Page 34 of A Taste of Miss Honey

Chapter 12

A Terribly Proper Ordeal.

Cavendish House, Mayfair, London, 20th March 1816

Though it had taken her the best part of two months to get to this point, Izzy still could not believe she was here, in London, and looking a complete fright. She stared at her reflection in the full-length looking glass and pulled a face. The light nuncheon she had eaten appeared to have turned to lead in her stomach, which churned uneasily. Why on earth was she doing this? She glanced at the book beside her bed, knowing that the letter a certain notorious smuggler had written was tucked inside its pages. A devastatingly handsome smuggler who had kissed her until she’d thought she’d burst into flames, a kiss that lived in her memory and visited her at night, disturbing her sleep and making her restless. Oh, yes. That was why. Yet London was such a vast place and Boreas was one man, but she had to try. He was in trouble, or seeking trouble, and she had every intention of helping him out of it, though she did not fool herself into believing he’d be glad of her aid.

It was hard to know where to begin, but she knew that many wealthy households bought from the black market, especially when it came to finding the best brandy and French wine. She had already ingratiated herself with Lord Beaumarsh’s staff and hoped that she might wheedle some information out of them if she was clever about it. For now, however, she had to endure this… this nonsense.

“I feel ridiculous.”

“You look beautiful,” Clementine told her, with a warning glint in her eyes that suggested Izzy best not utter a word of complaint after all the hard work it had taken to get her to this point.

Izzy could not blame her. Clemmie had been wonderful, endlessly patient and kind as she took Izzy around the best dressmakers to get her ready for her debut. She had dozens of gorgeous gowns and bonnets and shoes, and even though she had never cared overly much for fashion, she was excited to go out dressed in such style. Yet her presentation at court was the first hurdle and Queen Charlotte had very definite ideas about the proper attire for such an illustrious occasion. Quite apart from being sick with nerves, Izzy looked like an over-iced bride cake.

“I’ll trip over my train,” she predicted gloomily, glancing back at the yards and yards of creamy white satin that trailed behind her.

“No, you won’t. That’s why we practised.”

There was an edge to Clemmie’s voice now. Likely she was starting to regret having offered to sponsor Izzy in the first place.

“Here, miss, don’t forget your gloves.”

Izzy smiled at the maid Clemmie had employed especially for her and took the proffered gloves “Thank you, Janet. That will be all.”

The maid bobbed a curtsey and left them alone. Izzy turned back to the mirror, regarding herself with a frown. Her blonde hair had been piled atop her head in a complicated arrangement of loops and knots that made her think of caricatures she’d seen of Marie Antoinette. Atop this madness three ostrich feathers towered, making her feel about two feet taller than usual, while lace lappets trailed from her hair down the back of her neck. The hairpins were carefully secured, her scalp being pulled so fiercely with the severity and weight of the monstrous hairstyle that she could already feel a headache coming on. That and her heavily embroidered white gown, complete with panniers and hoops, were straight out of the last century. She felt utterly ridiculous, and rather as if she was wearing a sideboard. She had to sidle through doors with care, as she’d get stuck if she tried in the normal way. It was absurd. If she wasn’t so terrified of making a fool of herself, it would have been comical.

“You never did tell me why you changed your mind.”

Clementine’s voice was mild, but Izzy knew better than to think she wasn’t digging for information. Her sister was no fool, and Izzy had never shown the slightest interest in society before. A pair of mocking blue eyes flashed in her mind, and she avoided her sister’s gaze.

Shrugging, she pretended to adjust the old-fashioned square neckline of her gown and took a moment to inspect the lovely diamond and pearl jewellery that Clemmie had lent her. “Angel persuaded me it would be a lark.”

“Really? But you said she wasn’t having her come out this year after all.”

Izzy bit her lip. She had felt dreadful leaving Angel, knowing that her family could no longer afford the splendid come out she had been looking forward to. Leaving Papa too had been a wrench, though Angel had promised to keep an eye on him. Clara had also come to see her off, assuring her that Reverend Honeywell would not be short on company in her absence.

“No. Not this year. But she described what she thought it would be like with such enthusiasm, I figured I’d better give it a try. Once, anyway. What’s the point in having my sisters both so splendidly married if I don’t take advantage of them?”

Clementine snorted with laughter. “All right, Izzy, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but if you think I’m daft enough to believe you’re not up to something, you must believe marriage has softened my brain.”

Izzy tugged on her long white gloves, eyeing Clemmie with a smirk. “Marriage has softened your brain.”

Clemmie walked towards her and pinched her chin. “Not to the point I don’t know when my sister is plotting. Just be careful, whatever it is. And if you cause a scandal, don’t expect me to save you. I’m a newly minted countess and navigating my way through society without causing a ruckus takes all my attention.”

“Duly noted.”

Clementine laughed again and took her hand. “Well, come along then, Miss Honeywell. Let us show the world how very splendid you are.”

Though the weather had been unseasonably cold, with heavy snowfall even in March, and though spring felt a very long way off, the corridors of St James’ Palace still managed to be stuffy and overheated. Izzy and Clementine joined the endless line of guests, inching their way forward towards the Queen’s Drawing Room. At the rate they were going, Izzy estimated she might see the queen sometime around Michaelmas, but no one could move with speed when dressed so absurdly. The slightest slip could result in a fatality, with some pink-cheeked debutant smothered under the heft and bulk of ten miles of imported silk and a king’s ransom in jewels.

It was like stepping back in time, for all around were woman decked out like great sailing ships, with massive, hooped skirts clad in acres of satin, silk, and lace. They dripped jewels of every colour, the value of which Izzy could not begin to calculate, sparkling with such vigour that they rivalled the vast and ornate chandeliers overhead. It was imperative to keep a good distance from the person ahead of you in the line for fear of treading on the train of some foreign princess and setting off an international incident.

Izzy pressed her gloved hand to her stomach, which had not ceased its anxious roiling, not that she could feel anything through the shockingly tight stays and the thick bodice of the over-embellished monstrosity she was hefting about. Lord, if Boreas could see her now, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, he’d laugh himself sick.

“There’s no air in here,” she complained to Clemmie, who pulled a sympathetic face.

Every breath was thick with the stench of expensive perfume and colognes, starch and beeswax, and the slightly acrid tang of too many nervous bodies in the same place. Ahead of them stood the Yeoman of the Guard in their splendid red uniforms, each held a gleaming ceremonial halberd, a melange of long-handled axe topped with a spike and a smaller but no less deadly looking hook on its other side.