie said, patting her sister’s hand, relieved the sartorial crisis had been averted.

Still, despite such constraints, the Merrivale ladies contrived to look splendid indeed, and not at all as if ill fortune had dealt them a heavy hand. As they were to be in public, they had all erred on the side of caution and chosen darker colours. Aunt Connie was once again in a deep purple, which was her favourite shade, and Caro in a lighter lilac grey that flattered her pearly complexion and glossy raven hair. Maggie had chosen a dark blue taffeta robe. The corsage, made entirely of small, close folds, fit her slender form like a second skin. The sleeves were narrow to the elbow where they widened, falling open with deep lace ruffles: a pretty, extravagantly feminine touch which echoed the deep flounces on the skirt and worked well against the simple severity of the bodice. After congratulating each other on looking ravishing, they congregated in the front parlour to don their cloaks and await Mr Weston.

The gentleman arrived at the appointed hour, admired them all with appreciation, and escorted the ladies out into a crisp November night that promised frost would greet them on the morrow.

“Have you seen this play before, Mr Weston?” Caro asked, her delight in the coming evening making her lovely face glow and her eyes sparkle. Maggie wondered ruefully if any young man attending this night would see anything that happened on stage or would spend the entire evening gazing at her sister.

“I have not,” Mr Weston replied with a smile. “But my friends recommended it. I know a little of the plot, however.”

“Oh, do tell,” Connie exclaimed, looking every bit as thrilled as Caro.

“Well, as you have no doubt guessed, The Templar is tale of one of the Knights Templar. The story is that of Sir Guy de Lusignan, who is betrayed by his own order and falsely accused of crimes he did not commit. We follow Sir Guy’s story as he seeks to clear his name and restore his honour. I believe he must contend with a scheming bishop and a ruthless rival, and it is a thrilling production by the masterful Charles Kean. I am told the costumes, and the scenery are especially fine.”

Caro clapped her hands together. “How marvellous. Is there much fighting?” she asked eagerly, rather to Maggie’s surprise.

“I suspect there may be some sword fighting,” Mr Weston replied, amused.

Auntie Connie and Caro exchanged glances of delighted anticipation at such blood thirsty delights and Maggie glanced at Mr Weston to see him grinning appreciatively.

It was a short journey to Oxford Street, and they soon arrived outside the grand Renaissance building that was the Princess’s Theatre.

“This used to be the site of the former Royal Bazaar,” Mr Weston explained as he led them inside. “It burned down in 1829 but was rebuilt and opened as the Queen’s Bazaar and exhibited paintings and dioramas. Then it was made over again and opened as the Princess’s Theatre.”

Maggie nodded, interested and touched by how ready Mr Weston was to entertain them and ensure they had a wonderful evening.

“My friend, Lord Blackstone, has kindly lent us his box for the evening,” he told them as he guided them through the foyer and up the stairs.

“The Marquess of Blackstone,” Aunt Connie said with interest. “He is the son of the Duke of Bedwin, I believe?”

“That’s right. This way, ladies.”

They followed Mr Weston up a grand staircase which was apparently for the private use of those who had a box, which Maggie appreciated, for it was far quieter than the crush of people making their way up the main stair. Aunt Connie’s and Caro’s eyes were on stalks as they gazed around at the fashionable crowd and the magnificent surroundings and the two chattered happily as they ascended.

The Marquess of Blackstone’s private box was undoubtedly one of the best being closest to the stage and gave them the perfect vantage point to view both the performance and the audience. Caro gasped in awe as she gazed upon the profusion of red velvet and gold tassels, the lavish embroidery and beautiful paintings over every surface, with gilding everywhere. She took the seat on the far right of the box, with Aunt Connie beside her.

“How sumptuous it is,” Caro said, looking quite overwhelmed as she sat, stroking the lush velvet upholstery of the chair she sat upon. The box also contained champagne on ice, crystal glasses, a jug of orgeat, a large bowl of fruit, and a selection of petit fours.

“Why, Mr Weston, this is delightful. Thank you so much for arranging such a treat for us,” Aunt Connie said, turning to Mr Weston, who sat beside her.

Caro was quick to follow. “I’ve never been so excited in my life,” she confessed, her lovely face flushed with pleasure. “Thank you so very much.”

Mr Weston smiled warmly at them. “It’s entirely my pleasure, I assure you. I only hope you enjoy the performance.”

“Oh, we will,” Caro and Auntie chorused, settling themselves expectantly.

Mr Weston turned back to Maggie, who was sitting on his left. “Is everything to your satisfaction?” he asked, his voice soft.