Page 13 of Manufacturing a Duchess

“Oh, no, no, simply a touch tired.” She hoped her face had not been telegraphing every thought as it usually did. Fortunately, Missie was too wrapped up in her planning to notice.

“You should go to your room when we return and lie down for a while. Hyacinth can bring you something cool to drink, and some sal volatile for your head.”

Hyacinth’s only response was to fix her eyes on Aurora and give her a piercing look of contempt, as if to say, If you cannot handle a simple outing, how will you handle a full Season? This brought on a wave of homesickness. Aurora shrank even further back into her corner, struggling to hold back tears. She was relieved when the carriage rattled to a final stop and the footman was at the door, letting down the steps for them to descend.

Missie strode into the main hallway, pulling off gloves as she did so, handing them to the footman without looking.

“Lady Wentworth is in the morning room, milady. She requests your company and that of Miss Hardcastle’s directly, should you return.” The butler had materialized silently, delivered his message, then gave a formal nod and stepped back, out of the way.

“Oh, very well,” Missie answered carelessly. She brightened as she remembered the news she had to share. “We shall go there now.”

Aurora pulled off her gloves as well, handing them to the impassive footman with a quick smile of her own. At home, while her mother prided herself on the decorum and dignity of her staff, even so, they were apt to give Aurora a smile from time to time. Here in London, the only human interaction she had had was this morning, with Lucy. Oh, and with the little girl—Marjorie. Who liked to read and had a sailing ship for outings to the Pond. It sounded like she had been at Marjorie’s age. She would have liked to have a sailing ship which her Papa could have explained all the appurtenances of. She shook her head. Her conversation with the little girl felt like a lifetime ago, though it was just this morning.

She sped up slightly to follow Missie.

The morning room had been recently refurbished to her ladyship’s specifications. What this meant was that Lady Wentworth had boldly painted the walls red. Knick-knacks from India and China hung on the walls or lay on the small tables scattered throughout the room in an attempt to appear exotic and fashionable. Aurora missed the lack of clutter in her mother’s drawing room, with its Wedgewood blue walls and white trim. Yes, it was simple and possibly out-of-date, yet it was soothing and gave a sense of space. Walking into this room, she felt as if she would bump into something at any moment, only to watch it smash. The color made her feel hot, as if the walls were closing in on her. She longed for a breath of fresh air—a ride, or at least a walk in the midst of some earth and grass and trees.

She was forced to wrench herself back to the present as her hostess was sitting with a rather stern expression on her normally vapid face—heavens, she had addressed her already while Aurora hadn’t heard a word.

Missie’s mother possessed a pale and faded beauty, her once strawberry-blonde hair reduced to the color of dirty straw, but nevertheless artfully arranged beneath a lacy cap. Her eyes were pale gray, a distant echo of her daughter’s. Aurora was well aware much time was spent each day attempting to reduce any bags underneath. Her chaperone attempted to hold her face as still as possible to prevent any wrinkles from developing, though lines of peevishness surrounded her mouth. Lace adorned her sleeves and fluttered around her neckline. An expensive paisley shawl proclaimed her to be a matron of standing and consequence. At least in this house.

“You are not attending to me, Aurora.” This was accompanied by a drawn-out sigh, as though the speaker was carrying a load far too heavy for one so delicate and cultured to bear. Lady Wentworth drew herself together and continued. “Where have you been this morning? Did you not recollect Madame Vachon, the modiste, was due to call at eleven with your latest gowns? It is now half past twelve! I have placed her in my dressing room, but you have kept her waiting. She is most likely in a frightful temper by now! As she is the most sought-after modiste in London, we cannot afford to lose her notice—she may turn her attention to someone else as the Season is almost upon us! That cannot, must not be allowed to happen!”

As if to stifle a statement that was nowhere near Aurora’s lips, nor even in her mind, Lady Wentworth addressed herself to her. “And, no, Aurora, in this case the advantage goes to whomever has been dubbed one of the Season’s Beauties.” She smiled at her daughter. “While we have a certain advantage in that department, we cannot afford to be complacent. I have a duty to you,” she said, turning back to Aurora, “because of the charge your father has laid on me. I intend to see it through successfully.”

The feeling of homesickness, which had reached out for her in the carriage, returned. Aurora found herself gritting her teeth to keep the lump down that had begun to rise in her throat.

Lady Wentworth paused, searching out what would be the next point on which to launch herself. She was prevented from doing so when Missie gracefully sat herself in a chair opposite her mother and began to speak.

“We went to the Tower, Mama. To see the bears.” At her mother’s shocked expression, Missie continued. “It was a fancy of Aurora’s, and I saw no harm in it. Why, the Season is not yet underway and there is no one to see or comment. But what a piece of fortune, Mama.” Here Missie’s careful air of detachment began to slip, and she leaned forward toward her mother. “Who should we come across there but Lord Raeburn and Lord Mackenzie, the Duke of Selkirk and the Duke of Galloway. Two dukes! I call it a singular piece of luck. And it is all due to Rorie.” Here she looked at her friend and dimpled.

Some of the frostiness left Lady Wentworth’s eyes as she began to consider her daughter’s words. “The Duke of Selkirk. And the Duke of Galloway. You did not put yourselves forward to them, did you? Good, good. They saw you; they marked you? Excellent. Hmm. Selkirk has no money, however; his father lost it all. On the other hand, Galloway is very eligible. Very.”

“And I heard the Duke of Galloway to say, Mama, he was to be at Lady Hinsdale’s concert this Thursday. Have we received our invitation yet?”

“Yes, it arrived yesterday.” Tiny lines began to gather around Lady Wentworth’s mouth as she pursed her lips in concentration. The fingers of her left hand began to play a tattoo upon the palm of her right. “Yesterday.” A longer pause ensued, which neither young woman broke by even a twitch. “I had, of course, sent back our acceptance at once. Hmmm. This will take some careful planning.” Her eyes snapped back into focus. “Which is why you both must see to Madame Vachon. At once. We must have at least one of your new gowns ready for you to wear to the concert. I had assumed this was to be a minor affair for you both. It now gains in importance.”

Rising elegantly to her feet, Lady Wentworth wafted to the door. “At once. There is no time to waste. Come.”

She swept out of the room, Missie carried along with an angelic smile in her wake, Aurora following with feet which seemed to become more leaden with each passing moment.

Eleven

A few hours later, after having been stabbed with a variety of pins and tut-tutted over by both modiste and chatelaine, Aurora was allowed to return to her room. Heedless of whatever damage it would do to her dress, she crawled up on the bed and lay down, curling into a ball. Her head still pounded, and images of the past few hours looped through her mind, around and around and around again.

In a quiet moment in between fittings, while she was watching Missie turn this way and that in front of the glass, and Hyacinth had stepped away for the moment with Madame Vachon, Aurora had burst out with, “Missie, your family, so much trouble, I⁠—”

Missie turned a placid look on her, completely unruffled. “Oh, it’s no trouble. I expect Papa has run into a spot of bother again: debts,” she clarified, looking at Aurora. Her voice stayed matter of fact. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your father hasn’t helped him out, in exchange for us helping you out. Very practical, really.” Her face settled back into its porcelain doll features. While Missie’s words shocked Aurora (How could she be so calm about a father who gambled and lost so much money?), she also knew her friend well enough to take her at her word. Missie was extremely practical. She knew who she was, what her position was, and what she needed to do to maintain it. That required knowledge of not only how Society worked, but also the nuances of speech, dress, and the like. To achieve said knowledge, Missie had devoted herself assiduously. I should take a page from Missie’s book. But how can I even try?

With a sudden move, Aurora rolled to the bed’s edge and leaned way over the side, stretching to try and reach the second small valise, which she had brought with her and which she kept locked. It was still there. It was old, worn, and cracked, but she loved it because it had been one of her father’s, from his days of doctoring. Before he had left that all behind to run the manufactory. She didn’t trust Hyacinth not to do something with it but, so far, that worthy party had respected her wishes and left it where Aurora had placed it. Why had she brought it? Because—she acknowledged it was her cowardice speaking—it might help her escape, should the situation in London become too much. Oh, how she longed to run away, go home, and have life go back to the way it used to be. Also, by touching the soft and well-worn leather, she could imagine herself comfortably tucked away in her father’s study.

She remembered the misery of her first week at Miss Fielding’s Select Academy, all those years ago. It had been the worst of her life. At least, up until now. Bewildered, unused to the society of other girls (or other children entirely—she’d been raised very much on her own), she had made one blunder after another. The things she had done at home which had won her the approbation of her parents carried no value here. She was also unused to being considered a dunce. Mademoiselle was forever rapping her on her knuckles and rolling her eyes at her execrable accent, and Aurora had clomped so much and trod on her partner’s toes that the dancing master would fling up his arms in despair.

Into this misery had stepped the most angelic looking creature Aurora had ever seen. She looked like a little porcelain doll until a smile appeared, and then her eyes would begin to dance, usually with mischief. As a baron (Baron Hinchcliffe, to be precise), Lord Wentworth was the ne plus ultra of all the parents at Miss Fielding’s, and Missie occupied pride of place. Sitting in the schoolroom and blotting her French assignment with her tears one afternoon, Aurora felt a cool hand on the back of her neck and heard a musical voice say, “I don’t think you conjugate the verb ‘faire’ quite like that.”

And that is how they became friends. Over the past few years, Missie had grown tall and elegant; “A real beauty,” Miss Fielding had cooed to her parents. Aurora, on the other hand, remained slight of figure and not terribly tall. She enumerated her oft-repeated failures to herself: she was not beautiful—her mouth was too wide, and her nose was neither delicate nor Roman, instead somewhere indeterminately in-between. Her hair, while thick and with a slight curl, was not considered worthwhile of notice. She had even heard one of the girls refer to it as insipid. Her parents ensured she had the latest fashions to wear, though she knew she didn’t carry them with that indefinable air Missie possessed.

Aurora was so lost in her miserable recounting of all her failings, she didn’t hear the scratch at the door or Lucy’s light footsteps until she heard the quiet, “Please, miss. I heard your head was poorly. I’ve brought a posset from Cook.”