Page 16 of Manufacturing a Duchess

Aurora reluctantly unfolded herself to stand tall and separate once again. Mindful that she had sadly crumpled this dress (she could already see Hyacinth’s mouth thinning into that narrow line she had learned to dread), she waved goodbye and headed back to the phaeton. Lucy followed behind, flushed with the excitement of her first outing as a real lady’s maid, and clearly undaunted by the experience. Altogether a satisfactory outing. Except that it was now over. And she had stayed too long. There would be a scene.

Thirteen

There was some consternation and scolding upon Aurora’s later-than-planned arrival back in Eaton Square, and, for a moment, she feared Lady Wentworth was ready to have an attack of the vapors. Missie then stepped in and roundly declared there was no harm done, and that Aurora was not going to go off on any more harebrained adventures (though Missie accompanied this statement with a little kick at Aurora’s ankle when it looked as if Aurora was about to open her mouth and issue a protest) and what, Mama, could they expect from this evening’s concert?

Thus distracted, Lady Wentworth relented and recovered her equanimity. Hyacinth tut-tutted and muttered about freckles and tanned skin and went off to get some lemon juice for Aurora’s face. In vain she protested that she had worn a bonnet, and little sunshine had reached her directly. This only led to a lecture on the hallmarks of good breeding and the proof of a lady’s gentility resting on her pale complexion.

Aurora took a few moments of imagining herself hurrying back upstairs, unclasping the locked valise under her bed and taking out its items: a pair of men’s trousers, a man’s work shirt, and a cap into which she would stuff her hair. The outfit was perfect for going about tasks safely on the floor of the manufactory to keep her hair or skirts from getting caught in the machinery. In such an outfit, she might be able to escape from the house onto London’s streets and make her way home. But she found, even though such a vision beckoned, she lacked the courage to attempt it.

Courage, Aurora, she chided herself. The heroes in Homer never had to worry about freckles and windblown hair and Lady Hinsdale. The absurdity of the observation brightened her mood before the next thought darkened it again: Achilles didn’t have to face Lady Hinsdale and the Ton, but I do.

The remainder of the afternoon passed in a combination of extreme boredom as well as tension. While she found a certain fascination in being yanked about as Hyacinth’s brush passed not entirely gently through her hair, and as Aurora was made to turn this way and that in her new gown while last minute tucks and un-stitchings were done for it to hang perfectly upon her (well, as perfectly as nature would allow), there was a certain tedium to the proceedings which stole over her as the hours wore on, and it was still not time to leave. Is this what I have to look forward to? Aurora asked herself. She attempted at one point to pick up a book to read but found it snatched precipitously out of her hand by a tsking Hyacinth. Her one respite was the cup of tea brought to her by a shyly smiling Lucy, once again returned to her regular upstairs-maid’s garb.

Aurora had to admit to herself, however, when everyone else had stepped away from their final poking and prodding, the effort had been well worth it. She stood in front of her glass, lit by several candles flickering in the room behind her. Her face was lightly flushed and glowing. The rose of her dress helped bring color to her cheeks and hair. Hyacinth had swept it up, as had been decided, with a handful of curls on either side of her face.

I am pretty. For the first time in her life, she felt so. I am pretty. Oh, Papa, I wish you could see me. Mama, you would be so proud. Her parents couldn’t hear her, all those miles away from London. She knew they believed they were doing what was best, having her presentation to society managed by those whom they believed were skillful navigators and members of that company. She missed them very much, and the abrupt ache caused her to swallow hard to retain her composure.

“Oh, miss, you are a picture!” came a soft exclamation behind her. She turned to see Lucy, clapping her hands together with delight.

Aurora stepped forward and took Lucy’s hands in hers. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing them. And then she turned to pass into the hall and down the stairway to the grand front hall with its black-and-white marble checkerboard floor, where Lord and Lady Wentworth were waiting to escort them to Lady Hinsdale’s.

She had only reached the floor at the foot of the stairs when a slight sound behind her made her turn and look up. There stood Missie, dressed again in blue, though this time the color of midnight. It made her blonde hair appear almost white, as though she were the moon or some sort of miraculous star in the night sky. The gown plunged daringly low over the tops of her breasts. Her arms were bare and shone a chilling white. And her hair, she had cut her hair! For Missie’s long blonde curls were gone. Instead, flat curls framed and shaped her head, with a simple ribbon threaded around it in the same shade as her gown. She was exquisite; she did not look real. Aurora stared at her, feeling herself once more fading into insignificance.

The porcelain mask-like stillness was firmly fixed in place as Missie descended the staircase. Lord Wentworth, a slight, thin man with retreating hair and the worn remnants of what must have once been striking good looks, stepped forward to greet his daughter. With a regal nod, Missie gave her father her arm, and they led the procession out through the main doors and down the front steps to the waiting carriage below. Hyacinth took a moment to slip a wrap around each of the young women (Lady Wentworth’s own lady’s maid looked after her) and to do a final tweak of each gown, and then she too stepped back to let them enter the carriage.

There was a feeling of suppressed excitement in the air. Aurora could almost touch it in spite of Missie’s calculated ennui, and the shriveling of that brief moment when she herself had seemed to swim into focus as a person worthy of being seen. Anything could happen this evening, even though she might find herself observing more than talking with anyone else. Or dancing. There was to be a light supper and some country dances (“It is one of Lady Hinsdale’s eccentricities; she believes it breaks the ice at the beginning of the Season. It is only because she is Lady Hinsdale that people attend. That, and the fact the Prince of Wales has been known to make an impromptu appearance.” This was part of one of the many speeches by Lady Wentworth to which Aurora had been subjected this afternoon.).

Next to Missie, Aurora felt entirely eclipsed. While this gave her a pang, the increasingly heightened state of her nerves the closer they came to the destination led her to give a small sigh of gratitude. She would be free to watch and—hopefully—learn, as everyone would be totally focused on her friend.

Maybe it will not be so terrifying, maybe it won’t be an ordeal. Perhaps I shall even feel bold enough to look a duke in the eye. Even Marjorie’s Papa. She remembered that military bearing and the piercing dark eyes. Or perhaps, for this first evening, I shall remain thoroughly and blissfully invisible.

The reflection was fervent enough to be a prayer.

Fourteen

He had taken too long at his cravat. Two hours, in fact. He, Lord Finlay Henry Mackenzie, Duke of Galloway, was nervous. His awareness of the fact was not helping matters either.

Despite the patient ministrations of his valet, the latest and most fashionable way to tie his neckcloth was the very devil to get right, and a pile of tangled and wrinkled cloths was heaped on the floor next to his glass by the time it was just so. Because it had to be perfect for this evening. It was, admittedly, only the tiniest of beginnings of the Season, but perception and reputation were built by the flimsiest of glances, occasions, outings. Regardless of whatever matrimonial outcomes resulted, Finn was determined to establish a name for himself as a Beau Ideal.

Lady Hinsdale’s concert, with her light supper and dancing to follow, was not to be a grand occasion, yet it was still an Opportunity. And he was determined to apply himself to this task the same as he had to the breaking and training of his hunter, a horse which was even now renowned through several counties (and, it was whispered, into the very Highlands themselves) for its spirit and ferocity.

His valet looked questioningly at him for what seemed the umpteenth time. Finn nodded his head in assent again. “Yes. More pomade.” He remembered Alec’s cropped dark curls, which he was sure would be relatively untouched. Still, needs must—all for fashion, all for style, as the Prince Regent would say, pointing at the paragon that was Beau Brummel.

Alec. Finn gave a slight groan. He knew the minute Alec swept into Lady Hinsdale’s house, every female eye would be upon him and the sighing would start.

“It must be swept forward. And up,” Finn said, between clenched teeth. If there were any way he would be able to compete with his cousin, at least on first blush (and dash it, he would compete on the first blush and not rely solely on his fortune), he would have to be impeccably turned out. Alec had simply never cared enough. He will have to now. He will have to if he wishes to get a rich wife.

Finn sat to allow his valet to finish arranging his hair to an acceptable state of perfection. Then he gracefully stood, surveying himself in the glass one final time. The figure which stared back at him appeared to be possessed of an unshakeable equanimity, the cultivated air of disinterest securely in place. He was aware, though, that inside he was fidgeting with impatience. He was finally eased into his jacket of superfine, the concluding touch. The fit was exquisite. It should, after the amount he was paying his tailor. His shoulders were not broad, but broad enough. And he was grateful his calves had enough shape that he was not reduced to padding them. If Alec knew he even contemplated such matters, his cousin would have hooted with laughter.

Alec. He had always been more than a cousin; he had been a good friend. The best. They had spent their childhood years near each other, had gone to school together, and had even begun their careers at Oxford at the same time. He knew his home had provided a respite from the chaos Alec had to navigate with his dissolute father and his despairing mother. For Finn, it had all proceeded swimmingly and as expected. Until Bonaparte, that is, and both of them had been in a rush—again, together—to purchase a commission and take off for Spain. Which they had. They hadn’t known their childhood was well and truly over until Spain. And now they each carried it with them, a painting that moved and shifted silently behind their eyes through the day, and which leapt to vivid, colorful life in their dreams at night. Now Bonaparte was locked away, and the world was quiet again. Nevertheless, the uneasiness never left Finn, never left either of them.

Both of their fathers had passed away while they were off fighting the French. Finn had returned to an estate run like a well-oiled clockwork, leaving him time to socialize with his neighbors and take up the silken reins of a gentleman of leisure. Alec had a more difficult time of it. He returned to an estate a breath away from complete ruin. He had dived into it, spending hours in the saddle riding around his land and then falling asleep in the study over the accounts.

And Mary, sweet Mary, whom Alec had foolishly married for love before they had ridden off to war, had been of no use. As a helpmeet, she was definitely deficient; her only accomplishment had been to sit and smile sweetly into Alec’s eyes. The only daughter of an impoverished gentleman and a neighbor of Finn’s, she had not been reared with the skills to assist them and definitely not with what was needed to cope with the change in the Selkirk fortune. She had tried to manage while Alec was away but had only made a dreadful hash of it. Her one accomplishment had been to present Alec with a daughter (though some would say she had failed even in that, by not providing him with a son), whom he cherished and adored.

And, just barely after achieving this one thing, Mary had died. Leaving Alec bereft. Or had it? The lines of Alec’s mouth became grimmer, and the darkness that stole over his face and gleamed like polished obsidian in his eyes became more frequent. If it had broken his heart, though, of that there was no sign.

Had his heart ever truly been committed to Mary? Finn knew Alec had believed himself in love, and who could resist the picture of loveliness Mary presented, with her large blue eyes and blonde curls, and the tiniest of pert noses and the rosiest pair of kissable lips. Yes, Finn admitted to himself, he had not been immune to Mary’s charms at the beginning either. It was a foolish match, nevertheless, because even then the Selkirk estates were on thin financial ice, and she brought no money with her. Alec’s father was too drunk most of the time to care, and his mother had long ago retreated to her rooms and gradually faded away.