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“But last night… last night was different. When Miss Whittleton swooned, Miss Fletcher was very upset. I could see it clearly. Even though the ball continued after the alarm, and she danced with seeming complaisance, I could see her distress. Her crowd of admirers pressed upon her, just as always, and that seemed to add to her discomfort, although she dissembled and hid it well. When it was my turn to dance with her, therefore, I asked her if she would prefer to sit quietly aside, away from the noise of the ballroom. She agreed to it, and so I found a quiet corner of one of the supper rooms, where I hoped she could be at ease for a while. Your stepmother found us there eventually, but for perhaps twenty minutes we sat and talked… or rather, she talked and I listened. She said more in that time than I had heard from her in all the several weeks I have known her. She talked of Miss Whittleton at first, of course, but then she spoke of you, and her sisters and father, and eventually she spoke of her home.”
“Chadwell Park? Or Grosvenor Square?”
“Yorkshire. Sagborough. The house on Fullers Road where she grew up, her brother and sister who still live there, the shops, the market square, the assemblies at the King’s Head — which sound like tremendous fun, by the way. And her friends. She talked a great deal about her friends and how much she misses them. Mr Fletcher, I think your sister is unhappy here. For all her success, she is not enjoying town at all, apart from the dancing, I think. She loves to dance. But I truly believe that she would go back to Sagborough tomorrow if she had a completely free choice in the matter.”
“And yet she has given us no indication of such feelings,” Will said, frowning.
“She would not, I dare say, since she knows of your hopes of her making a great match. Nor did she say as much to me, not in so many words. But her countenance as she spoke of Yorkshire… the animation, thejoyin her face… I cannot interpret it any other way. And when Mrs Fletcher asked her to return to the ballroom, she did so very readily, but her face changed, and became again that mask that conceals all her deeper feelings. I was shaken by it, I confess, and I very much dislike to add to her discomfort in any way. If I had fallen in love with her… but I feel myself to be no better than the fortune hunters who throng about her, adding to her distress for my own selfish reasons. It is not well done of me, I admit. In a few days, therefore, I shall be going to visit my aunt — a different aunt, I should say. I have a great many aunts, and uncles, too, and in the interlude between the end of the season and the start of the shooting, we are all dispatched to do our duty. I shall begin mine a little early, that is all.”
“Stepmother will be disappointed,” Will said mischievously.
Albury actually laughed at that, his usually serious face lighting up abruptly. “My father, too. But I cannot in all conscience continue, and now that Somerwell has gone, and the Iverson boy has been given his marching orders—”
“Has he?”
“Oh, yes. Your father saw him off. Younger son, no money, you see. Even Crutchley has given up all hope and left town, although if he had won through there were one or two fellows who would have become very rich, for the odds against were astronomical. And Tranter — well, younger son of an Irish earl, and in trade as well. Very respectable trade, jewels, and Mrs Fletcher encouraged him, so perhaps something may come of it. The rest are not serious contenders.”
“Then why do they flock around her?” Will said, rather incensed by this cavalier dismissal of some two dozen or so admirers.
“She is the Incomparable,” Albury said, with the slightest of shrugs, as if it were obvious. “The great beauty of the season will always attract devotees. She is the fashion this year, Fletcher. Next year, if she remains unwed, she might have a quieter time.”
“Do you think we should send her back to Yorkshire?”
“It is not for me to advise on the point, but she is not the first and will surely not be the last girl to find her first season an overwhelming experience.”
“But she attracted just as much attention in Yorkshire and it did not distress her,” Will said. “Is London so different? But of course it is,” he went on, instantly answering his own question. “Her friends are not here. Belinda Jupp, in particular. They were as close as sisters, and they write three and four page letters to each other constantly, and poor Mr Jupp is only an apothecary. His profits this year will be entirely eaten up by postage costs.”
“Then invite her to visit,” Albury said.
“Oh, of course,” Will said, wondering why on earth none of them had thought of it before. “If Belinda were with her, it would make all the difference.”
~~~~~
The season was almost over. Plans were well advanced for Julia’s wedding to James Plummer, when both families would go into Hertfordshire for the celebrations, but the Fletchers would return to town for the crowning glory — their first visit to Almack’s.
For this, they had to thank Eloise’s father, although in the most roundabout way. One of the patronesses of Almack’s had attended the Faulkbournes’ ball, and had observed the composed demeanour of the Fletcher daughters despite the dramatic arrival of Lady Penelope and Jeremy Whittleton. A few days later, therefore, Lady Faulkbourne called upon the Fletchers, accompanied by the Countess of Cholmondeley, and the longed-for vouchers were handed over. Stepmother’s happiness was complete. She was so in alt she did not even notice at first that Lord Albury had left town.
Will had raised the idea that Belinda Jupp might be invited to visit, but although Rosie had gasped with delight and murmured, “Oh, I should like that of all things!”, Stepmother had prevaricated and talked in vague terms about when they returned to Hertfordshire. It was enough, however, to put a sparkle in Rosie’s eye and a spring in her step, and Will berated himself for not noticing earlier that these signs of enthusiasm had been lacking.
One of the delights of Will’s existence at this time was to take Eloise driving in one or other of the parks. It had become a habit with them, for they were easy enough in each other’s company now that conversation was less fraught than formerly. One morning, therefore, he collected her from Marford House as usual, and they set off towards Hyde Park. He was aware that she had been a little subdued lately, but he set that down to a proper awareness of the enormity of the step they were both about to take. Matrimony was, as the Book of Common Prayer had it,‘not to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly’.It was only right that she should regard the matter seriously.
“There are not many people here yet,” Will said, driving deftly through the gate posts. “Would you like to take the ribbons?”
“May I?”
“Of course. There you are… keep them to a steady pace, no sudden movements.”
For a while he sat, arms folded, admiring her adept handling of the reins. His horses, who always detected any lack of confidence in a driver, trotted on, unperturbed. He waved at one or two acquaintances as they sailed by, but mostly he admired his future wife’s driving skills. He had an agreeable vision of her tooling about the lanes of Hertfordshire, perhaps with a less mettlesome team, but a pretty little curricle or phaeton, something well suited to a lady.
“You are managing beautifully,” he said. “When we are married, I shall buy you an outfit of your own. You will turn heads everywhere, I make no doubt.”
Perhaps she twitched the ribbons, for the leader made a startled motion before settling down again. Without a word, she handed the reins back to him.
“Are you sure?” he said. “You were doing so well.”
She gripped the seat tightly. “Mr Fletcher, it is time to bring this charade to an end.”
“Charade?” He could not imagine what she meant.
