Page 14 of Manufacturing a Duchess

Feeling suddenly ashamed of her megrims, Aurora struggled into a sitting position and watched as Lucy set the tray down on the bedside table, then shyly handed her the cup. Aurora took a sip and nearly gagged on it, but Lucy’s hopeful expression made her take hold of herself and down the whole dreadful concoction, handing back the empty cup to be replaced on the tray. Satisfied Aurora had drunk it down, Lucy quickly moved to each of the windows, closing the curtains and muffling the light in the room.

“Now, you must get some rest, miss. London can be a terrible excitement for a young lady.”

Aurora laughed, startling the girl, unnerving her even further when the laugh turned into a hiccup or a sob, which she quickly stifled. “Yes, a terrible excitement. Bears and dukes and, oh, Lucy, ever so many people. I feel like such a country girl. There is a world of difference between the words in a guidebook and the actuality. I am going to get through this Season, Lucy. In spite of everything. I cannot let them down.” She sat up a little straighter and lifted her chin.

Lucy’s eyes shone at being taken into confidence. “Oh, yes, miss.” She picked up the tray and headed towards the door but came to a stop at Aurora’s question.

“Lucy, where is Hyacinth?”

“She is in with Miss Millicent in her bedchamber. They are discussing how she will wear her hair at Lady Hinsdale’s.”

“Ah, yes, Lady Hinsdale.” Aurora started to lie down again, then remembered her gown. “Lucy, before you leave, if you would please help me out of my dress. I do not wish to crush it any more than I have already. If you would, please have Hyacinth wake me in two hours. I will need to discuss my hair for Lady Hinsdale’s as well. If I am to do my parents proud, I must take great care at this first event.”

With a quick bob, Lucy set down the tray and returned to the bed, where she helped Aurora out of her dress. Smoothing it over her arm, Lucy headed again toward the door. She turned before she went out. “I will take this down to be pressed, miss. And I will return for the tray directly, if that is all right.”

“Yes, thank you, Lucy.” Aurora lay back down on the bed, the effects of the posset already taking effect. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

Twelve

The next few days passed in a rush of trying on gowns and experimenting with hair styles, along with testing out feathers and gloves and various other accoutrements to come up with the perfect ensemble to make the most of their entrance at Lady Hinsdale’s. Aurora even found herself getting swept up in it. Hyacinth bustled importantly between both young women, gleaming with delight as she worked on Missie, and sniffing with disappointment as she worked on Aurora.

Finally, it was Thursday morning, the details of what Aurora was beginning to think of as her battle armor had been selected, and all that needed to be done was to wait for the day to be over so she could don her finery and attempt manfully (well, womanfully) to glitter in the right way and so make An Impression.

She woke early and retrieved the most recent letter from home to help fortify her spirits. Once she finished re-reading it twice, she picked up her Homer to find the bloodiest war scene she could in the hope it would help stiffen her sinews for the evening ahead. She could not focus and gave up, her mind haring off in several directions at once.

The struggles of preparation had prevented Aurora from falling back into the hopelessness and invisibility which had gripped her the day of the Tower outing. There was a kernel of a fighting spirit within her, which, after her initial feeling of being overwhelmed, was starting to gain in strength. She held onto it this morning, as she knew she would need it to help her through these next several weeks. For her parents’ sake, she must be a success. And here a little voice whispered in her ear: With my father’s money, I will not be invisible for long. This acknowledgement caused a sick feeling to start in the pit of her stomach and travel upward. Her worth as a person, her value on the Marriage Mart—That is what it all comes down to, that voice continued. That is what I come down to.

She was not fond of what that little voice had a habit of saying.

She heard the scratch on the door, followed by Lucy with Aurora’s morning tea. This had become a routine for the two of them, though (as Lucy confessed), Cook had grumbled about unnaturally early hours. Apparently, however, as it caused no extra work for the kitchen staff, Cook proceeded to ignore it, and Lucy was not chastised down in the kitchen.

Cook also knew who was really paying the bills in the household. The whole company below-stairs did. Lucy had confessed that as well.

The chambermaid set the tray down on the side table and looked with admiration at the beautiful rose-colored gown hanging on the armoire. The underdress was of a soft silk, which clung to Aurora’s curves and outlined every piece of her body. An overdress of a matching gauze formed tiny sleeves and was caught high under the bosom, floating gently down to the ground. The low neckline revealed more than a hint of Aurora’s bosom, something which caused her to blush a fiery red upon her first fitting, but the modiste had smiled, and Lady Wentworth had nodded her approval and said it would do.

Aurora agreed the warm shade brought color to her face; in the dress, she glowed. Even Hyacinth’s mouth had untightened itself a smidgen, and she had also nodded her agreement. They had decided her hair would be styled à la Grecque, with curls framing her face and a ribbon tied around her head like a band. The effect would be “Charming, yes, charming,” Lady Wentworth had stated definitively, and that was that.

How to fill the hours? Aurora began to sip her tea. It would be ages before Missie arose and was ready for a chat. Even then, she would be completely focused on preparing for this evening. Aurora felt the walls closing in on her. She needed to get out in the fresh air, to see flowers that were not cut and arranged in a vase but rather alive and growing.

“Lucy,” she said, interrupting the girl’s sweeping out of last night’s fire in the grate. “What is the weather like this morning?”

“Oh, it’s ever so lovely, miss.”

“Good. Then I shall be going out.”

“Out, miss?”

“Yes, out.” For suddenly, Aurora had been brought to mind of Marjorie and her invitation: an opportunity to go outside—to a park—and shake off her megrims for a while before the upcoming evening’s ordeal.

She set her teacup on the tray with a firmness she hadn’t felt in a while. “Please tell the butler I wish to go to the Park, to Kensington Gardens.” She felt a bubble of recklessness rise up in her. “I need someone to accompany me. Hyacinth is, well, Hyacinth will be too preoccupied with this evening. Please also tell the butler I shall need only one footman. Would you like to come with me, Lucy?”

“Me, miss? Oh, I couldn’t. It’s not my place.”

“We can find something suitable for you to wear. I cannot go unaccompanied. And I must get outside, Lucy. I will be happy to speak with the butler when I go down to breakfast. First, please help me to dress. If I am to get there and back, I have no time to waste.”

“Yes, miss. No, miss.” Both frightened and excited, Lucy helped Aurora dress and style her hair with speed. The butler was not best pleased by his conversation with Aurora while she ate her breakfast, yet the idea of her proceeding without a suitable escort was too dreadful to imagine. Giving his disapproving assent, he headed through the green baize doors and down to the servants’ region, where, after a hurried consultation with Mrs. Philipps, the housekeeper, Lucy was bundled into a suitable dress and coat which roughly fitted her, and she was then ready to join Aurora in the phaeton by half past nine.

The trip to Kensington Gardens proceeded smoothly, and it seemed like the blink of an eye when they arrived at the Round Pond. It was larger than Aurora had expected, providing quite a wide expanse. It belied its name by cheating at the description. The Pond, in truth, was rectangular with rounded corners. She supposed, in the scheme of things, this might be classified under a white lie, but she preferred descriptions to be exact. It was like totting up a row of figures and seeing everything add up. Knowing that things were as they were described to be both ordered and secured her world. This was not exact. Probably why I prefer my Greeks to today’s poets.